My least favorite time of year is Spring Forward. I kind of dig Fall Back. Maybe in a past life I was a farmer, because I’m all up in the hey let’s not fuck with the clock.

Fuck you William Willet and fuck your early-rising dismay at laggards like me who don’t mind missing a little natural lighting for a little sleep.

Meanwhile, the pleasant side effect to this most hated of modern-day traditions was discovering what my still new commute is like at dusk. Winding over a mountain and eventually letting out to the sea. Literally, driving west into the sunset.

I actually rolled a tad slower. And, the soundtrack was traffic reports and Terry Gross not Bach. (Shot with Cycorder on my jailbroken iPhone. Saurik is my new favorite person I will likely never meet.)

Technorati Tags: California, commuting, home, infomercials, Pacifica, sunset, travel, video

While thinking about traveling, I thought about the family for whom I was an au pair essentially in London. It was roughly 1,000 years ago. A thousand years ago Google hadn’t been invented and cyberstalking was impossible.

But here, today, in 2009, I can websearch to beat the band and find a whole lot of folks. I’ve connected with or kept in touch with all sorts of folks from all sorts of periods of my life. I’ve also blocked emails through filtering tools to make sure I never hear from one person again.

Imagine my shock when in a fit of nostalgia I searched the very British (to me) names of the little girls I babysat. They all look to be doing great, and one of them is famous in England. When I found this article from the Daily Mail, I realized it would be too fucking crazy X-Files if all the names matched so well, and it’s not the same family.

I emailed the one associated address I could find. Somewhere in the UK, some one is either getting a nice chuckle of memory or is completely creeped out and ready to change that email address. I hope it’s the former.

Technorati Tags: computers, internet, London, travel

Apparently, Jane’s been ‘blogging and twittering up a storm, since she began working on a Broadway play.

Now, my Broadway show is going to open roughly never, and I have only been sporadically going to the gym so not feeling the burn. In other words, I’m no Jane Fonda. I mean I’ve only flown over Vietnam and haven’t slept with any California politicos. I am one-degree of separation from Ted Turner through two different people, though.

Here was my only thought for today.

I have officially become cavalier about world travel and that surprises me. When I was a kid, a veritable child of dreams and aspirations, I was learning high school French and the poems of Rimboud, not exactly the drunken boat, Est-ce en ces nuits sans fonds que tu dors et t’exiles / Million d’oiseaux d’or, ô future Vigueur? But, I was poet enough to know that my French teacher was raping the text with her literal translations and discussion of the words over the images. (Not to mention the nice sanitized version of his friend Verlaine sans the getting it on.)

I reasoned back then, that while never called or self-identified or otherwise called out as “poor,” there weren’t no spare money lying around, and I was unlikely to see the world. Back then, while in high school I thought through what it would take and realized my best bet was heading to a college with an international program. So there I went. And, from there I went to London, now a 200-mile-an-hour train ride through a tunnel to my fantasy city. Of course, back then trains went at slower speeds, and the tunnels hadn’t been dug, and ferry boats roamed the waters. Still and all I eventually got to cross off an item on my life’s “to do” list and managed to see the White Cliffs of Dover fade into view from the Channel while Calais came closer.

I’ve been to Paris three times. Once, I went for a weekend with my art history class accompanied by our great, kooky, story-book odd duck of a British history professor. She unwaveringly enjoyed her repeated sherries and chats about art, while all around her passengers on the ferry rolled bile rising on a winter’s storm in the English Channel. Every toilet and every trash barrel was visited by some woeful seasick victim, while merrily she ordered up another glass.

The second time, I went back with the small number of crumbled pounds I had saved from my student per diem and an early edition of the Paupers’ Paris (purchased fittingly secondhand at a London charity shop) with a goal of finding the cheapest possible, non-frightening room and to live on baguettes and jam. I actually managed to hold out for over two weeks after juggling at the Beaubourg and falling in with like-minded on the poor front folks. (Pat died never knowing that I wasn’t “with friends from school” but hanging out pretending myself to be an exotic ex-pat.)

The last time I saw Paris (hmmm, that sounds familiar), I deliberately stayed near the Champs d’Elysee at a hotel that actual had some star ratings (that I found a deal on through Orbitz.com). Even better, it was the Hotel California, no finer a name has been written for a hotel thanks to the Eagles. Again I went alone, but as a bookend to a vacation that I spent with friends.

Now, today, I work where heading to Paris is about as exotic as heading down the street for a gallon of milk. The countries and continents where my coworkers (and even me) are, shift, but the travel is constant. It’s boring. It’s commonplace. It’s omnipresent. My dream, the world traveling, the meeting people from different places, the romantifying and exoticizing and fetishizing and just unbridled curiosity from my high school make believe is nearby.

Ennui with fabulous accessories and beautiful images.

Technorati Tags: Paris, Pat, travel, work

A side birthday present or at least a reminder of my mortality has been going on at the work front.

Since I got in my wagon and headed west and found myself employed, my experience hasn’t sucked entirely. Yeah, in truth I would so much prefer being rich to working, and, like, if a winning lottery ticket materialized in my hand, that Johnny Paycheck job shoving moment would taste hella sweet. But, it ain’t all bad.

Wait, I thought of one thing that’s crazy bad about the sweat shop at which I perspire. Huggling. Fucking hugging. Hello, goodbye, haven’t seen you in a while, thanks for the good meeting, hugging. Touching in an affection manner. I made it through about 20 years of career working untouched in the work force, except for a couple of awkward cuddles post some collegial beer-drinking. It’s a hostile work environment for me now with air kisses and squeezes.

Apart from the hug abomination, there’s only been one other issue. The chick that embodied everything I don’t miss from working in various hallowed, East-Coast-located halls. It was that certain snark that the natives in California just can’t do, probably because of the sweet Humboldt weed and hot tubs keeping things mellow. I think a classic example was a nice sliding lowball comment on the occasion of our house-buying in an off-the-beaten track community. Something like, “I figured out where you’re moving; I saw the sign off the highway near the airport, right?”

Yeah, that’s exactly where we moved, right there on the bypass under the bridge, sleeping to the sounds of traffic and the hum of the air traffic controllers. It’s a brand new trailer park, just opened.

Not sure if it translates well in print-like story telling, but pretty much there was a big game afoot of making sure I knew my place and that place was lower than the shoe beneath your feet. Hard sole putting down. Pointless parrying. Yeah, I get it, either you’re radically insecure or so much better than me.

And, now she’s gone. Like the wind. Like the sun that drops into the ocean that I actually do live near rather than the airport. Like my youth. Gone away leaving only memories and the path left that I got to sweep clean now. It’s a weird feeling, particularly the part where I have to clean up a bit in her wake.

One great thing is that whole count your blessings thing, where only one person was hassling me. Better, though, is cleaning up reminded me of a crazy thing in a job faraway in a galaxy long ago.

I used to have to do a lot of cleaning up of computer files and scrubbing down hard drives back to a pristine state suitable to passing off to another worker bee. In that role, I contended with a hard drive packed with Christian rock from the woman who in the wake of her leaving, so ended the the mysterious toilet-paper thieving from our office suite’s john. I’m not saying the Christian stole all the paper, I’m just saying you never saw her in the same room as the paper-grabbing villain.

All time favorite and unsolved mystery was the porno-packed cache and history files on the internet browser. Begging the question, how much do you gotta dig porn that you’re dialing it up on the computer meant for entering data about dead cancer patients? The mysteriouso part was the owner of the ‘puter with the dirty, dirty history. She was a quiet, quiet woman, probably an ancient age like I am now in the post-40 hugging middle-aged hard years. Not only did she never say “boo” to anyone, she wore pastel cardigans, sported the kind of hair that called for hair pins and had kitty pictures or maybe puppies on her desk.

When she left she presented me with a five year thick file of identical FedEx slips to prove that she only used the corporate FedEx for mailing the data files to a central repository that was actually the kind of mailing that was a required part of the gig. She also had binders of notes on every protocol and exact steps for her research and data managing work. Getting laid wasn’t something this chick’s demeanor suggested, in any way, unless it was a required part of the employment protocol, was in the binder and could be done scientifically replicated and data driven.

And she left me a whole lot of links to a whole lot of things I didn’t want to know about. Clearly, she had a penchant for the oral. People. You just never can fucking tell.

Technorati Tags: California, computers, home, pornograpnhy, life, work

M. and I took each other out shopping in the big city of San Francisco
yesterday, and then had dinner. That could have been it. But,
because M.’s birthday is tomorrow, we end up in an arms race. Inside
of yesterday being it, this fun was brought into my office today. The
birthday building must end or Armageddon is close at hand.

At the employment place, they are now thinking of getting all up in the optional, extra life insurance. If they got that paperwork into Prudential’s the Rock HQ in time by the end of short-month February, I got me the young people lower risk rate. One day later, up in the month of March, and they got me paying higher, hey-look-you-might-be-dying, 45+ rate.

‘Cuz, you know, past 45 is well-past prime. With my genes, if I split the average between moms and pops, I got 11 years left on this rolling planet. On dad’s side alone, I’m making it just fine living years overdue. For mom, I’m already 10 years plus on the middle-aged scale.

Guess it’s time to stop wondering when it will get started. This shit is where it is now, and it’s already in decline. Catch me tomorrow when I’m really feeling sorry for myself.

Technorati Tags: age, birthday, death

Back in the early ’80s juggling defined me. It was, as my mother said, the only discernible skill with which I returned from college.

I juggled regularly in college. I had juggling friends. I juggled outside in the good weather with a band of friendly juggling geeks. I juggled inside in any weather every weekend at the official juggling club meetings. Paul, the club president, would pop “Tea for the Tillerman” into his boom box, share some cream cheese sandwiches or other vegetarian snacks, and we would all juggle for hours in the Women’s Building on Syracuse University’s campus.

I learned how to pass clubs, do a few tricks, comfortably (at the time) juggle four balls and occasionally four clubs. I handled fire and knives on loan from friends. And, since so many juggling/circus/clown tricks are learned by the same sorts of folks and even more so shared among the same sorts, I learned how to twist balloon animals. Really, there’s nothing quite like the kind of particular subset of geek party where everyone brings there juggling props and someone throws a gross of 260 balloons in the middle of the floor and ridiculous creativity ensues.

In those awkward first days away from home at college and going through the awkward student years, juggling was a meditative activity where I could focus all sorts of pent up energy.

Later, after my first couple of “real” post-college jobs in the cold, hard world, as I worked out the things I didn’t want to do in my life, I practiced alone every now and again, performed, badly, for a few charity events and entertained my nephews, as much as they ever found me entertaining. But, by and large, I let some of interest wane.

Then, in the late ’80s, circa 1989, I caught up with my first non-profit toil. Basically, I learned with my skill set and demeanor I was destined for a life of less than exorbitant wealth. In that reality, I may as well make shitty, cog-in-the-wheel dough, it might as well not profit anyone. The funnest part of those glorious no-money-making career path days was the number of beer-drinking, science geeks, who became my friends, co-workers and colleagues. And, among them were a handful of jugglers.

I was back in my pattern. Juggling in the sun, going to regular club meetings (this time at MIT). Where there are numbers nerds and academic swaths of green grass, there are likely jugglers.

Instead of the college-based festival circuit, where I headed regularly in the springtime of college, I had the posse and the green in my pocket to check out the big time. I went to the International Juggling Association convention, juggled all day and all night and met “stars” in that world. Anthony Gatto was just a kid. “Contact” juggling had just been given a name, and Michael Moschen’s hand, standing in for David Bowie’s, was semi-famous.

Teeny little nerd fun fact, as part of a multi-person, late-night, star-shaped passing formation, where a few folks were passing clubs as anchors, feeding clubs to other folks with skills who wove through the pattern, I can truly say I juggled with Michael Moschen. I was an anchor, he was/is a talent.

I only juggle a little these days.

Color me surprised tonight, when I ended up through a work-related thing dining with the real deal. A juggler who had managed to earn a few dollars back in his youth. Someone you can google, as the kids say, but I won’t hear on account of the work connection. Someone who juggled for the goddamn Rolling Stones and in front of Princess Margaret (in a related event). Someone who trained with Dick Franco.

By the weeks end, I’m planning for some throwing down.

Technorati Tags: Anthony_Gatto, juggling, Las Vegas, Michael_Moschen

I almost did nothing today. I did rather little all weekend. Of this, I am proud.

It’s been raining in between gusts of wind of house shaking velocity. In other words, perfect weather for lying around in bed. M., prince that he is, accommodated this lying around joy by trucking a small table next to the bed, filling it with bagels, coffee and granola. Propped up on pillows with a giant, hot mug of joe, listening to frightening gusts that have me shaking in my boots for the future of my fruit trees. So far, survival.

I did manage a couple rather placid activities this weekend.

It started when the workplace’s IT dude gave me back the old, first generation iPhone I lent them for testing whether they could work on our network. I took it home with an eye to hacking it, thanks to the kindness of Saurik and the good fellas at the iPhone Development Team. When I plugged it into the ‘puter, iTtunes asked to upgrade the software, and I figured I’d start with an updated slate. Alas, shortly thereafter, I couldn’t use the bottom buttons in some, but not all, applications. No joy in lacking the ability to put spaces between words or hit return.

M. needed to go to the mall, and we figured, what the hell, might as well ask how much the geniuses behind the counter in the back of the Apple store how much something like that would cost to get fixed. I wasn’t feeling optimistic, lacking the desire to sink any cash at all into a spare 2-year-old (I mean ancient) phone with some dings and other signs of hard usage.

I undid all of the hackery I had begun, blanked everything out, and we headed to what’s general the mellowest, friendliest Genius Bar around. Here’s a hint if you are in Steve Jobs’ neighborhood, avoid the main Apple Store, possibly one of or the first of the retail outlets, on University Ave. in Palo Alto. It’s almost always crowded throughout the store, and maybe the employees are afraid the master himself might enter, but except for one person I’ve encountered, they seem kind of clenched.

You can wander that big store for a while, and while the folks with the matching colored t-shirts and handheld scanner holsters will smile, nod and say “hi,” they generally are rushing around so much helping you doesn’t seem to be a primary concern.

Down the road at the Stanford Mall, the store is less store and more boutique, tiny compared to its neighbor, and sitting in the swanky, most well-heeled of all area malls. Those guys, they like to help you. Pretty much, you can’t stand there looking at headphones or otherwise not seeking help for greater than three minutes without some offer. I got concierged, despite already seeing my name up there on the reservations board.

So, I sat down and I told my genius about upgrading the software and then trying full restore, etc., etc. He took the phone into their mysterious back room, and I fiddled with my actual working 3G phone out front. He grimly gave me the verdict that it couldn’t be fixed. And, then, he slid an unmarked, plain white box towards me and asked if it would be OK to replace it. He said despite the clearly out of warranty nature of my phone, the dings and scratches, the dead bottom row was a known problem, and Apple would just assume give me a new one.

I got me a brand-new, old-style iPhone.

I promptly took it home and hacked the living shit out of it. It is a phucking sweet device now. It’s not a phone, but my working phone’s SIM card worked just fine, when I tested it. It’s a tricked out iTouch with the capability of VIDEO RECORDING. Rock on Cycorder developers. I heart you.

OK, that’s enough geekage. Especially since I had a major moment of developmental disability in the geek world amidst the iPhone jailbreaking. Wanting to test the possibility of putting a prepaid cell phone SIM card into the refurbished iPhone, I picked up a cheapo throwaway at Rite Aid with a plan to activate and pull the card out of the cheapo. Only, after a major brain cramp, I bought a $10-dollar Virgin Mobile phone. AKA, one without a SIM card, because it ain’t on that kind of network. D’oh.

Back in the rain, today, Rite Aid actually took the phone and the initial call-time card back without hassle. Shocked I was, considering I had to slice the shit out of the damnable plastic packaging to get to the phone to open it and discover it was useless.

With M. serving breakfast in bed, Apple slipping me a new phone and Rite Aid cooperating and giving me back my $10, I can’t stand how well the service economy is working out for me.

Technorati Tags: Apple, computers, economy, Apple_genuius, customer_service, iPhone

Back in my old life, the one of sweating on the east coast, toiling for pennies and dancing like a monkey for unappreciative researchers in the medical establishment, I came to hate people. Well, actually, I’ve always hated people. I was born to be a misanthropist, because after all plenty of mouth-breathing members of the human race suck.

To the specifics of my current hating, I used to hate folks so assertive or aggressive that you were always having to deal with their demands. Yes suh. No ma’am. Please, sir, may I have another. Someone, somewhere, somehow was always trying to keep m in my place and tell me what to do. Detestable for sure.

Now, though, I have a new target. The uber-accommodating. Fuck you, nice people. Seriously.

If I always have to take action or make a decision. If I have to keep things moving. If I need to check in with you. YOU are not fucking doing anything. If you aren’t doing anything, you are in other people’s way. Get out.

There’s an assertion to apologizing and deferring. Strike that, there’s an aggression. It’s passive, as in passive aggressive, but the whole dance of “Oh, you decide, don’t worry about me, oh, you take care of it, I don’t want to be a bother.” All of that takes a lot of energy to do and more energy from me to accommodate. Here’s a thought, fuck the pleasantries and pitch the fuck in and share.

Worse yet, nice people, I now am going to accuse you of being good Nazis. You see, if you spend your time deferring to others without hesitation or judgment there’s a more than average chance someone more fucked up than you is going to use that very quality. So, when you find yourself holding the door open for a bank robber, your stupid has wandered into criminality. Part of every day, grown-up decision making is calling a pig a pig and a spade a spade.

If all arguments are equal, all situations relative, you might as well have gotten your nice little brown and tan outfit and practiced your goose stepping.

Ah, pointless ranting, I feel better already. I’ll just wander back into the realm of hating and/or getting annoyed by everyone.

Technorati Tags: lemons, life, women, work

Yesterday’s breakfast in bed prepared courtside, as it were.

Technorati Tags: infomercials, photos