'Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.' - George Santayana
This lesson, which we would all do well to heed, has prompted me to recall my past. With the aid of my memory and my journals - begun in April 1998 - I will attempt to recall my past every so often in this blog so that you who don't know these stories can come to know them and so that you who shared these stories with me can both recall them yourselves and see them from my perspective.
For this first look back, I will transport us to a time 10 years ago. A transition point in my life. I had just finished my third year at the University of Delaware. I packed my light blue Mazda with my belongings that last week of May and made the four hour trek - it's a trek to someone with an east coast mentality anyway - to my father's house in Connecticut. Although I was going home to relax, I had a lot on my mind, e.g. moving back to Delaware in June to begin my stint as a renter. Trying to figure out what was to become of the relationship between Steph and me. Trying to figure out how I was going to live in the same apartment as Steph when we were having so many problems. And, wondering what in the world I would do for money.
During that stay at home, I remember varied and lengthy conversations with my father, who was trying to advise me on a number of topics. But I was a cocky, insecure, and immature 20 year old. I didn't listen. Instead, I readied myself for a more significant move than I had ever made. I needed not only clothes, linens, toiletries, and books. Now I needed, cooking implements and bowls and silverware and cleaning supplies, not to mention I needed to bring my own bed and furniture. I packed the Mazda; my father packed the van. And off we went...
Steph arrived a couple days after I did. We settled in. And then we started fighting. The same old stuff. You don't love me. I think I love you. I'm not sure anymore. Why are you so emotionally distant? Why are you so overbearing? Wait, I thought we had broken up, so why are we even having this fight? We're trying to rescue this friendship, not rebuild the relationship. I don't know if there can be a relationship after what we've been through. Confusion reigned.
I still had no job. I had no idea what to look for in a job. I wasn't going to work at a supermarket again. My skills from the library and from babysitting weren't particularly helpful either. I started interviewing. Not many bites, especially during the summer. I started to become concerned. Steph, meanwhile, had a job on campus and dutifully left every morning shortly before 8. So, not only was I fretting about a job, but I had plenty of time to fret when I wasn't looking for a job because I had nothing to do and no one with whom to do it.
By mid-July, Steph and I hit a brick wall. After so much fighting, we knew we had made a mistake. Living together - as my father warned - seemed to be our attempt - whether conscious or not - to save the relationship, to fix what was wrong with us. But the relationship was irrevocably torn asunder, and neither of us could mend the fences that we had destroyed. She made the decision to move. I begged her not to move; I told her we could fix it. She simply shook her head each time with tears in her brown eyes and told me that it was time to go. I knew it, but I was afraid. Of loneliness. Of losing her in my life. Of not knowing what to do next.
And then I found a job. I drove into the Possum Park Plaza in Newark, DE and proceeded to walk into the Outback Steakhouse. A tall, stocky gentleman named Robert greeted me and asked me for my resume. I handed him what I had - which wasn't much. He asked if I had any experience in a restaurant. Nope. Any customer service? The library and a couple years in high school as a stock boy in a local market. He chuckled; I half-heartedly returned a chuckle expecting to walk back through the heavy wooden doors with another rejection. Robert surprised me. He was looking for a host. Hosting sounded fine to me. I just needed to pay the rent. I agreed to a base salary and tips. We shook and I walked out employed.
After a few training sessions, I was on the job. Rolling silverware. Taking 'Takeaway Tucker' orders. Seating impatient people. Telling the impatient people about our 'Bloomin Onion' and the 'Wallaby Darned'. Holding the doors open. Handing people devices that I told them would vibrate. Having those same people take the devices, snicker, and make lewd comments. Learning that you don't say 'vibrate', but 'shake'. Within the first week, I had met most of the staff, including two hosts to whom I began to talk on a regular basis - Brandon and Mike.
The night before Steph was to return with her family to Virginia, I made the decision to bring her out for a last meal. We agreed that we wouldn't fight, that we would be civil and enjoy these last hours together. I didn't have a lot of money. And Outback employess get their meals for half off. Outback, it was. We sat in what was then the non-smoking section. Against the wall. Rather late at night, I seem to remember, as most of the surrounding tables were empty. At one moment during that otherwise uneventful evening, Brandon came over to say hello to me and Steph. Given Steph's importance in my life up to that point and given Brandon's future importance in my life, I now see that the brief meeting between those two people spelled a significant and very real transition for me.
Steph left the next day. Heart wrenching sadness lingered. As well as a sense of freedom I had never known. An odd combination. Especially for a young, naive, immature, insecure 20 year old.
I had to look for a roommate. I found one. A gay, Costa Rican, graduate student. Nice enough, but I was in the midst of isolating myself from all but a few people. And he wasn't one of the exceptions. Even though I lived with him. In fact, I had no idea he was gay until the last day we were in the apartment.
During the month of August, I worked a lot. And for those of you who haven't worked in the restaurant business, the work hours - Outback serves only dinner during the weekdays - changed my internal clock dramatically. Instead of going to bed at 10 or 11 I started going to bed at 1 or 2 after I had completed all of my duties and had a couple drinks with my friends.
Speaking of friends, it was in early August that I learned that Brandon literally lived 30 seconds from my front door in the same apartment complex. I therefore became a fixture in his apartment drinking hard cider and smoking clove cigarettes. We talked for hours and hours. About life. About death. About Ulysses and Finnegan's Wake. About magic and Alistair Crowley. About religion and art. We talked and talked, becoming exceptionally fast friends.
August waned. Fall semester began. I returned to classes for my senior year. But I was not the same person. I lived in an apartment, had a real job, and didn't have a girlfriend. All for the first time in my existence at the University.
Ten years ago...
So, where were you?
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Purring Today
I must apologize for today's abbreviated post as I am home for only a short period to ensure that the pups can release their bodily fluids and such into the wild, i.e. the backyard. This is only a brief stop because I am volunteering - kind of - at Purr Cocktail Bar on Capital Hill for the closing bash of the 2008 Gay Softball World Series. There's a lot there, I know, and I promise to elaborate at some point in the future. For those of you who had no idea there was a Gay Softball World Series, there is. For those of you who had no idea that Gay Softball exists as an entity unto itself, it does. I play on a team in Seattle's C league and coach a team in Seattle's D league. No, unfortunately, neither of my teams made it to the World Series. We were close, mind you. Yeah, I know all about hand grenades, horseshoes, and global thermonuclear war. Yes, straight people can play on gay teams. Yes, they just take you at your word if you say you are whatever it is you are. I think those are most of the initial questions. Oh, and yes, we have some outstanding athletes in the league including some on the A and B teams who played professionally and/or in college.
So, I leave you with that as well as the promise that there will be more elaboration to come. In the meantime, if you have any initial questions that I didn't happen to anticipate, send them along and I'll answer.
So, I leave you with that as well as the promise that there will be more elaboration to come. In the meantime, if you have any initial questions that I didn't happen to anticipate, send them along and I'll answer.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Corporation: The Game
I stepped into the Darth Vader building - what they call the slanted-roofed black glass building at 4th and Blanchard in downtown Seattle - at approximately 7:10 a.m. after waving goodbye to Joseph, who himself was lucky enough to have the day off. I entered a recycled elevator and pushed 9. I exited the recycled elevator on the 9th floor - this is not always guaranteed on any of these four recycled elevators - and beeped my way into the office space with my borrowed badge - I had inexplicably lost my badge two days prior for the first time in my six-year tenure at the company. I made my way to my desk where I was greeted by my favorite Dilbert cartoons and a football-shaped deflated Giants balloon that was given to me by none other than a Jets fan after the Giants' Super Bowl win. I sat in my chair, logged into my computer, and checked what little e-mail I had. I toasted my bagel in the nearby toaster, poured myself some hot water for my English Breakfast tea and settled in for the analysis of a data file.
I performed that analysis and various other project management odds and ends for the next hour or so and then checked the news for anything interesting. Sarah Palin had been chosen for McCain's running mate. Huh? I walked over to talk to my friend. Sounding like a broken record - I don't get it; I don't get it - I shook my head in disbelief. He agreed. I walked back to my desk, but decided I'd first share my disbelief with the developers. I walked into the Dev Pit - what we call the room in which the development team works - and said, I don't get it. Another friend of mine bit. What? The VP choice by McCain. Oh, she said, I don't know. I don't follow that. But the other devs were quick to chime in. Maybe McCain's giving up, one posited. He's trying to get the Hillary vote, suggested another. I dunno, I said, I just don't get it. I checked the clock on one of the dev's machines and realized I had a meeting in three minutes. I left the Dev Pit and headed for St. Helen's. No, not the mountain, the B-Line conference room.
I tried to get the overhead projector to project the computer screen. But it was on some other setting. So I saw a blue screen. I thought about using my meeting attendees to choreograph a light saber fight in front of the blue screen for the next Star Wars film. Then I thought better of it. I got help. Changed the setting. And someone else was logged in. I squinted, saw it was Mark Taylor. Who the hell is Mark Taylor, I asked to no one in particular. I've been at this company for six years, you see, and there are only 100 people. I know everyone. Well, not everyone apparently. A late attendee entered the room. We have an all IT meeting in 15 minutes, he said. Huh? I responded. Yeah, it's true and it's in here. All IT meetings, you see, are not a common occurrence. They may happen once a year if not less frequently. And it was called by Ed, the late attendee continued. Ed? That doesn't make any sense. Ed's the CFO, I said. Erik's the CIO. The late attendee shrugged. I shook my head and said, I don't get it. But I didn't have time not to get it. I had to find this Mark Taylor guy or an admin who could log this Mark Taylor off the machine because I had to try to facilitate a now 10-minute long meeting to find out if the project I'm managing is on schedule.
I walk out of St. Helen's and headed for the Net Ops room. The dba was the lone inhabitant. The machine in St. Helen's is locked by some guy named Mark Taylor, I said. Do you have any idea who that is? Uh yeah, he answered, I think he's the sales guy that sits over there. He pointed towards the window. Thanks. I moved to the cubicle near the window. Hi, I said, my name's David. Mark stood and said, David who? What a dummy, I thought to myself about myself. When introducing, it is polite to say first and last name. Well, when introducing in that setting. It could have been that I half expected him to know who I was anyway given that I'd been there so long - relatively speaking. Where are you on the org chart, he asked as he moved to three 8x11 sheets pinned to his wall. I noticed that his org chart was older than dirt - again, relatively speaking - and told him so without the dirt. I then asked him to log off the machine in St. Helen's. He accompanied me to the room and logged off.
I had the meeting. I think it was all of five minutes, which is all the time I had anyway. Updated meeting minutes and schedule. And went back to my desk for a quick look at my e-mail. Sure enough, I saw an all IT meeting called for 9:45 in St. Helen's. I went back into the room and sat in the corner with my English Breakfast tea. Others began arriving, including Ed. Oddly, Erik was nowhere to be found. Ed sat. We sat. Some stood. The door closed. We wanted to let you know as soon as possible, he began, that Erik will not be continuing with the company. I felt the collective intake of breath. Erik had been with the company for almost seven years. Only two in the IT group had been there longer. With that said, Ed continued, we're looking to move forward with this group of people. Please know that technology is a significant part of this company and that your jobs will not be affected. We waited with bated breath as he spoke each word. Erik and the company mutually agreed to go their separate ways. In the interim, we have an in-house consultant, with whom I've worked before, that will be acting as interim CIO or Director of IT. His name is Mark Taylor. I almost chuckled, but thought it not the right time. As if on queue, Mark, who had not been in the room, made an entrance after Ed spoke the name. And there's Mark, Ed announced. So without further ado, I'll let him speak. Ed left the room.
Mark, who cannot be more than 40, took a seat in the chair where Ed had sat and passed around a 30-60-90 transition plan. He introduced himself. He had started at Microsoft when it was a small company. And he had retired just after 30. Went backpacking through Europe. Yadda yadda... And then had decided to do consulting with companies that had to move into the 21st century as far as technology is concerned. In other words, he does this stuff for fun. Power to the Mark. He reiterated that he wouldn't be the CIO, that he was preparing the company for whoever would take that - or whatever - title happen to be bestowed. Then he started telling us a little bit about what was happening.
We - meaning B-Line, the company for which I work - is owned by Lone Star Funds. You know Lone Star Steakhouse? Yes, they own them. No, I can't get you discounts. But that's a drop in the bucket. Lone Star Funds can be described as a bottom feeder. Do you remember what the Richard Gere character did in Pretty Woman? That's kind of what Lone Star Funds does. They buy companies and either tear them apart - if they're not on track to make a lot of money - or build them up - if they are. It seems B-Line is one of the latter. Having owned B-Line for two years now, Lone Star Funds is now prepared to invest a significant amount of money into the company so that they can sell it for twice to three times the investment after about a three-year period. Well, the old organizational structure wasn't working as well as Lone Star wanted it to work. And so, they were looking for an opportunity to change. This morning happened to be that opportunity.
Why this morning? If I knew that, I'd be making significantly more money than I am now. I appreciated Mark's apparent sincerity and honesty, but to be honest, I still felt like I had been knocked several times upside the head. What does this mean for my projects? For the company? For my job? For others' jobs? Well, one thing was certain, I knew my productivity for the remainder of the day was shot to hell. And when I walked into the Dev Pit, I knew the developers' productivity was equally shot. I lingered about talking to them. And then they asked me what I thought this meant. In all of my thoughts about what this meant for the company, I had completely forgotten that I was now the third most tenured person in the department. I looked around and saw that everyone in the Dev Pit had come to work for the company not only after I had begun working there but after I had begun working in IT which was a full two and a half years after I had started in accounting. I reassured them that the company was good about ensuring that people had jobs in the past. But I added, much to their chagrin, that every one of us is expendable as evidenced by Erik's departure.
I lingered at my desk taking - as I'd once heard it called - an in-cube sabbatical. A company-wide meeting was called for 2 p.m. at the Westin Hotel, a few blocks away. After having a coffee with a friend, we traipsed to the Westin and listened as Ed explained that the organizational structure was changing so that we could increase our productivity by 160%. Not an easy task. He was going to be CEO. The CEO was downgraded - kind of - to President. The other C-level positions - CIO (information), CFO (finance), CLO (legal) - would cease to exist, leaving in their respective wakes Director positions. It would be business as usual, he explained. Except that we are going to move together and blossom into a company that fulfills its, to this date, unactualized potential. In other words, we have to start making money or risk being torn asunder by the very hands that feed us.
I leave you with a quotation I think appropriate:
I see in the near future a crisis approaching that unnerves me and causes me to tremble for the safety of my country; corporations have been enthroned, an era of corruption in high places will follow, and the money power of the country will endeavor to prolong its reign by working upon the prejudices of the people, until the wealth is aggregated in a few hands, and the Republic destroyed.
It seems rather appropriate, yes? Abraham Lincoln spoke this in 1864.
I performed that analysis and various other project management odds and ends for the next hour or so and then checked the news for anything interesting. Sarah Palin had been chosen for McCain's running mate. Huh? I walked over to talk to my friend. Sounding like a broken record - I don't get it; I don't get it - I shook my head in disbelief. He agreed. I walked back to my desk, but decided I'd first share my disbelief with the developers. I walked into the Dev Pit - what we call the room in which the development team works - and said, I don't get it. Another friend of mine bit. What? The VP choice by McCain. Oh, she said, I don't know. I don't follow that. But the other devs were quick to chime in. Maybe McCain's giving up, one posited. He's trying to get the Hillary vote, suggested another. I dunno, I said, I just don't get it. I checked the clock on one of the dev's machines and realized I had a meeting in three minutes. I left the Dev Pit and headed for St. Helen's. No, not the mountain, the B-Line conference room.
I tried to get the overhead projector to project the computer screen. But it was on some other setting. So I saw a blue screen. I thought about using my meeting attendees to choreograph a light saber fight in front of the blue screen for the next Star Wars film. Then I thought better of it. I got help. Changed the setting. And someone else was logged in. I squinted, saw it was Mark Taylor. Who the hell is Mark Taylor, I asked to no one in particular. I've been at this company for six years, you see, and there are only 100 people. I know everyone. Well, not everyone apparently. A late attendee entered the room. We have an all IT meeting in 15 minutes, he said. Huh? I responded. Yeah, it's true and it's in here. All IT meetings, you see, are not a common occurrence. They may happen once a year if not less frequently. And it was called by Ed, the late attendee continued. Ed? That doesn't make any sense. Ed's the CFO, I said. Erik's the CIO. The late attendee shrugged. I shook my head and said, I don't get it. But I didn't have time not to get it. I had to find this Mark Taylor guy or an admin who could log this Mark Taylor off the machine because I had to try to facilitate a now 10-minute long meeting to find out if the project I'm managing is on schedule.
I walk out of St. Helen's and headed for the Net Ops room. The dba was the lone inhabitant. The machine in St. Helen's is locked by some guy named Mark Taylor, I said. Do you have any idea who that is? Uh yeah, he answered, I think he's the sales guy that sits over there. He pointed towards the window. Thanks. I moved to the cubicle near the window. Hi, I said, my name's David. Mark stood and said, David who? What a dummy, I thought to myself about myself. When introducing, it is polite to say first and last name. Well, when introducing in that setting. It could have been that I half expected him to know who I was anyway given that I'd been there so long - relatively speaking. Where are you on the org chart, he asked as he moved to three 8x11 sheets pinned to his wall. I noticed that his org chart was older than dirt - again, relatively speaking - and told him so without the dirt. I then asked him to log off the machine in St. Helen's. He accompanied me to the room and logged off.
I had the meeting. I think it was all of five minutes, which is all the time I had anyway. Updated meeting minutes and schedule. And went back to my desk for a quick look at my e-mail. Sure enough, I saw an all IT meeting called for 9:45 in St. Helen's. I went back into the room and sat in the corner with my English Breakfast tea. Others began arriving, including Ed. Oddly, Erik was nowhere to be found. Ed sat. We sat. Some stood. The door closed. We wanted to let you know as soon as possible, he began, that Erik will not be continuing with the company. I felt the collective intake of breath. Erik had been with the company for almost seven years. Only two in the IT group had been there longer. With that said, Ed continued, we're looking to move forward with this group of people. Please know that technology is a significant part of this company and that your jobs will not be affected. We waited with bated breath as he spoke each word. Erik and the company mutually agreed to go their separate ways. In the interim, we have an in-house consultant, with whom I've worked before, that will be acting as interim CIO or Director of IT. His name is Mark Taylor. I almost chuckled, but thought it not the right time. As if on queue, Mark, who had not been in the room, made an entrance after Ed spoke the name. And there's Mark, Ed announced. So without further ado, I'll let him speak. Ed left the room.
Mark, who cannot be more than 40, took a seat in the chair where Ed had sat and passed around a 30-60-90 transition plan. He introduced himself. He had started at Microsoft when it was a small company. And he had retired just after 30. Went backpacking through Europe. Yadda yadda... And then had decided to do consulting with companies that had to move into the 21st century as far as technology is concerned. In other words, he does this stuff for fun. Power to the Mark. He reiterated that he wouldn't be the CIO, that he was preparing the company for whoever would take that - or whatever - title happen to be bestowed. Then he started telling us a little bit about what was happening.
We - meaning B-Line, the company for which I work - is owned by Lone Star Funds. You know Lone Star Steakhouse? Yes, they own them. No, I can't get you discounts. But that's a drop in the bucket. Lone Star Funds can be described as a bottom feeder. Do you remember what the Richard Gere character did in Pretty Woman? That's kind of what Lone Star Funds does. They buy companies and either tear them apart - if they're not on track to make a lot of money - or build them up - if they are. It seems B-Line is one of the latter. Having owned B-Line for two years now, Lone Star Funds is now prepared to invest a significant amount of money into the company so that they can sell it for twice to three times the investment after about a three-year period. Well, the old organizational structure wasn't working as well as Lone Star wanted it to work. And so, they were looking for an opportunity to change. This morning happened to be that opportunity.
Why this morning? If I knew that, I'd be making significantly more money than I am now. I appreciated Mark's apparent sincerity and honesty, but to be honest, I still felt like I had been knocked several times upside the head. What does this mean for my projects? For the company? For my job? For others' jobs? Well, one thing was certain, I knew my productivity for the remainder of the day was shot to hell. And when I walked into the Dev Pit, I knew the developers' productivity was equally shot. I lingered about talking to them. And then they asked me what I thought this meant. In all of my thoughts about what this meant for the company, I had completely forgotten that I was now the third most tenured person in the department. I looked around and saw that everyone in the Dev Pit had come to work for the company not only after I had begun working there but after I had begun working in IT which was a full two and a half years after I had started in accounting. I reassured them that the company was good about ensuring that people had jobs in the past. But I added, much to their chagrin, that every one of us is expendable as evidenced by Erik's departure.
I lingered at my desk taking - as I'd once heard it called - an in-cube sabbatical. A company-wide meeting was called for 2 p.m. at the Westin Hotel, a few blocks away. After having a coffee with a friend, we traipsed to the Westin and listened as Ed explained that the organizational structure was changing so that we could increase our productivity by 160%. Not an easy task. He was going to be CEO. The CEO was downgraded - kind of - to President. The other C-level positions - CIO (information), CFO (finance), CLO (legal) - would cease to exist, leaving in their respective wakes Director positions. It would be business as usual, he explained. Except that we are going to move together and blossom into a company that fulfills its, to this date, unactualized potential. In other words, we have to start making money or risk being torn asunder by the very hands that feed us.
I leave you with a quotation I think appropriate:
I see in the near future a crisis approaching that unnerves me and causes me to tremble for the safety of my country; corporations have been enthroned, an era of corruption in high places will follow, and the money power of the country will endeavor to prolong its reign by working upon the prejudices of the people, until the wealth is aggregated in a few hands, and the Republic destroyed.
It seems rather appropriate, yes? Abraham Lincoln spoke this in 1864.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Not Blue. Not Red. The United States of America.
I went to the gym after work. Five hundred crunches. Worked out the legs.
I walked to the bus stop. Waited for the bus. Boarded the bus. Turned on the iPod mini. Read Roots. Kunta's capture and imprisonment on the boat.
I stepped off the bus at the corner of Ryan and Renton Ave S. Walked past a gutted house. Then past St. Paul's Church.
The dogs swarmed as I entered the house and deactivated the alarm system. Fed them. Let em out. Made the bed. Took out the trash.
An average afternoon.
And then I did something I rarely do. I turned on the television. Jacksonville was beating the tar out of Washington. Wasn't particularly interested. Turned to msnbc. Heard a familiar voice. Keith Olbermann railing against Republicans, the Bush administration, and the McCain campaign. I once loved his commentary with his ESPN partner Dan Patrick as they gave us the plays of the week, but I must admit I am not particularly fond of his yellow journalistic tendencies. In their response to the equally yellow Fox News, the msnbcers have become the beast they originally meant to vanquish. No matter. I wasn't interested in his or Chris Matthews's blather. I completed a Sudoku puzzle on the couch.
The time came. Dick Durbin took the stage and gave an introduction. A well-crafted cinematic montage showed us Obama in snippets. When it concluded Obama took the stage. I pushed the pencil to the spine of the Sudoku puzzle book, closed the book, and placed it next to me. I wanted to see this speech. Not just hear it mind you, but see it.
Barack Hussein Obama walked out onto the stage in his suit and red tie. He cleans up well. He stepped to the podium and said 'Thank you'. I couldn't tell if his thank yous were sincere or impatient. No matter. I waited for Mile High's audience to settle.
He began. Party unity. The Clintons. Kennedy and Biden. Wife and kids. Yes, yes...
He moved into the speech. The American Dream in danger. The failures of George Bush. Yes, I can agree with the fact that these past 8 years were some of the worst years in American history. Historians will see our current president as perhaps a worse president than James Buchanan and Ulysses Grant. No arguments there. We ARE a better country than these last 8 years. Eight IS enough.
He's not running against Bush but against McCain. Is McCain the same? 90% is a significant number. If he did agree with Bush's bull 90% of the time, well, then I can't vote for McCain.
A nation of whiners. In my research, that quotation by Phil Gramm doesn't seem out of context in Obama's usage. America? A nation of whiners? Well, there are those. But the entire nation? No. Score one for Obama.
I waited for Obama's remarks to devolve into an all-out attack on McCain. That never materialized. Instead, Obama saluted the man and then wittily took aim from his defensive posture. He scored multiple blows. None of them disrespectful, it seemed.
He moved into his ideas. Real ideas in a political speech. One in particular caught my attention: 'in ten years, we will finally end our dependence on oil from the Middle East'. This promise is nothing less than the promise to put a man on the moon. In fact it's more. With that one line, he angered many a big wig at international oil companies. Cut taxes for 95% of working families? Cut? That doesn't sound like a Democrat, I thought.
Obama as strong commander in chief? He's neither Kennedy nor Roosevelt on that front. More like Clinton, who himself was fair at best.
Still, the speech was impressive to this point.
He talked about what we may not agree on. And also what we can. His record on abortion? I am concerned at that. He has voted for a woman's right to privacy ahead of banning live birth abortions. Not okay. McCain's stance? Well, he says that Roe v. Wade should be overturned. Is this a statement against abortion? Not exactly. He has stated, himself, that the decision to ban abortion should fall under the purview of the state. I'm therefore not particularly happy with either stance...
But then he made comments about same-sex relationships. I do have the right to see the person I love in the hospital should he get sick...
The speech went from impressive to superb. Because Obama knows how to write and to deliver a speech. And because he has a message that rings true. You DO make a big election about small things. You make EVERY election about small things. Because big things rarely - if at all - spontaneously appear from nothing. To my understanding, only God made that happen. And He's not running...
And then Obama delivered what I consider to be the best lines of this or any other speech to which I have been a witness:
'This country of ours has more wealth than any nation, but that's not what makes us rich. We have the most powerful military on Earth, but that's not what makes us strong. Our universities and our culture are the envy of the world, but that's not what keeps the world coming to our shores.
Instead, it is that American spirit - that American promise - that pushes us forward even when the path is uncertain; that binds us together in spite of our differences; that makes us fix our eye not on what is seen, but what is unseen, that better place around the bend.'
His reference, no doubt intentional, made me consider St. Paul's second letter to the Corinthians, 'We look not to what is seen but to what is unseen; for what is seen is transitory, but what is unseen is eternal.'
Bush has not been able to see past his own nose. He wouldn't know what's seen if it hit him in the back of the head. Nevermind the unseen with that bozo. Can McCain take us around that bend? He's old and he probably doesn't care about what people think of him. But does he understand this idea of the seen and unseen?
Does Barack Obama, for that matter?
I don't know for sure. No one does.
What I do know of Obama's record is that he's willing to work from the bottom up and not from the top down. He HAS been successful with that. He gave a pivotal keynote speech at the 2004 DNC in Boston. That's not what anyone saw coming 4 years ago. And he beat the Clinton machine. That's not what anyone saw coming 18 months ago. It's in his actions and his speech that Obama seems to understand that which is unseen.
And I think I'm willing to give him that chance to lead us around the next bend.
I walked to the bus stop. Waited for the bus. Boarded the bus. Turned on the iPod mini. Read Roots. Kunta's capture and imprisonment on the boat.
I stepped off the bus at the corner of Ryan and Renton Ave S. Walked past a gutted house. Then past St. Paul's Church.
The dogs swarmed as I entered the house and deactivated the alarm system. Fed them. Let em out. Made the bed. Took out the trash.
An average afternoon.
And then I did something I rarely do. I turned on the television. Jacksonville was beating the tar out of Washington. Wasn't particularly interested. Turned to msnbc. Heard a familiar voice. Keith Olbermann railing against Republicans, the Bush administration, and the McCain campaign. I once loved his commentary with his ESPN partner Dan Patrick as they gave us the plays of the week, but I must admit I am not particularly fond of his yellow journalistic tendencies. In their response to the equally yellow Fox News, the msnbcers have become the beast they originally meant to vanquish. No matter. I wasn't interested in his or Chris Matthews's blather. I completed a Sudoku puzzle on the couch.
The time came. Dick Durbin took the stage and gave an introduction. A well-crafted cinematic montage showed us Obama in snippets. When it concluded Obama took the stage. I pushed the pencil to the spine of the Sudoku puzzle book, closed the book, and placed it next to me. I wanted to see this speech. Not just hear it mind you, but see it.
Barack Hussein Obama walked out onto the stage in his suit and red tie. He cleans up well. He stepped to the podium and said 'Thank you'. I couldn't tell if his thank yous were sincere or impatient. No matter. I waited for Mile High's audience to settle.
He began. Party unity. The Clintons. Kennedy and Biden. Wife and kids. Yes, yes...
He moved into the speech. The American Dream in danger. The failures of George Bush. Yes, I can agree with the fact that these past 8 years were some of the worst years in American history. Historians will see our current president as perhaps a worse president than James Buchanan and Ulysses Grant. No arguments there. We ARE a better country than these last 8 years. Eight IS enough.
He's not running against Bush but against McCain. Is McCain the same? 90% is a significant number. If he did agree with Bush's bull 90% of the time, well, then I can't vote for McCain.
A nation of whiners. In my research, that quotation by Phil Gramm doesn't seem out of context in Obama's usage. America? A nation of whiners? Well, there are those. But the entire nation? No. Score one for Obama.
I waited for Obama's remarks to devolve into an all-out attack on McCain. That never materialized. Instead, Obama saluted the man and then wittily took aim from his defensive posture. He scored multiple blows. None of them disrespectful, it seemed.
He moved into his ideas. Real ideas in a political speech. One in particular caught my attention: 'in ten years, we will finally end our dependence on oil from the Middle East'. This promise is nothing less than the promise to put a man on the moon. In fact it's more. With that one line, he angered many a big wig at international oil companies. Cut taxes for 95% of working families? Cut? That doesn't sound like a Democrat, I thought.
Obama as strong commander in chief? He's neither Kennedy nor Roosevelt on that front. More like Clinton, who himself was fair at best.
Still, the speech was impressive to this point.
He talked about what we may not agree on. And also what we can. His record on abortion? I am concerned at that. He has voted for a woman's right to privacy ahead of banning live birth abortions. Not okay. McCain's stance? Well, he says that Roe v. Wade should be overturned. Is this a statement against abortion? Not exactly. He has stated, himself, that the decision to ban abortion should fall under the purview of the state. I'm therefore not particularly happy with either stance...
But then he made comments about same-sex relationships. I do have the right to see the person I love in the hospital should he get sick...
The speech went from impressive to superb. Because Obama knows how to write and to deliver a speech. And because he has a message that rings true. You DO make a big election about small things. You make EVERY election about small things. Because big things rarely - if at all - spontaneously appear from nothing. To my understanding, only God made that happen. And He's not running...
And then Obama delivered what I consider to be the best lines of this or any other speech to which I have been a witness:
'This country of ours has more wealth than any nation, but that's not what makes us rich. We have the most powerful military on Earth, but that's not what makes us strong. Our universities and our culture are the envy of the world, but that's not what keeps the world coming to our shores.
Instead, it is that American spirit - that American promise - that pushes us forward even when the path is uncertain; that binds us together in spite of our differences; that makes us fix our eye not on what is seen, but what is unseen, that better place around the bend.'
His reference, no doubt intentional, made me consider St. Paul's second letter to the Corinthians, 'We look not to what is seen but to what is unseen; for what is seen is transitory, but what is unseen is eternal.'
Bush has not been able to see past his own nose. He wouldn't know what's seen if it hit him in the back of the head. Nevermind the unseen with that bozo. Can McCain take us around that bend? He's old and he probably doesn't care about what people think of him. But does he understand this idea of the seen and unseen?
Does Barack Obama, for that matter?
I don't know for sure. No one does.
What I do know of Obama's record is that he's willing to work from the bottom up and not from the top down. He HAS been successful with that. He gave a pivotal keynote speech at the 2004 DNC in Boston. That's not what anyone saw coming 4 years ago. And he beat the Clinton machine. That's not what anyone saw coming 18 months ago. It's in his actions and his speech that Obama seems to understand that which is unseen.
And I think I'm willing to give him that chance to lead us around the next bend.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
How I Met My Partner
So before I tell you how I met who I met, I would like to acknowledge the 'Sunday Scribblings' blog that you will find under 'My Blog List'. It was within this blog that I found this prompt, and it is my intention to use this prompt in the future to describe how I met a number of my friends, enemies, family members, acquaintances, famous people, and even pets throughout the years.
As for this evening, I think it appropriate that I tell you how I met my partner, Joseph. Some of you may know the story. Others may think you know the story but really don't. And yet others have never heard any version of the story. For that I apologize. But no matter your circumstance, I shall give you the story this evening.
The date: March 2002. I lived among seminarians at St. John's Seminary in Boston, MA. But it was in March 2002 that I knew I was no longer one of them. Earlier in the year - either late January or early February - I had made the decision to leave the seminary after my second year of pre-theology. It was not without some hesitation and certainly some regret that I had made that decision, but between my spiritual director, my counselor, my vocation director, and me, we mutually agreed that I would better serve myself and those in the Church by taking my leave. It did not need to be a permanent leave - and I wanted to believe that was true - but it did have to happen.
Meanwhile, I was trying desperately to understand who I was. Why God had made me who I was. Why it was in the seminary of all places that my struggles with my orientation were exacerbated. Why it was my prayer that told me I should leave. Why I couldn't just be normal. And so, I turned to the internet to understand. I sought out people who might help. Medical sites. Alternative living sites. Dating sites. Any site that might help me to understand myself better.
I read incessantly. I posted questions. And I even called one of those dating sites. A national site, as I remember. I spoke to people from Texas, New York, Florida, Wisconsin, California, Washington. I asked questions. I listened as they asked me questions. It was never my intention to date, mind you, just to talk. To discover. To understand.
One night, I came across a charismatic guy named Joseph. He lived in Seattle, WA, had been in the navy, was black. He came from Massachusetts by way of Memphis. He was a paralegal. He worked for a company that did something with bankruptcy. He lived in a rather spartan apartment in West Seattle. He didn't drive. He liked to go out to the bars. He had tons of friends. I hung up that night thinking I'd never hear from him again.
I called about a week later and across whom did I come but the charismatic Joseph once again. I hadn't remembered smiling so widely and so often, as I spoke to him. We agreed that some odd fate had decided that we should be friends. And so we traded phone numbers and e-mail addresses. We began to correspond regularly.
I told no one, fearing that I was doing something wrong. Cheating on the Church, on Jesus. After all, the choice to call that dating line and to explore my orientation... well, they weren't the actions of a true Catholic. Ironically, as I isolated myself from the other seminarians and from my dreams to become a priest, I concentrated on correspondence with Joseph and on my school work. I very nearly achieved a 4.0 that semester. A single A- prevented that feat.
Graduation came and went. I received a paper saying I knew something about philosophy - meaning only that I knew that I knew very little - with a bit of Latin thrown in for good measure. My fellow classmates bid me adieu. I was finished with the seminary. In my heart, I knew it was for good, however much many of those around me hoped that it wouldn't be.
Meanwhile, my friendship with Joseph increased in intensity. We talked at least once a day, causing both his and my phone bills to skyrocket. But not in my wildest dreams did I think there was any remote chance of anything akin to a relationship. The closest we came to that discussion was his insistence that he would venture out to the east coast to visit.
I went home to Connecticut in turmoil. I had been two years out of student teaching with no good leads and no real experience in teaching. I had a history degree and a philosophy degree - not particularly helpful degrees in the work force. It was time to pound the pavement. I wasn't good at it. I went to interviews for God knows how many positions with no confidence and no experience. No thanks, they all said. And I was damn well not going back to the likes of supermarket work if I could help it.
Joseph continued his insistence that he would visit. I felt an odd excitement at this possibility. We traded Fed Exed pictures, letters, knick knacks of all sorts. I called every night on the rotary phone in my grandparents' basement. I sent e-mails when I could get to a computer with internet access. And Joseph encouraged me in my job hunt, convincing me to try again and again.
I got my first job (after the seminary) selling Cutco knives. Whether you know me or not, please know that I am NOT a salesman. I was terrible. Uncomfortable. Not confident. Soft-spoken. Utterly abyssmal. I came home each evening feeling more and more useless, broken, saddened. I was slipping into despair. Until I prostrated myself before God and asked Him what I should do. I heard a reply. I hope to this day it came from Him. Leave...
And so, I started planning. My grandparents knew. My father knew. Not why... no, not why. I was too afraid. But that's another blog entry unto itself. I just knew that I needed to leave. To find myself. To explore. To understand. To do all those things I didn't think I could do in the place where I had grown. I learned the hard way that you can never truly go home again.
I told Joseph I had to leave. And neither of us had to say to which destination I would be going. Our relationship had evolved. No, we hadn't yet met each other in person. But that wasn't particularly important. Could he have been an axe murderer? Yep. But, to him I could have been a raving meth addict. I think we both knew better. It had been four rather intensive months, after all. Joseph and I grew more excited at the very talk of my intention.
I set the date. I would leave on Monday July 8th. And it was my intention to arrive in Seattle before Joseph's birthday on July 14th. As the day approached, I said my goodbyes, feeling badly about my deception but also not knowing how to say what it was I was doing. It is my worst vice, that lack of communication which is itself deceptive. But it was also who I was at that time, for better or worse.
The day came. My grandfather saw me off at 5 a.m. I shall save the trip for another posting as those three days proved to be pivotal in my life. Suffice it to say, I arrived in Seattle, WA a little after 6 p.m. on Wednesday July 10th. I called Joseph from a payphone - now defunct - on 8th and Olive. He dropped the phone on his end when I told him where I was, i.e. a block from his apartment. I walked as casually as I could to the front door of the building. He exited the building with a whoosh, stole a glance at my face, and plummeted back into the building equally as fast. I wondered - if only briefly - if this guy was crazy. But no, he re-emerged and greeted me warmly with a quick kiss.
I often think back to that first meeting, wondering how it is that we're still together after more than six years. The law of averages says that we shouldn't have lasted. That this relationship should have fallen apart at the first sign of trouble. But no. Don't get me wrong, we've been involved in our share of problems. But I think we just complement each other so well. We love each other and put ourselves in God's care. Isn't that the point? Love of God and each other in the midst of the struggle to be good, decent, just men.
And that's how I met Joseph...
As for this evening, I think it appropriate that I tell you how I met my partner, Joseph. Some of you may know the story. Others may think you know the story but really don't. And yet others have never heard any version of the story. For that I apologize. But no matter your circumstance, I shall give you the story this evening.
The date: March 2002. I lived among seminarians at St. John's Seminary in Boston, MA. But it was in March 2002 that I knew I was no longer one of them. Earlier in the year - either late January or early February - I had made the decision to leave the seminary after my second year of pre-theology. It was not without some hesitation and certainly some regret that I had made that decision, but between my spiritual director, my counselor, my vocation director, and me, we mutually agreed that I would better serve myself and those in the Church by taking my leave. It did not need to be a permanent leave - and I wanted to believe that was true - but it did have to happen.
Meanwhile, I was trying desperately to understand who I was. Why God had made me who I was. Why it was in the seminary of all places that my struggles with my orientation were exacerbated. Why it was my prayer that told me I should leave. Why I couldn't just be normal. And so, I turned to the internet to understand. I sought out people who might help. Medical sites. Alternative living sites. Dating sites. Any site that might help me to understand myself better.
I read incessantly. I posted questions. And I even called one of those dating sites. A national site, as I remember. I spoke to people from Texas, New York, Florida, Wisconsin, California, Washington. I asked questions. I listened as they asked me questions. It was never my intention to date, mind you, just to talk. To discover. To understand.
One night, I came across a charismatic guy named Joseph. He lived in Seattle, WA, had been in the navy, was black. He came from Massachusetts by way of Memphis. He was a paralegal. He worked for a company that did something with bankruptcy. He lived in a rather spartan apartment in West Seattle. He didn't drive. He liked to go out to the bars. He had tons of friends. I hung up that night thinking I'd never hear from him again.
I called about a week later and across whom did I come but the charismatic Joseph once again. I hadn't remembered smiling so widely and so often, as I spoke to him. We agreed that some odd fate had decided that we should be friends. And so we traded phone numbers and e-mail addresses. We began to correspond regularly.
I told no one, fearing that I was doing something wrong. Cheating on the Church, on Jesus. After all, the choice to call that dating line and to explore my orientation... well, they weren't the actions of a true Catholic. Ironically, as I isolated myself from the other seminarians and from my dreams to become a priest, I concentrated on correspondence with Joseph and on my school work. I very nearly achieved a 4.0 that semester. A single A- prevented that feat.
Graduation came and went. I received a paper saying I knew something about philosophy - meaning only that I knew that I knew very little - with a bit of Latin thrown in for good measure. My fellow classmates bid me adieu. I was finished with the seminary. In my heart, I knew it was for good, however much many of those around me hoped that it wouldn't be.
Meanwhile, my friendship with Joseph increased in intensity. We talked at least once a day, causing both his and my phone bills to skyrocket. But not in my wildest dreams did I think there was any remote chance of anything akin to a relationship. The closest we came to that discussion was his insistence that he would venture out to the east coast to visit.
I went home to Connecticut in turmoil. I had been two years out of student teaching with no good leads and no real experience in teaching. I had a history degree and a philosophy degree - not particularly helpful degrees in the work force. It was time to pound the pavement. I wasn't good at it. I went to interviews for God knows how many positions with no confidence and no experience. No thanks, they all said. And I was damn well not going back to the likes of supermarket work if I could help it.
Joseph continued his insistence that he would visit. I felt an odd excitement at this possibility. We traded Fed Exed pictures, letters, knick knacks of all sorts. I called every night on the rotary phone in my grandparents' basement. I sent e-mails when I could get to a computer with internet access. And Joseph encouraged me in my job hunt, convincing me to try again and again.
I got my first job (after the seminary) selling Cutco knives. Whether you know me or not, please know that I am NOT a salesman. I was terrible. Uncomfortable. Not confident. Soft-spoken. Utterly abyssmal. I came home each evening feeling more and more useless, broken, saddened. I was slipping into despair. Until I prostrated myself before God and asked Him what I should do. I heard a reply. I hope to this day it came from Him. Leave...
And so, I started planning. My grandparents knew. My father knew. Not why... no, not why. I was too afraid. But that's another blog entry unto itself. I just knew that I needed to leave. To find myself. To explore. To understand. To do all those things I didn't think I could do in the place where I had grown. I learned the hard way that you can never truly go home again.
I told Joseph I had to leave. And neither of us had to say to which destination I would be going. Our relationship had evolved. No, we hadn't yet met each other in person. But that wasn't particularly important. Could he have been an axe murderer? Yep. But, to him I could have been a raving meth addict. I think we both knew better. It had been four rather intensive months, after all. Joseph and I grew more excited at the very talk of my intention.
I set the date. I would leave on Monday July 8th. And it was my intention to arrive in Seattle before Joseph's birthday on July 14th. As the day approached, I said my goodbyes, feeling badly about my deception but also not knowing how to say what it was I was doing. It is my worst vice, that lack of communication which is itself deceptive. But it was also who I was at that time, for better or worse.
The day came. My grandfather saw me off at 5 a.m. I shall save the trip for another posting as those three days proved to be pivotal in my life. Suffice it to say, I arrived in Seattle, WA a little after 6 p.m. on Wednesday July 10th. I called Joseph from a payphone - now defunct - on 8th and Olive. He dropped the phone on his end when I told him where I was, i.e. a block from his apartment. I walked as casually as I could to the front door of the building. He exited the building with a whoosh, stole a glance at my face, and plummeted back into the building equally as fast. I wondered - if only briefly - if this guy was crazy. But no, he re-emerged and greeted me warmly with a quick kiss.
I often think back to that first meeting, wondering how it is that we're still together after more than six years. The law of averages says that we shouldn't have lasted. That this relationship should have fallen apart at the first sign of trouble. But no. Don't get me wrong, we've been involved in our share of problems. But I think we just complement each other so well. We love each other and put ourselves in God's care. Isn't that the point? Love of God and each other in the midst of the struggle to be good, decent, just men.
And that's how I met Joseph...
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Ode to a Pilgrimage
April 18, 1923
New York Giants 7, Boston Braves 4
at Braves Field
Brooklyn Dodgers 6, Philadelphia Phillies 5
at Ebbets Field
Chicago Cubs 7, Pittsburgh Pirates 2
at Wrigley Field
St. Louis Cardinals 4, Cincinnati Reds 2
at Crosley Field
Cleveland Indians 6, Chicago White Sox 5
at League Park II
New York Yankees 4, Boston Red Sox 1
at Yankee Stadium
Philadelphia Athletics 3, Washington Senators 1
at Shibe Park
Detroit Tigers 9, St. Louis Browns 6
at Sportsman's Park III
On that day in 1923, Fred Lieb of the New York Evening Telegram first dubbed Yankee Stadium 'The House That Ruth Built'. And Ruth did not disappoint. In the bottom of the third inning, the Sultan of Swat sent a line drive into the right field seats that put his Yankees up for good against his former team.
It is now 85 years later. And Yankee Stadium's last. Yes, there will be a new stadium. The name is already etched into the facade. It will be bigger, more comfortable, perhaps even more accommodating. But, it will never be the place where Mantle vied with Maris for 61 and Gehrig considered himself the luckiest man on the face of the earth. It will never be the home of Joltin Joe. It will not be the place where a tattered flag flew over tens of thousands of Americans who looked for solace after 9/11. It will not be the place where John Paul II captured American hearts. It won't be the place where the greatest football game of all time decided football's fate in the United States. And never again can we Yankees fans boast that this new stadium is The House That Ruth Built. Is it a travesty that this American edifice will become a parking lot? Yes. But this is an ode, not a critique.
It begins in a relatively new city to baseball and in a state of the art facility on July 21st. I had purchased tickets to Safeco Field for a friend's birthday to watch the utterly destitute Seattle Mariners take on the seemingly more beloved Seattle-Boston Red Sox. The stadium bellowed with Red Sox cheers that made my stomach ache. Reds and blues outshone the sad spottiness of greens and blues. As the game wore on I began to reminisce about the many games I had attended in my lifetime. Not nearly as many as a self-proclaimed diehard fan, certainly, but enough. My mind wandered more. To baseball fields. Softball fields. Makeshift wiffleball fields. And as I lost myself in the green of the grass, I realized that all of my memories of this glorious game called baseball centered around one person, a person whose birthday it happened to be on that day when I saw the Mariners shut out by the Red Sox. The old man.
The idea dawned slowly but surely. For all the games I had attended and for all that I loved about the game of baseball, I owed it to the old man to make one last pilgrimage to Baseball’s Cathedral with him. But, as most of you know, I’m not a particularly emotional being. When the game ended that evening, logic struck; I convinced myself that the idea was a pipe dream. So, I did nothing.
Seven days passed. I said nothing about the idea. Inside my brain, the emotions and logic began to compromise. I had enough PTO (Paid Time Off) that I could conceivably take time off work. And I hadn’t been home in three years. On that seventh day during a break at work, I looked for Yankees tickets. Sold out, of course. I surfed to StubHub, RazorGator, and countless other sites. Once my brain processed the numbers that my eyes were displaying to it, the logic reasserted itself and guffawed at the emotion. Not a chance in heaven, hell, purgatory, or limbo. Oh wait, no more limbo.
Another day passed. The emotion would not subside. The right brain kept replaying the final sequence in ‘Field of Dreams’. Okay, so a little known fact that won’t be so little known after I publish it for all to see… that final sequence is the only one to date that can make me sob. ‘Fine!’ my logic told my emotion. ‘Let’s do it.’ Once I made that decision, only God could have stopped me from achieving the goal.
God helps those who help themselves. And I needed a plan. Well, even more important than a plan was an accomplice. I thought of the perfect one: my brother. For whatever reason, my brother has this stigma attached to him of not being able to keep a secret. To my knowledge, I can’t remember a time when he disclosed a secret – apart from ratting out my father for some insignificant trifle when he was all of five years old. Because of this stigma, he proved to be – as stated – the perfect accomplice. I called him and told him my plan. He thought it a good idea. Thus, we the brothers Klemenz – with help from my brother’s wife – concocted the perfect plan.
Why did I need an accomplice? A good question. You see, my father’s no slouch. If he’s not at home repairing, building, cleaning, mowing, carrying, or otherwise kicking something, he’s out doing one of these things for the Church, his family, or his friends. And when he’s not doing one of these things, he’s out with his wife traveling or watching football. So, if this was going to be a surprise, I had to have my brother corner him for a date to go to Yankee Stadium. It turned out to be August 17th against the Kansas City ‘what have you done since George Brett left’ Royals.
I bought the plane ticket, left on August 15th after much ado at work to ensure that my projects were copacetic, had an exit row seat on the first plane to Indy, sat next to a talker on the second plane to Hartford, met my brother and his wife at the airport, had my brother’s dog inspect me in the car, watched a replay of one of Michael Phelps’s 342 gold medal races at home in my brother’s basement, and went to bed. The next day my brother and I spent time reacquainting – after a three-year lull – and watching movies. Oh, and I had something akin to real pizza, which is hard to come by in these here parts.
By Sunday, I actually felt a little nervous. I wasn’t certain how the old man would react. I couldn’t remember a time when either of us – or anyone else for that matter – had surprised him in a good way. At a little after 9 a.m. the old man pulled up in his blue van and said hello to my brother and his wife. As he stood garbed in Yankees shirt and hat, I walked from the garage and saw his jaw drop. To catch him speechless is itself a treat. We hugged. And he tried to form words. To no avail…
After a brief stop at Dunkin Donuts, we made our way via the Wilbur Cross/Merritt Parkway out of Connecticut and into New York. A once familiar trip for me who had often traveled the same road back and forth from college. But I rarely ventured into the city; I usually went around. Not on this day. We knew our destination.
We passed through Yonkers and on into the Bronx. ‘That lighthouse up there means we’re getting close’ my father remarked. Just around the next bend were the familiar block letters indicating the home of 26 world championship teams. It was an awesome sight in the true meaning of the word. That pipe dream had come true.
We parked, paid too much for it and went looking to have a beer. No beer before noon on Sundays in the city. Odd rule. So, we tried to walk around the stadium. You can’t walk all the way around the stadium. So, we just went in.
‘I love to see the green of the grass’ my father said with a twinkle in his eye. He began talking of his first visit to the stadium back before the renovation in the 60’s. Of our multiple trips to see Donnie Baseball and the likes of Rickey Henderson and Dave Winfield. The story of Lou Gehrig played on the big screen as the players warmed up on the field.
At the beginning of the game, I purchased the first round of beer and dogs. And we watched as the game unfolded. It wasn’t a particularly good game. The Yanks took it to ‘em 15-6. But it wasn’t really about that game in particular. It was about all the games that had ever been played in that stadium. It was about all the history. All the great plays. All the great wins. Even some of the devastating losses. But it was all about baseball. Every once in a while I stole a glance at the old man and watched him as he watched. And for all the differences of opinion, disagreements, and problems we ever had, I knew this memory would be one to overcome them all.
When the game had finished, we walked down near the field and surveyed the stadium one last time. Frank crooned. Cameras flashed. People lingered. After a few pictures, the old man turned to us and said, ‘Ready?’ We nodded and made our way into the tunnel.
On the eighteenth of April in Twenty-Three;
Hardly a man recalls the glee
Of Yankee Stadium’s first opening day.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Closing Doors...
You've all heard the saying that when God closes a door, he opens a window. Well, I've had the opportunity to stare at a few closed doors recently; I'm just waiting to happen upon the open window.
About a month ago, a friend contacted me about a project management position at a local Seattle company. It was the best lead I'd had since commencing my search for a new job earlier this year. I submitted a resume and waited. I soon received a call and set up an interview. My mind began to wander. What if... I saw myself at this new company working on new projects and building new teams. I had no doubt that I could do it. But, I never seem to be able to convince others. Too quiet. Too reserved. Not confident enough. Not this time, I asserted. On the day of the interview, I left work early and ventured home to dress in my pressed shirt and slacks; a red tie - suggested by Joseph - was meant to show my vibrance and desire. I arrived at the building looking all official-like and ascended in the elevator to the receptionist's desk. Soon, one of my interviewers retrieved me and sat me in a spartan conference room with comfortable chairs. A project manager like me, she and I traded questions about methodologies and methods. We chuckled about developers resisting our plans and teambuilding. And when it was over, I felt all the more confident. Not for long... Two unassuming and not so intimidating men entered the room. They sat, and the bespectacled man across from me put a question to me. It went something like: if you are given three cobumbulators in a versinagen and told to manage the project towards elf-four CTMs, what would you do? I felt the collar of my off-white shirt begin to choke me. The perspiration evaporated from my scarlet forehead before it could sting my eyes eliciting tears. I bumbled through an explanation about how I wasn't sure what a verumbulator was. They took pity on me and moved to other topics. I think I recovered a shred of my dignity as the interview continued, but I had fallen prey to the lurking technofile's first question that, I later realized, had nothing to do with technology at all but rather about project management. I left the premises feeling... well... verklempt. I wondered if my knowledge of project management was enough to get me in the door. It wasn't. They went with someone who had more technical experience. I guess history and philosophy don't particularly count as technical. Alas...
More recently, I decided to step outside of my box and audition for the Seattle Men's Chorus. I didn't tell many people because, again, I had little confidence that I'd be able to achieve the goal. My experience in such things was limited to a middle school chorus and the St. John's Seminary Choir. But, again, with support from one of the members and from Joseph, I decided to give it a try. I entered the Baptist Church on Harvard Avenue off of Broadway and made my way to the basement. Sitting in typical 1970's basement church chairs were interviewers and auditioners. The auditioners filled out paperwork in triplicate as the interviewers looked over their shoulders commenting on each item written. My hands began to sweat. I thought about turning around and walking back into the rain, but I persisted. I mumbled a greeting to one of the interviewers and sat on a padded chair. The interviewer sat next to me and began to watch me write. 'Wow' he commented. I looked up at him confusedly. 'That is beautiful handwriting' he said. 'Uh thanks' I replied in my best imitation of an indifferent male 14 year old. I looked back down. No eye contact lest this or some other interviewer try to make more small talk. But, no one on earth can resist the word 'seminary'. As soon as I listed that as my significant experience in choral work, he asked if I was a priest. 'No' I admitted. But that's never quite enough. 'Where? How? Who? Why?' All the questions come at once, followed by more interested glances and questions from interviewers and auditioners alike. Not in any mean way do people ask. But any seminarian - ex or otherwise - is an automatic attraction. I suppose my discomfort showed as the questions waned. The interviewers moved on to songwriting and traveling auditioners. I thanked my lucky stars, introvert that I am. And then came the call. I walked down a long hallway through a pair of double doors and saw a tall bald man flanked by an odd looking terrierish dog who seemed to think himself more distinguished that he actually was. The dog, that is. The auditionee made a joke. He was trying to make me feel at ease. He would have had an easier time teaching a rhinoceros to eat with a fork. But I appreciated his efforts. I sang a few notes. He told me that I was very precise in my ability to hit the notes. He also told me I was a baritone. Baritones are a dime a dozen, he told me. They were looking for first tenors and basses. I thanked him for his candor. He still told me that someone would contact me. Just in case the other fifty-two happened to be hit by rogue fork-carrying rhinoceroses. I came home from work today to a message thanking me for my interest but succintly not inviting me to join the Seattle Men's Choir. Door number two...
I thought long and hard about feeling sorry for myself. But when I did, I reflected on a quotation my father recently used to make a point. Regarding Thomas Edison's 2000 attempts to make an incandescent light bulb, Edison remarked 'I did not fail; I found 2000 ways not to make a light bulb.' Well, God has closed a couple doors recently. But I haven't yet failed. I just found ways not to get a job at a networking company and not to sing in the Seattle Men's Choir. And so, I wonder what will be my next attempted misadventure. I'll let you know...
About a month ago, a friend contacted me about a project management position at a local Seattle company. It was the best lead I'd had since commencing my search for a new job earlier this year. I submitted a resume and waited. I soon received a call and set up an interview. My mind began to wander. What if... I saw myself at this new company working on new projects and building new teams. I had no doubt that I could do it. But, I never seem to be able to convince others. Too quiet. Too reserved. Not confident enough. Not this time, I asserted. On the day of the interview, I left work early and ventured home to dress in my pressed shirt and slacks; a red tie - suggested by Joseph - was meant to show my vibrance and desire. I arrived at the building looking all official-like and ascended in the elevator to the receptionist's desk. Soon, one of my interviewers retrieved me and sat me in a spartan conference room with comfortable chairs. A project manager like me, she and I traded questions about methodologies and methods. We chuckled about developers resisting our plans and teambuilding. And when it was over, I felt all the more confident. Not for long... Two unassuming and not so intimidating men entered the room. They sat, and the bespectacled man across from me put a question to me. It went something like: if you are given three cobumbulators in a versinagen and told to manage the project towards elf-four CTMs, what would you do? I felt the collar of my off-white shirt begin to choke me. The perspiration evaporated from my scarlet forehead before it could sting my eyes eliciting tears. I bumbled through an explanation about how I wasn't sure what a verumbulator was. They took pity on me and moved to other topics. I think I recovered a shred of my dignity as the interview continued, but I had fallen prey to the lurking technofile's first question that, I later realized, had nothing to do with technology at all but rather about project management. I left the premises feeling... well... verklempt. I wondered if my knowledge of project management was enough to get me in the door. It wasn't. They went with someone who had more technical experience. I guess history and philosophy don't particularly count as technical. Alas...
More recently, I decided to step outside of my box and audition for the Seattle Men's Chorus. I didn't tell many people because, again, I had little confidence that I'd be able to achieve the goal. My experience in such things was limited to a middle school chorus and the St. John's Seminary Choir. But, again, with support from one of the members and from Joseph, I decided to give it a try. I entered the Baptist Church on Harvard Avenue off of Broadway and made my way to the basement. Sitting in typical 1970's basement church chairs were interviewers and auditioners. The auditioners filled out paperwork in triplicate as the interviewers looked over their shoulders commenting on each item written. My hands began to sweat. I thought about turning around and walking back into the rain, but I persisted. I mumbled a greeting to one of the interviewers and sat on a padded chair. The interviewer sat next to me and began to watch me write. 'Wow' he commented. I looked up at him confusedly. 'That is beautiful handwriting' he said. 'Uh thanks' I replied in my best imitation of an indifferent male 14 year old. I looked back down. No eye contact lest this or some other interviewer try to make more small talk. But, no one on earth can resist the word 'seminary'. As soon as I listed that as my significant experience in choral work, he asked if I was a priest. 'No' I admitted. But that's never quite enough. 'Where? How? Who? Why?' All the questions come at once, followed by more interested glances and questions from interviewers and auditioners alike. Not in any mean way do people ask. But any seminarian - ex or otherwise - is an automatic attraction. I suppose my discomfort showed as the questions waned. The interviewers moved on to songwriting and traveling auditioners. I thanked my lucky stars, introvert that I am. And then came the call. I walked down a long hallway through a pair of double doors and saw a tall bald man flanked by an odd looking terrierish dog who seemed to think himself more distinguished that he actually was. The dog, that is. The auditionee made a joke. He was trying to make me feel at ease. He would have had an easier time teaching a rhinoceros to eat with a fork. But I appreciated his efforts. I sang a few notes. He told me that I was very precise in my ability to hit the notes. He also told me I was a baritone. Baritones are a dime a dozen, he told me. They were looking for first tenors and basses. I thanked him for his candor. He still told me that someone would contact me. Just in case the other fifty-two happened to be hit by rogue fork-carrying rhinoceroses. I came home from work today to a message thanking me for my interest but succintly not inviting me to join the Seattle Men's Choir. Door number two...
I thought long and hard about feeling sorry for myself. But when I did, I reflected on a quotation my father recently used to make a point. Regarding Thomas Edison's 2000 attempts to make an incandescent light bulb, Edison remarked 'I did not fail; I found 2000 ways not to make a light bulb.' Well, God has closed a couple doors recently. But I haven't yet failed. I just found ways not to get a job at a networking company and not to sing in the Seattle Men's Choir. And so, I wonder what will be my next attempted misadventure. I'll let you know...
Sunday, August 24, 2008
The First Post...
Hello...
A funny thing happened on my trip to Connecticut and I cannot say that this funny thing was new to me. I rediscovered that my family and friends love me. I had no doubt about this fact before my trip home, but I finally recognized that I haven't been keeping up my end of the bargain. To give as much as I take. So many times have you, my countless family members and friends asked me to call or write or e-mail or text or send smoke signals. Anything... And too many times have I gone 'off the radar' making people wonder if I had fallen from some precipice atop the Cascades or if I had stolen away to Ulaan Baatar (yes, it's a real place).
With this new realization, I will wed my interest in writing with information regarding where I am - figuratively - and what I'm doing. I can't promise a daily entry - though I strive to achieve that goal - but I can promise that I will update this blog regularly with the odds and ends that compose my life. Does this replace individual correspondence? No. But given my schedule and the schedules I know most of you keep, I think this will serve to complement that communication significantly.
With that said, if there's anything you wish to see in this blog or if there's anything you would like me to address, please let me know. And whether I see you daily or once every however many years, please know that I share this with you because I value you as a part of my life.
Until next I post...
David
A funny thing happened on my trip to Connecticut and I cannot say that this funny thing was new to me. I rediscovered that my family and friends love me. I had no doubt about this fact before my trip home, but I finally recognized that I haven't been keeping up my end of the bargain. To give as much as I take. So many times have you, my countless family members and friends asked me to call or write or e-mail or text or send smoke signals. Anything... And too many times have I gone 'off the radar' making people wonder if I had fallen from some precipice atop the Cascades or if I had stolen away to Ulaan Baatar (yes, it's a real place).
With this new realization, I will wed my interest in writing with information regarding where I am - figuratively - and what I'm doing. I can't promise a daily entry - though I strive to achieve that goal - but I can promise that I will update this blog regularly with the odds and ends that compose my life. Does this replace individual correspondence? No. But given my schedule and the schedules I know most of you keep, I think this will serve to complement that communication significantly.
With that said, if there's anything you wish to see in this blog or if there's anything you would like me to address, please let me know. And whether I see you daily or once every however many years, please know that I share this with you because I value you as a part of my life.
Until next I post...
David
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