Believe me, there are plenty of reasons to break up with a girl. Included among them are her wearing white tube socks under dress shoes (yes, even boots demand colored, if not patterned, socks), her refusing to call you by your first name (leaving you to conclude that even after three months of dating, she still didn’t know it), and her having the audacity to leaf through your copy of Sports Illustrated before you have even had the chance to pick it up.
And, that’s without more obvious explanations like her testing her mettle as a dental hygienist by inspecting your buddy’s gums with her tongue, her liberating your Visa card from your wallet and going on a spending spree that would make Donald Trump blush, and her dispensing the truth as easily as Ebenezer Scrooge did with gold coins at Christmas.
But, you have to wonder, does bad handwriting alone carry enough prosecutable girth to merit a split?
Truthfully, though, bad handwriting is a misnomer. Really, I’m alluding to an unappealing type of handwriting for, as the mailbox of history will clearly attest, no woman – save Helen Keller and those with the self-indulgent souls with the pretentious letters M.D. or Ph.D. after their names* - since pen was first put to paper (or squished berry to cave wall, for that matter) has ever possessed truly bad handwriting.
Men? You betcha. But, women? No way.
(*Here, it must be noted that doctors – both male and female – get a free pass down the hallway of handwriting. After all, would you really want to decipher their scribble? Reading, "Patient is too short, too bald, and way too flabby. His lifestyle, not to mention body odor, poses a serious health concern to not only himself, but also those around him. Taking these drugs definitely won’t cure him, but it should numb him sufficiently so that he lives the rest of his life in a Jimi Hendrix-haze. Possible side effects include headaches and dizziness, fainting spells and dementia, nausea and vomiting, as well as the persistent chance that his large intestines could fall out of his anus at any given moment. But, he shouldn’t die. At least, not for a few more years." just doesn’t sound that pleasant. Does it?)
You see, in the realm of writing, women do one thing far better than their male counterparts: they take their time. And, while this is an altogether infuriating habit when you’re running late for a friend’s wedding or you’re stuck in the perfume aisle at Macy’s, it’s sweeter than lollipops and gum drops when it comes to inking up a page. So melodic, soothing, and pleasant can a woman’s scores of letters be that their meaning actually fades in import. Like the chef’s special at a five-star restaurant, the presentation is as important – if not more so – than the product itself.
So, what makes fine penmanship? Aha. Divulging this secret so easily would be akin to telling Elmer Fudd where Buggs Bunny spends his winters, brazenly defying the wisdom of the ages.
But, there are some common pitfalls that can be mentioned and must be avoided. To start, don’t be too drab, but don’t be too cute (aim for hunter green, not charcoal gray or bubblegum pink). Don’t be too straight, but don’t be too curvy (think Gwen Stefani, not Kate Moss or Pam Anderson). Cross your t’s and dot your i’s, but never… ever… under any circumstances… do so with hearts (circles, however, are occasionally acceptable). Choose your words carefully – not so much for what they mean, but instead for how they look (street, for instance, is the sleek Ferarri to road’s clunky jalopy). Don’t rush through it, but don’t take too long at it either (you want to give the impression that "you just whipped it up"). And finally – and most importantly – when you sign your name, do it with gusto, add in some soul, and sprinkle on top just a wee bit of chutzpah.
So, craft your cursive and perfect your print, and remember just how much is riding on your handwriting roller coaster.
19 December 2005
02 October 2005
Another Roadside Revelation
Yesterday, I unpacked myself from the Grey Ghost (my 1994 Toyota pick-up) in Santa Monica, California after what I think was my 11th automobile navigation of at least 2/3 of the country. It took more than 3000 miles, six days and countless mugs of fuel-injected coffee, but I am happy to report that I survived middle America and arrived in the Governator's state relatively happy and healthy, if a bit stiff. For some riveting revelations from the road, read on:
- When driving through the Grand Canyon at night, watch out for deer and bucks. The former grow larger than a small, silver Toyota pick-up, and the latter can count more points on their antlers than even Wilt the Stilt could post in his finest game.
- Contrary to popular belief, you will not die if you accidentally run into an electric fence. You will, however, receive an uncomfortable shock in your leg and you may moo your way through the rest of your trip.
- You know you're in Kansas when signs on the side of the road read, "Abortion Kills" and "Chose Life... Your Parents Did."
- Everyone has moved from the Midwest to the coasts, leaving middle America virtually empty. And, the poor souls who didn't get the evacuation memo are very upset about this, leading to an often salty temperament.
- Denver, Colorado is actually south of Baltimore, Maryland.
- The Grand Canyon is truly, as our favorite philosopher/geologist Homer Simpson noted, a grand canyon.
- Having three clocks, each set to a different time (a wristwatch set to East Coast time, a car radio clock set to an hour earlier because I couldn't figure out how to set it when last we saved daylight, and a cell phone clock which is supposed to stay in the proper time zone) makes it extremely difficult to figure out what time it really is an just where the heck you are. This isn't Russia, is it?
- Miller High-Life, the champagne of beers, has stolen the theme song from True Romance, one of the five greatest movies of all-time (and one of the most distinct theme songs), for a new television ad campaign.
- If William Least-Moon were to update his classic work Blue Highways today, he would be mortified by what he found. In the olden days, secondary highways (i.e., two-lane, non interstate ones) were marked on maps in blue ink and the bigger four-lane one (i.e., I-70, I-80, I-90, etc.) in red. But, at some point mapmakers switched the colors, so Least-Moon's tour would now avoid the charming small towns he discovered 20 years ago, but would give him a breathtaking view of the back of an endless stream of semis.
- Driving west as the sun is setting is a very, very bad idea.
- The difference between a Holiday Inn and a Holiday Inn Express is that the former has a full restaurant and the latter offers a complimentary continental breakfast. Prices are comparable and are determined by location as opposed to services provided. Yes, I did ask a Customer Service associate in Cedar City, UT.
- Whenever you pull out to pass a slowpoke car on a two-lane highway, they will immediately speed up. It's Murphy's... or Henry's (Ford)... law.
- The times listed for hikes in National Parks (i.e., a trip to Zion's Angels Landing will take 4 hours) are designed for your average chainsmoking, fast-food eating, overweight American. A person in reasonably good shape should be able to make these climbs in 2/3 to 3/4 of the time... including breaks, and time to enjoy the view and a granola bar.
- There is a place named Virgin, Utah. It's actually on the map!
- When driving through the Grand Canyon at night, watch out for deer and bucks. The former grow larger than a small, silver Toyota pick-up, and the latter can count more points on their antlers than even Wilt the Stilt could post in his finest game.
- Contrary to popular belief, you will not die if you accidentally run into an electric fence. You will, however, receive an uncomfortable shock in your leg and you may moo your way through the rest of your trip.
- You know you're in Kansas when signs on the side of the road read, "Abortion Kills" and "Chose Life... Your Parents Did."
- Everyone has moved from the Midwest to the coasts, leaving middle America virtually empty. And, the poor souls who didn't get the evacuation memo are very upset about this, leading to an often salty temperament.
- Denver, Colorado is actually south of Baltimore, Maryland.
- The Grand Canyon is truly, as our favorite philosopher/geologist Homer Simpson noted, a grand canyon.
- Having three clocks, each set to a different time (a wristwatch set to East Coast time, a car radio clock set to an hour earlier because I couldn't figure out how to set it when last we saved daylight, and a cell phone clock which is supposed to stay in the proper time zone) makes it extremely difficult to figure out what time it really is an just where the heck you are. This isn't Russia, is it?
- Miller High-Life, the champagne of beers, has stolen the theme song from True Romance, one of the five greatest movies of all-time (and one of the most distinct theme songs), for a new television ad campaign.
- If William Least-Moon were to update his classic work Blue Highways today, he would be mortified by what he found. In the olden days, secondary highways (i.e., two-lane, non interstate ones) were marked on maps in blue ink and the bigger four-lane one (i.e., I-70, I-80, I-90, etc.) in red. But, at some point mapmakers switched the colors, so Least-Moon's tour would now avoid the charming small towns he discovered 20 years ago, but would give him a breathtaking view of the back of an endless stream of semis.
- Driving west as the sun is setting is a very, very bad idea.
- The difference between a Holiday Inn and a Holiday Inn Express is that the former has a full restaurant and the latter offers a complimentary continental breakfast. Prices are comparable and are determined by location as opposed to services provided. Yes, I did ask a Customer Service associate in Cedar City, UT.
- Whenever you pull out to pass a slowpoke car on a two-lane highway, they will immediately speed up. It's Murphy's... or Henry's (Ford)... law.
- The times listed for hikes in National Parks (i.e., a trip to Zion's Angels Landing will take 4 hours) are designed for your average chainsmoking, fast-food eating, overweight American. A person in reasonably good shape should be able to make these climbs in 2/3 to 3/4 of the time... including breaks, and time to enjoy the view and a granola bar.
- There is a place named Virgin, Utah. It's actually on the map!
11 August 2005
Special: 2-for-1 Buds
Bud Selig nailed two birds with one stone yesterday.
In a with ESPN, the baseball commissioner expressed his outrage that Texas Rangers pitcher Kenny Rogers would return to the mound seven days earlier than his MLB-imposed suspension had originally intended. Selig was distraught, disgusted that Arbitrator Shyam Das had ruled that the commissioner's penalty was too severe. Selig was appalled by the message that the ruling sent to players, reporters and fans. And, he said all of this, in bold, uncertain terms.
But, here's what he didn't say: that he's secretly delighted by the decision.
You see, by allowing Rogers to return to the field sooner than expected, Das discreetly pushed a soap box in front of Selig and asked him to climb aboard. Selig can now stand at the puplpit and talk about Rogers' inexcusable behavior, about the absurdity of the arbitrator's ruling and about the dangerous precedent the decision sets.
But, Das also got Rogers back on the field. And, just in time for a start in Boston, no less. By Rogers starting in Boston, baseball stayed on the newspaper's front pages. And, as a lead story on SportsCenter. And, as a topic of conversation on countless talk radio shows.
To recap, Selig got to make a stand against professional baseball players acting like sleep-deprived children. He got an All-Star back on the mound in a baseball-crazy city. (Incidentally, if I were Kenny Rogers, I may have thrown a temper tantrum when my manager proposed the idea of me starting in Boston. Are there more hostile crowds to pitch in front of? Did they launch Fenway Franks at him?) And, on top of that, he secured for his sport a spot in the national limelight.
Not a bad day's work. Even for a commissioner.
In a with ESPN, the baseball commissioner expressed his outrage that Texas Rangers pitcher Kenny Rogers would return to the mound seven days earlier than his MLB-imposed suspension had originally intended. Selig was distraught, disgusted that Arbitrator Shyam Das had ruled that the commissioner's penalty was too severe. Selig was appalled by the message that the ruling sent to players, reporters and fans. And, he said all of this, in bold, uncertain terms.
But, here's what he didn't say: that he's secretly delighted by the decision.
You see, by allowing Rogers to return to the field sooner than expected, Das discreetly pushed a soap box in front of Selig and asked him to climb aboard. Selig can now stand at the puplpit and talk about Rogers' inexcusable behavior, about the absurdity of the arbitrator's ruling and about the dangerous precedent the decision sets.
But, Das also got Rogers back on the field. And, just in time for a start in Boston, no less. By Rogers starting in Boston, baseball stayed on the newspaper's front pages. And, as a lead story on SportsCenter. And, as a topic of conversation on countless talk radio shows.
To recap, Selig got to make a stand against professional baseball players acting like sleep-deprived children. He got an All-Star back on the mound in a baseball-crazy city. (Incidentally, if I were Kenny Rogers, I may have thrown a temper tantrum when my manager proposed the idea of me starting in Boston. Are there more hostile crowds to pitch in front of? Did they launch Fenway Franks at him?) And, on top of that, he secured for his sport a spot in the national limelight.
Not a bad day's work. Even for a commissioner.
01 August 2005
How not to get from here to there
I don’t travel often. And, it’s for good reason.
If the Bible instead offered a gruesome depiction of unfortunate travel sagas, you’d find my picture right next to Job’s.
Late departures, missed connections, canceled flights, I’ve endured them all. Misplaced luggage, miserable movies, snarky attendants and obese seat neighbors, they are par for my course. Rare is the day and festive the occasion when I get from Point A to Point B without even a slight hiccup. And, it’s usually more like an explosive burp.
I’ve spent nights on scrubby airport floors and nights in hotels so wretched that I longed for those scrubby airport floors. I’ve been told I couldn’t take a bag on the train even though I had taken the same bag on the same train not two days before. I’ve been delayed going to job interviews and once to a lacrosse game--- and I was the team’s coach!
But nothing even holds a candle to what happened this weekend.
I showed up at La Guardia airport at 7:30am Saturday morning, about 1.5 hours before my flight. When I check in at the automated kiosk, I learned that my flight to Atlanta had been canceled. In hindsight, it should have raised a red flag when they told me that I had to go through Atlanta in the first place--- it’s not exactly en route between New York and San Francisco.
So, I called Delta and learned promptly that all flights in the next few hours were booked. I could, however, get on a 1:20pm flight. But, it wouldn’t get me in until after 9:30pm.
That wouldn’t do, I reasoned. I had to pick up my race packet by 5pm, so I pleaded with her. I explained my situation. I cried. Well, I didn’t cry, but I did beg.
And, she bought it.
Miraculously, she found a direct flight that left at 10am and arrived at 1pm, roughly an hour before my original flight. Hallelujah! But, it left from JFK. And, I was at La Guardia. Shit.
No problem, she said. We’ll send a car for you. Wow. This lady was not only charming, but also helpful, an unprecedented duo in the annals of customer service.
So, I got to JFK at 8:30am, and this time checked in with an agent. And, that’s when I learned that I had been given a reservation on the 10am flight, but not a seat assignment. There’s a difference? I felt like I was stuck in the Seinfeld episode in which Jerry explains to the lady at the rental car agency that she clearly knows how to take a reservation, but not how to hold it.
Confused, I checked my bag and proceeded to the gate where I waited patiently for my name to be called. Boarding began, passengers piled into sections one through eight and they made not one mention of me.
So, as they closed the gate’s door, I walked to the counter to inquire about getting on the plane. She told me that I was the next name on the list, the proverbial first horse to the glue factory. But, as we were talking, her phone rang. There’s what… he didn’t… one more…
Sir, she said. There’s one more seat on the plane. You’ll have to run.
Lady, I thought. I’m running a marathon tomorrow. I think I can handle it.
So, they opened the door for me and I took off down the ramp towards the plane. As I neared the door, a stewardess was walking towards me.
I’m sorry to get your hopes up, she said. But, he was actually in the bathroom.
No shit.
With that, I turned, sank my shoulders and hung my head, and began the ultimate walk of shame back into the airport.
So, I slinked my way back to the counter to learn my fate. Quickly it became clear that I was not leaving this airport anytime soon. And, this presented an interesting quandary. Not only could I not check in for the race, but my bag had gone off on the plane and, given my luck, I was now facing the likely possibility of lining up at the marathon’s starting line in worn-out sneaks, blue jeans and a pinstriped blazer. Yikes!
It’s 10am and the next available flight is at 6pm. That’s eight hours from now. And, that means I don’t arrive until 9:30pm. And, that means a late-night, a short nap and a very early start.
Without many options at this point, I called Andy who, bless him, agreed to pick up my race packet. And, I began to wage a war for compensation. And, they got me on a direct flight. And, they bumped me up to first class. And, they gave me a voucher for future travel. And, they even gave me two $7 meal vouchers.
So, I settled in for a day at the airport. I read the paper and made some phone calls. I window-shopped and people-watched. I spent my $7 vouchers, one of which got me the startling small booty of two bananas and a coffee.
The day passed slowly. But, eventually I got onto my flight and made it to Andy’s house in San Francisco by 10:30pm. And, with my bag, nonetheless.
My door-to-door journey had lasted for more than 18 hours. I had spent more than 10 hours sitting in airports. And, I was supposed to run a marathon in about seven hours.
But the wasted day and forfeited sleep weren’t the worst of it.
The worst part of the whole episode was that I got to sit in first class where they were serving free cocktails, and I had to abstain. That, my friends, is real torture.
If the Bible instead offered a gruesome depiction of unfortunate travel sagas, you’d find my picture right next to Job’s.
Late departures, missed connections, canceled flights, I’ve endured them all. Misplaced luggage, miserable movies, snarky attendants and obese seat neighbors, they are par for my course. Rare is the day and festive the occasion when I get from Point A to Point B without even a slight hiccup. And, it’s usually more like an explosive burp.
I’ve spent nights on scrubby airport floors and nights in hotels so wretched that I longed for those scrubby airport floors. I’ve been told I couldn’t take a bag on the train even though I had taken the same bag on the same train not two days before. I’ve been delayed going to job interviews and once to a lacrosse game--- and I was the team’s coach!
But nothing even holds a candle to what happened this weekend.
I showed up at La Guardia airport at 7:30am Saturday morning, about 1.5 hours before my flight. When I check in at the automated kiosk, I learned that my flight to Atlanta had been canceled. In hindsight, it should have raised a red flag when they told me that I had to go through Atlanta in the first place--- it’s not exactly en route between New York and San Francisco.
So, I called Delta and learned promptly that all flights in the next few hours were booked. I could, however, get on a 1:20pm flight. But, it wouldn’t get me in until after 9:30pm.
That wouldn’t do, I reasoned. I had to pick up my race packet by 5pm, so I pleaded with her. I explained my situation. I cried. Well, I didn’t cry, but I did beg.
And, she bought it.
Miraculously, she found a direct flight that left at 10am and arrived at 1pm, roughly an hour before my original flight. Hallelujah! But, it left from JFK. And, I was at La Guardia. Shit.
No problem, she said. We’ll send a car for you. Wow. This lady was not only charming, but also helpful, an unprecedented duo in the annals of customer service.
So, I got to JFK at 8:30am, and this time checked in with an agent. And, that’s when I learned that I had been given a reservation on the 10am flight, but not a seat assignment. There’s a difference? I felt like I was stuck in the Seinfeld episode in which Jerry explains to the lady at the rental car agency that she clearly knows how to take a reservation, but not how to hold it.
Confused, I checked my bag and proceeded to the gate where I waited patiently for my name to be called. Boarding began, passengers piled into sections one through eight and they made not one mention of me.
So, as they closed the gate’s door, I walked to the counter to inquire about getting on the plane. She told me that I was the next name on the list, the proverbial first horse to the glue factory. But, as we were talking, her phone rang. There’s what… he didn’t… one more…
Sir, she said. There’s one more seat on the plane. You’ll have to run.
Lady, I thought. I’m running a marathon tomorrow. I think I can handle it.
So, they opened the door for me and I took off down the ramp towards the plane. As I neared the door, a stewardess was walking towards me.
I’m sorry to get your hopes up, she said. But, he was actually in the bathroom.
No shit.
With that, I turned, sank my shoulders and hung my head, and began the ultimate walk of shame back into the airport.
So, I slinked my way back to the counter to learn my fate. Quickly it became clear that I was not leaving this airport anytime soon. And, this presented an interesting quandary. Not only could I not check in for the race, but my bag had gone off on the plane and, given my luck, I was now facing the likely possibility of lining up at the marathon’s starting line in worn-out sneaks, blue jeans and a pinstriped blazer. Yikes!
It’s 10am and the next available flight is at 6pm. That’s eight hours from now. And, that means I don’t arrive until 9:30pm. And, that means a late-night, a short nap and a very early start.
Without many options at this point, I called Andy who, bless him, agreed to pick up my race packet. And, I began to wage a war for compensation. And, they got me on a direct flight. And, they bumped me up to first class. And, they gave me a voucher for future travel. And, they even gave me two $7 meal vouchers.
So, I settled in for a day at the airport. I read the paper and made some phone calls. I window-shopped and people-watched. I spent my $7 vouchers, one of which got me the startling small booty of two bananas and a coffee.
The day passed slowly. But, eventually I got onto my flight and made it to Andy’s house in San Francisco by 10:30pm. And, with my bag, nonetheless.
My door-to-door journey had lasted for more than 18 hours. I had spent more than 10 hours sitting in airports. And, I was supposed to run a marathon in about seven hours.
But the wasted day and forfeited sleep weren’t the worst of it.
The worst part of the whole episode was that I got to sit in first class where they were serving free cocktails, and I had to abstain. That, my friends, is real torture.
31 July 2005
Walkers' Ed.
Bloody shins, battered elbows, bruised psyche. These are the afflictions known all too well to those bold enough to run through Manhattan's city streets.
More startling than the maladies themselves, however, is their source. For while conventional wisdom might suggest that such injuries could result only from run-ins with such metalic monstrocities as cars, cabs and the occasional streetcleaner, such is not the case. Not at all.
Far more dangerous than any of these malevolent machines is a fleet so brutal, so unrelenting, so forceful and so unkind that it would be make even the darkest characters in Stephen King's mind shutter with fear.
Pedestrians.
That's right, pedestrians. And just like your angel in the centerfold, your devil in the blue dress, their disarming looks belie their cruelest intentions.
On the surface, people appear nice, caring and concerned, considerate and even downright convivial. But on the sidewalk, they morph into hideous creatures, raucous and rowdy, unfailingly rude.
How, I wonder, does this transformation take place? And, more importantly, how can we correcnt it?
My proposal, simpl, straightforward and a trifle alogical as it may be, is to walk like we drive.
Take the highway to the bi-way, the roadway to the walkwaky, the park n' ride to the sidewalk.
I'm not even talking about the complex rules. Though one does chuckle at the thought of befuddled pedestrians trying diligently to decide if they're allowed to take a left on red (yes, only if you are going from one one-way street to another) or a right on green (no, if the green arrow points in your direction).
I'm talking about the simple stuff. Accept and understand that there are other people besides you who are using the sidewalk at the same time. Avoid cutting them off, bumping into them, or generally disrupting their commutes any more than you already have.
Look where you're going. Pass with care. Don't walk four abreast on a crowded path. Don't walk three-abreast on a bustling path. Heck, if you're going to walk anywhere with a breast, put it on a leash.
And speaking of leashes, watch where your dog wanders off to. Stay near him so that his leash does not become a debilhitating tripwire for those of us above six inches tall.
It's simple stuff, really. Basic Golden Rule-type ideas. But, in this self-consumed world in which we live, where people race from home to office and back again with a cell phone in one ear and an iPod in the other, it's increasingly important.
Just imagine, if you will, what the world would look like if for just one day we switched our habits in the other direction--- we drove with the same callous indifference with which we walk. You wouldn't be able to get anywhere, so voluminous would be the pile of crumpled metal and smashed cars.
But hey, you might not even notice. After all, you're probably late for work, your girlfriend is yelling at you and Guns N' Roses just broke into the chorus of Paradise City.
More startling than the maladies themselves, however, is their source. For while conventional wisdom might suggest that such injuries could result only from run-ins with such metalic monstrocities as cars, cabs and the occasional streetcleaner, such is not the case. Not at all.
Far more dangerous than any of these malevolent machines is a fleet so brutal, so unrelenting, so forceful and so unkind that it would be make even the darkest characters in Stephen King's mind shutter with fear.
Pedestrians.
That's right, pedestrians. And just like your angel in the centerfold, your devil in the blue dress, their disarming looks belie their cruelest intentions.
On the surface, people appear nice, caring and concerned, considerate and even downright convivial. But on the sidewalk, they morph into hideous creatures, raucous and rowdy, unfailingly rude.
How, I wonder, does this transformation take place? And, more importantly, how can we correcnt it?
My proposal, simpl, straightforward and a trifle alogical as it may be, is to walk like we drive.
Take the highway to the bi-way, the roadway to the walkwaky, the park n' ride to the sidewalk.
I'm not even talking about the complex rules. Though one does chuckle at the thought of befuddled pedestrians trying diligently to decide if they're allowed to take a left on red (yes, only if you are going from one one-way street to another) or a right on green (no, if the green arrow points in your direction).
I'm talking about the simple stuff. Accept and understand that there are other people besides you who are using the sidewalk at the same time. Avoid cutting them off, bumping into them, or generally disrupting their commutes any more than you already have.
Look where you're going. Pass with care. Don't walk four abreast on a crowded path. Don't walk three-abreast on a bustling path. Heck, if you're going to walk anywhere with a breast, put it on a leash.
And speaking of leashes, watch where your dog wanders off to. Stay near him so that his leash does not become a debilhitating tripwire for those of us above six inches tall.
It's simple stuff, really. Basic Golden Rule-type ideas. But, in this self-consumed world in which we live, where people race from home to office and back again with a cell phone in one ear and an iPod in the other, it's increasingly important.
Just imagine, if you will, what the world would look like if for just one day we switched our habits in the other direction--- we drove with the same callous indifference with which we walk. You wouldn't be able to get anywhere, so voluminous would be the pile of crumpled metal and smashed cars.
But hey, you might not even notice. After all, you're probably late for work, your girlfriend is yelling at you and Guns N' Roses just broke into the chorus of Paradise City.
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