Wednesday, December 30, 2009
A Minor Christmas Miracle
Our garage door has been a problem child for the past few years, moreso even than our problem children. In its defense, the garage door was abused as a child. It has been hit with the car several times. Also, it was born with a handicap: the builder of the house went cheapo on it, installing the weakest door possible, essentially depriving it of oxygen in the womb.
On the eve of Christmas Eve, it broke once more. A hockey stick fell and obstructed its path. A normal garage door would have simply stopped during its descent and reversed its course--a normal safety feature. Our garage door, however, couldn't take the stress and fell out of its track. It was like a teenager having a tantrum: loud, unexpected, and difficult to put back into its normal routine. What's different is that you can not walk away from the mess, lock the kitchen door, and decide to fix the problem the next day, which is what I did with the garage door. Had the garage door been an actual teenager, I would have screamed at it for an hour until one of us was reduced to tears; then, having forgotten how the problem started, I would have said, "Oh screw this; whatever," to claim the moral low-ground, and gone to my room to sulk.
In the morning I called the garage door guy listed in the Yellow Pages (come to think of it, I'm not sure it was the "Yellow Pages" but some other phone listing book that is dropped on our front steps twice a year, and I am so glad they quit competing for our attention with stupid commercials now that Google has claimed all the revenue anyway). He was an older gentleman with an Appalachian accent that, in his case, was quite charming. He said, "Yeh, I'll fix 'er," on the phone, and not much else, grunting in response to my explanation of where we lived.
It took him less than an hour to correct and repair what would have taken me a full day to accomplish, and I would have made the problem worse. His repair is still working smoothly a week later. He quoted me a price, but took a little less because I offered cash. That, to me, was just icing on the cake.
I will be replacing the garage door, per my new trusted, Appalachian accented advisor's opinion, as soon as possible. With teenagers, however, there is no replacement, and, really, no repair. They are not broken, only misunderstood; they are not stupid, just ignorant; they are not wrong, they are inexperienced. But oh what a bargain it would be if only eighty dollars cash could make them stay on track.
On the eve of Christmas Eve, it broke once more. A hockey stick fell and obstructed its path. A normal garage door would have simply stopped during its descent and reversed its course--a normal safety feature. Our garage door, however, couldn't take the stress and fell out of its track. It was like a teenager having a tantrum: loud, unexpected, and difficult to put back into its normal routine. What's different is that you can not walk away from the mess, lock the kitchen door, and decide to fix the problem the next day, which is what I did with the garage door. Had the garage door been an actual teenager, I would have screamed at it for an hour until one of us was reduced to tears; then, having forgotten how the problem started, I would have said, "Oh screw this; whatever," to claim the moral low-ground, and gone to my room to sulk.
In the morning I called the garage door guy listed in the Yellow Pages (come to think of it, I'm not sure it was the "Yellow Pages" but some other phone listing book that is dropped on our front steps twice a year, and I am so glad they quit competing for our attention with stupid commercials now that Google has claimed all the revenue anyway). He was an older gentleman with an Appalachian accent that, in his case, was quite charming. He said, "Yeh, I'll fix 'er," on the phone, and not much else, grunting in response to my explanation of where we lived.
It took him less than an hour to correct and repair what would have taken me a full day to accomplish, and I would have made the problem worse. His repair is still working smoothly a week later. He quoted me a price, but took a little less because I offered cash. That, to me, was just icing on the cake.
I will be replacing the garage door, per my new trusted, Appalachian accented advisor's opinion, as soon as possible. With teenagers, however, there is no replacement, and, really, no repair. They are not broken, only misunderstood; they are not stupid, just ignorant; they are not wrong, they are inexperienced. But oh what a bargain it would be if only eighty dollars cash could make them stay on track.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
A Dog's Life
I gave a speech yesterday for Toastmasters. This was one of the few times that I prepared well in advance but, ironically, I did not pay close enough attention to the actual assignment. I have posted the text of the original speech in my articles. However, only those in attendance can know the actual speech delivered because I rewrote it in my head an hour before the meeting. Granted it's not like Kennedy's inaugural address; it's probably closer to Bush's "Hey, did you hear about the funny-looking potato?" speech.
The speech went well. It was heavy with photographs, more like a slide show with an accompanying monologue. I spent more time finding the correct photos than I did writing the speech. I can't include 99 percent of those photos because I borrowed them from the internet.
I actually do fairly well with extemporaneous speaking. The reason I joined Toastmasters was to get better at prepared speaking. What I've learned is to educate myself about a topic, come up with an opening and an ending, and then stand up and speak. That's what works for me with public speaking. In order to relax, I imagine that everyone in the audience is wearing funny-nose glasses; I used to picture them naked, but I've spent too much time in the men's locker room of the YMCA, and those images are too painful; they can keep their clothes on.
The speech was far more interesting when delivered live with the slide show than it is being read, but it ain't bad. I've definitely written worse, and you may have read it. Well, probably not.
The speech went well. It was heavy with photographs, more like a slide show with an accompanying monologue. I spent more time finding the correct photos than I did writing the speech. I can't include 99 percent of those photos because I borrowed them from the internet.
I actually do fairly well with extemporaneous speaking. The reason I joined Toastmasters was to get better at prepared speaking. What I've learned is to educate myself about a topic, come up with an opening and an ending, and then stand up and speak. That's what works for me with public speaking. In order to relax, I imagine that everyone in the audience is wearing funny-nose glasses; I used to picture them naked, but I've spent too much time in the men's locker room of the YMCA, and those images are too painful; they can keep their clothes on.
The speech was far more interesting when delivered live with the slide show than it is being read, but it ain't bad. I've definitely written worse, and you may have read it. Well, probably not.
Labels: mistake, personal growth
Saturday, December 12, 2009
The Adventures of Face Painting Man
I volunteered to paint faces at the children's Christmas party hosted by my company. I enjoyed it, but it was strangely intense because the line of children never ended until the party was over, and, while painting, the parents scrutinize your every move. I also felt a mild competition with the other face painters who I was certain were more talented than I am. That combined with having to bend forward for two straight hours while painting a squirming child's face left me exhausted. I am not very good at it, but the children were, by and large, thrilled with the result.
Two children were not happy. One was just a toddler, and she became frightened when I drew close enough to touch her, and she screamed at the first flick of the paint brush. She acted as if I was the uncle who got drunk at family parties and said inappropriate things, but there is no way she could know that about me, so I don't think that was the problem; it was just a coincidence. The resulting candy cane was pathetic and resembled my finger painting work done in my preschool period.
The other was a boy, about ten years old, who requested a Batman cowl. When I showed him my progress, he realized I had no idea what I was doing, and also that he was screwed, because you just don't rub black paint off of your face and walk away like nothing ever happened. I offered to paint his entire face black like he was in a minstrel, but then retracted the idea with a casual laugh because I couldn't tell if his mother was cool enough to understand the uber-irony of the political incorrectness of painting an innocent child's face like he was in a minstrel.
In spite of those setbacks, it occurred to me that face painting would be an interesting power for a super hero. When someone needed to be cheered up, call on Face Painting Man. When there was a party that was doomed to boredom, call on Face Painting Man. When there was something you needed, but didn't know what, and thought that a small design on your cheek might help, and definitely wouldn't make things any worse than they already were, call on Face Painting Man.
Face Painting Man himself would always have a different design on his face, and so that would be part of his power. People in need would know that, if Face Painting Man showed up, it would be with a new and exotic picture, tightly integrated with his own features. The general public would look favorably on Face Painting Man because he was always making clever designs and executing them with care and skill, and almost never left a child in black face.
That's kind of how I was at the children's Christmas Party: Face Painting Man. Champion of the meek, defender of the pale, decorator of the undecorated, and dedicated to brightening the lives of children twelve and under using non-toxic paint and inoffensive designs. "No need to thank me, hot mom; making your boring child happy is thanks enough."
There would be two other face painting super heroes: Face Painting Woman and Face Painting Boy. Face Painting Woman and Face Painting Man would admire each other, and respect each other's work, but their relationship would remain strictly professional because to give in to their attraction for each other would put the public at risk. Face Painting Woman would also be really hot, and would sometimes paint her costume on her body, and she would be so good at it that you'd have to get really close to her to realize she wasn't wearing any clothes. But of course no one ever would get that close to Face Painting Woman. Even the children she painted would be totally oblivious. The dads would fantasize, but they're going to do that whether she's wearing clothes or not.
Face Painting Boy would be this quirky kid that always admired Face Painting Man, and couldn't wait until he was old enough to leave home and help defend the pale, etc., because he thought Face Painting Man was the greatest thing since sliced pickles. (The kid is quirky, right?) He might go astray sometimes, and try his hand at graffiti, but Face Painting Man would be all patient and understanding, and would help bring him back around to serving the public good, rather than hiring himself out to gangs to mark territory on the side of buildings.
I realize Face Painting Man is serving only a very small of society that has a very specific need, and would therefore not compete well against the traditional superheroes with all their strength, speed, and ability to fly. (Well, he'd still be better than The Green Hornet, but I don't want to get bogged down in that argument.) The prime directive of super heroes is: "First, do no harm." Assuming that Face Painting Man never poked a child in the eye with his paint brush, I think he would have a legitimate claim to serving the public good.
Two children were not happy. One was just a toddler, and she became frightened when I drew close enough to touch her, and she screamed at the first flick of the paint brush. She acted as if I was the uncle who got drunk at family parties and said inappropriate things, but there is no way she could know that about me, so I don't think that was the problem; it was just a coincidence. The resulting candy cane was pathetic and resembled my finger painting work done in my preschool period.
The other was a boy, about ten years old, who requested a Batman cowl. When I showed him my progress, he realized I had no idea what I was doing, and also that he was screwed, because you just don't rub black paint off of your face and walk away like nothing ever happened. I offered to paint his entire face black like he was in a minstrel, but then retracted the idea with a casual laugh because I couldn't tell if his mother was cool enough to understand the uber-irony of the political incorrectness of painting an innocent child's face like he was in a minstrel.
In spite of those setbacks, it occurred to me that face painting would be an interesting power for a super hero. When someone needed to be cheered up, call on Face Painting Man. When there was a party that was doomed to boredom, call on Face Painting Man. When there was something you needed, but didn't know what, and thought that a small design on your cheek might help, and definitely wouldn't make things any worse than they already were, call on Face Painting Man.
Face Painting Man himself would always have a different design on his face, and so that would be part of his power. People in need would know that, if Face Painting Man showed up, it would be with a new and exotic picture, tightly integrated with his own features. The general public would look favorably on Face Painting Man because he was always making clever designs and executing them with care and skill, and almost never left a child in black face.
That's kind of how I was at the children's Christmas Party: Face Painting Man. Champion of the meek, defender of the pale, decorator of the undecorated, and dedicated to brightening the lives of children twelve and under using non-toxic paint and inoffensive designs. "No need to thank me, hot mom; making your boring child happy is thanks enough."
There would be two other face painting super heroes: Face Painting Woman and Face Painting Boy. Face Painting Woman and Face Painting Man would admire each other, and respect each other's work, but their relationship would remain strictly professional because to give in to their attraction for each other would put the public at risk. Face Painting Woman would also be really hot, and would sometimes paint her costume on her body, and she would be so good at it that you'd have to get really close to her to realize she wasn't wearing any clothes. But of course no one ever would get that close to Face Painting Woman. Even the children she painted would be totally oblivious. The dads would fantasize, but they're going to do that whether she's wearing clothes or not.
Face Painting Boy would be this quirky kid that always admired Face Painting Man, and couldn't wait until he was old enough to leave home and help defend the pale, etc., because he thought Face Painting Man was the greatest thing since sliced pickles. (The kid is quirky, right?) He might go astray sometimes, and try his hand at graffiti, but Face Painting Man would be all patient and understanding, and would help bring him back around to serving the public good, rather than hiring himself out to gangs to mark territory on the side of buildings.
I realize Face Painting Man is serving only a very small of society that has a very specific need, and would therefore not compete well against the traditional superheroes with all their strength, speed, and ability to fly. (Well, he'd still be better than The Green Hornet, but I don't want to get bogged down in that argument.) The prime directive of super heroes is: "First, do no harm." Assuming that Face Painting Man never poked a child in the eye with his paint brush, I think he would have a legitimate claim to serving the public good.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Garbage Scow
Two of the happiest people on earth at the moment have got to be Richard Heene, from "Balloon Boy" fame, and Jon Gosselin, formerly of "Jon and Kate, etc.", whose unseemly behavior had cast them, figuratively and literally, in unfavorable and unforgiving light. Their publicity aside, Richard seemed to be perpetually in need of a shave and a hair cut, and Jon seemed to only have his picture taken with special cameras that emphasize double chins and puffy eyes.
They can rest easy for the next few weeks thanks to Tiger Woods. It will be his strong face, winning smile, and sparkling eyes that are plastered on all the magazines at the grocery store checkout line, and Entertainment Tonight will open every episode with "...but first, the latest from the expanding saga of Tiger Woods sex secrets."
The cheap tabloids will likely pay extra bounty for pictures of Tiger taken mid-chew as he eats his lunch so that his face looks more like the normal silly-putty skinned monsters that the rest of us are, but don't want to be. That poor man would be well-advised to never scratch his nose in public again because some photographer will be there waiting at the precise angle that makes it look like he is picking rather than just scratching.
It's an old adage in modern America that when a high-profile celebrity does something embarrassing and stupid, they need only wait about a month before the next garbage scow of celebrity stupidity arrives in port to draw all the attention, and your own garbage scow can go quietly out to sea. None of what any of these poor bastards has done is all that bizarre; they are, in fact, very human. But they are doomed to ridicule for having been famous.
It's Tiger, of course, who will have the last laugh. His fame was based on real talent, and he has a clear path to redemption: zip up his pants and play golf. He'll get another wife if he wants, and he'll eventually be a billionaire if he isn't already. The other poor fools will be lucky to end up, like me, obscure and forgotten.
They can rest easy for the next few weeks thanks to Tiger Woods. It will be his strong face, winning smile, and sparkling eyes that are plastered on all the magazines at the grocery store checkout line, and Entertainment Tonight will open every episode with "...but first, the latest from the expanding saga of Tiger Woods sex secrets."
The cheap tabloids will likely pay extra bounty for pictures of Tiger taken mid-chew as he eats his lunch so that his face looks more like the normal silly-putty skinned monsters that the rest of us are, but don't want to be. That poor man would be well-advised to never scratch his nose in public again because some photographer will be there waiting at the precise angle that makes it look like he is picking rather than just scratching.
It's an old adage in modern America that when a high-profile celebrity does something embarrassing and stupid, they need only wait about a month before the next garbage scow of celebrity stupidity arrives in port to draw all the attention, and your own garbage scow can go quietly out to sea. None of what any of these poor bastards has done is all that bizarre; they are, in fact, very human. But they are doomed to ridicule for having been famous.
It's Tiger, of course, who will have the last laugh. His fame was based on real talent, and he has a clear path to redemption: zip up his pants and play golf. He'll get another wife if he wants, and he'll eventually be a billionaire if he isn't already. The other poor fools will be lucky to end up, like me, obscure and forgotten.
Friday, December 4, 2009
The Shawshank Redemption Rear-Projection Television
Ten years ago, I made the mistake of buying a used, rear-projection television. It was forty-six inches from corner to corner, had a fuzzy picture, and was soiled and dirty from misuse. At some point in its life, judging from the crusty stains on the pressed wood cabinet, this television must have been owned by an unkempt consumer of pornography. Nevertheless, I welcomed it into my home.
The first challenge was bringing it home, and I borrowed a friend's pickup truck. I took great care in strapping it down. I have seen the remains of televisions, kitchen tables, and children's play structures along the median of highways, and I didn't want to have one of those stories to tell. But oh how lucky would I have been if all that I had to say about this big screen TV is that it fell and shattered somewhere along 127 South, and I raced away to avoid cleaning the mess.
The next challenge was carrying it over the threshold. I begged help from three of my neighbors, and it was like marrying the daughter of a Somoan king: carrying that bitch into the house nearly herniated all of us. And what is worse, I wanted that 500 pound monster in the basement.
I was certain that one of us would be killed during the descent. The drywall in the stairwell has the scars to prove that it happened, but I really don't know how we made it. Those stairs have two turns, and what I recall is that we were all struggling, breathing heavily, and sweating like pigs. One of my neighbors grabbed one of my breasts while adjusting his grip, and I swear his hand lingered just a moment longer than it should have, but I was too worried about dying to complain of being groped.
But once installed and powered up, the television actually worked. For three months, that is, it worked. Then sparks flew out of the control panel, it hissed and sizzled, and a small puff of smoke wafted forth. It was reminiscent of my career.
I paid a technician to attempt to repair it, but he could only suggest a $300 component without any guarantee of success, so I paid him the diagnosis fee and chased him away. The stupid television cost $50. In a sense, the fondling from my neighbor was worth that, so I just left the broken TV lie quiet and unused.
Ten years have passed, and hardly a day has passed that I didn't wonder what I was going to do with that thing. I suppose there are numerous alpaca farmers who hoped to cash in on the alleged craze for wool that have a similar problem as my own, but at least I haven't been feeding my television and cleaning up after it as it pooped in the basement; then again, they can always sleep with their alpaca to stay warm on cold nights.
Hearing me lament my fate, my brother suggested tearing it apart bit by bit, and I have finally started this new project. It reminds me of The Shawshank Redemption when the prisoner spends fifteen years tunneling out of his cell. It doesn't remind me of that because I'm going to be dragging the pieces out of the basement through my sewer line, but rather because I am disassembling it, and removing a single screw can takes several minutes. The pressed wood is glued together as well. And the projection component has shielding around it like the solid steel door you might have in solitary confinement. This Mitsubishi TV is built like an impregnable prison.
As God is my witness, I will tear it all down and escape my fate. And once I'm free, I'll move to Mexico and perhaps find a neighbor to fondle me once again.
The first challenge was bringing it home, and I borrowed a friend's pickup truck. I took great care in strapping it down. I have seen the remains of televisions, kitchen tables, and children's play structures along the median of highways, and I didn't want to have one of those stories to tell. But oh how lucky would I have been if all that I had to say about this big screen TV is that it fell and shattered somewhere along 127 South, and I raced away to avoid cleaning the mess.
The next challenge was carrying it over the threshold. I begged help from three of my neighbors, and it was like marrying the daughter of a Somoan king: carrying that bitch into the house nearly herniated all of us. And what is worse, I wanted that 500 pound monster in the basement.
I was certain that one of us would be killed during the descent. The drywall in the stairwell has the scars to prove that it happened, but I really don't know how we made it. Those stairs have two turns, and what I recall is that we were all struggling, breathing heavily, and sweating like pigs. One of my neighbors grabbed one of my breasts while adjusting his grip, and I swear his hand lingered just a moment longer than it should have, but I was too worried about dying to complain of being groped.
But once installed and powered up, the television actually worked. For three months, that is, it worked. Then sparks flew out of the control panel, it hissed and sizzled, and a small puff of smoke wafted forth. It was reminiscent of my career.
I paid a technician to attempt to repair it, but he could only suggest a $300 component without any guarantee of success, so I paid him the diagnosis fee and chased him away. The stupid television cost $50. In a sense, the fondling from my neighbor was worth that, so I just left the broken TV lie quiet and unused.
Ten years have passed, and hardly a day has passed that I didn't wonder what I was going to do with that thing. I suppose there are numerous alpaca farmers who hoped to cash in on the alleged craze for wool that have a similar problem as my own, but at least I haven't been feeding my television and cleaning up after it as it pooped in the basement; then again, they can always sleep with their alpaca to stay warm on cold nights.
Hearing me lament my fate, my brother suggested tearing it apart bit by bit, and I have finally started this new project. It reminds me of The Shawshank Redemption when the prisoner spends fifteen years tunneling out of his cell. It doesn't remind me of that because I'm going to be dragging the pieces out of the basement through my sewer line, but rather because I am disassembling it, and removing a single screw can takes several minutes. The pressed wood is glued together as well. And the projection component has shielding around it like the solid steel door you might have in solitary confinement. This Mitsubishi TV is built like an impregnable prison.
As God is my witness, I will tear it all down and escape my fate. And once I'm free, I'll move to Mexico and perhaps find a neighbor to fondle me once again.
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