I’ve never been accused of being the brightest bulb on the tree. I’ve been accused of not being able to see the forest for the trees, but the brightest bulb on, not so much. I have, however, been recognized by several people (okay, only by my wife, but she’s very perceptive), of being handy. That is to say, I have a way with things mechanical. When it comes to things intellectual or social or, as it turns out, matrimonial (present matrimony excluded), maybe not so way. I still, after these years, find people, politics, beliefs, and mores mostly a mystery, but machines I get.
I’m proud to say that back in the day of VCR’s I could actually set the clock on mine. I could even do it as quickly as my ten year old son, so I’m also proud to say that I might be as smart as a fifth grader. I can install and operate a DVD player and even know that it will play CD’s (it’s true, give it a try). I can install and operate a BluRay player, an LCD or Plasma TV, and even a DLP projector. I can install a surround sound system with only a few parts left over, and with a few hours and a few instruction manuals I can make all my players play together nicely. I can get all the remotes to function, more or less, but cannot for the life of me get any of the several “universal remotes” I have purchased be anything but universally worthless.
I’m a fixer. That is to say, I can fix things that are broken. Not anything of course: I was never very good at fixing broken hearts, broken relationships or races. I couldn’t “fix it” when my second wife got sick and died from cancer (not funny, just very sad). But if it’s a machine, I’m your man. I could even fix cars, back before cars became smarter than people, far more complicated and far more fickle. If it’s part of a house, I can fix it. Plumbing doesn’t scare me. Bring on your faucets that leak, your drains that clog, your toilets that don’t flush, or don’t stop flushing. Wiring scares me a little, less since I started turning off the breaker before the repair instead of during (don’t ask, suffice it to say I was trying to be the brightest bulb on the tree, literally).
Of course, I have tools, lot and lots of tools. I started out with hand tools and even have a few antiques. They’re beautiful objects, handcrafted by skilled craftsmen, that still work beautifully. Work being the operative word, I have since purchased several power tools. They make little jobs easier and bigger jobs possible. I even have a Shop Smith, a wonderful machine that does it all, developed several years ago by a very handy man (pardon the pun). It’s a great rip saw, a great cross cut saw, a great band saw, a great masonry saw, a great metal saw, a great drum sander, a great disk sander, a great grinder, a great dadoer (no I didn’t make that up), a great router, a great joiner, a great planer, a great shaper, a great drill press, and a an incredible adjustable lathe. Of course, switching between functions is a great time-waster, but that wasn’t mentioned in the brochure.
Needless to say, I believe in being prepared, tool wise. However, according to my father-in-law, may he rest in peace, I am way too prepared and most of most my tools are a complete waste of space and money. His toolbox contained just three items which he utilized according to a very strict set of guidelines. If it moves and shouldn’t, use duct tape. If it doesn’t move and should, use WD 40. For everything else, use the hammer. If it doesn’t fix it, it’s still the appropriate tool.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Green Thumbs
I do not have a green thumb. That is NOT to say that neither of the short thick digits on my hands, next to the index finger and opposable to each of the other four digits, is green, although they aren’t. That IS to say that I am congenitally incapable of creating, supporting, or even sustaining plant life. In my care, cut flowers wilt in minutes as opposed to days. Oddly, anthuriums (I live in Hawaii) seem to last for weeks. I suspect they have low self- esteem and thrive on neglect. Potted plants do not fare much better. Plants that are healthy and full of color at Lowe’s Garden Center, inevitably become pale and sickly in Richard’s Living Room. The tasteful, if sparsely attended, funeral soon follows. Even artificial plants to which I invariably resort, start dropping pieces of foliage within a few months of taking up residence with at my house.
My attempts at gardening have been, at best, disappointing. I love corn-on-the-cob. My effort to grow it resulted in neither corn, nor cob. I thoroughly enjoyed the cucumber I coaxed from the soil, but failed completely to grow green beans, or peas, or carrots, or squash, or even radishes (yes, I admit it, I failed to grow radishes). My tomatoes, on the other hand, thrived. I was feeling quite proud of myself until I discovered that the tiny tomato roots had found their way to the cesspool. Needless to say, my plans to put by some home-canned tomatoes for winter, were dashed by the discovery. I was pleased that my plans for personally surviving the winter after eating copious amounts of naturally fertilized fruit (yes, tomatoes are a fruit), were not.
If my attempts at gardening were disappointing, my attempt at farming was a disaster. In Kona, Hawaii, everybody (well almost everybody) grows Kona Coffee. I was told it was essentially a weed and would grow despite my best efforts to sustain it. I planted 100 plants on my quarter acre. Properly interred, properly fertilized, properly watered and suitable spaced from each other (and the adjacent cesspool), 70 plants didn’t last the week. The rest struggled on. I planted 70 more plants, 10 survived, the rest were laid to rest in the growing green waste pile (I don’t know why it’s called green waste, it isn’t green, at least not anymore). I planted 60 more plants, 5 survived, and so I decided I really preferred a 45-plant orchard anyway; 40 plants survive to this day and produce occasional coffee beans; enough for several cups of coffee if I had the energy or inclination to pick, process, and roast them. I don’t.
My friend Bob DOES have a green thumb. His biggest problem is controlling the lush jungle that surrounds his house. My hibiscus hedge looks like a tank ran through it repeatedly. His is a work of art in green, white, and red. My ground cover is heavy on the ground, light on the cover. His ground cover is a carpet of undulating green with sparkling accents of red and yellow. His fruit trees bear voluminous amounts of delicious fruit every year. My remaining fruit tree (don’t ask, I don’t like to talk about it) will bring forth a few morsels every few years.
I don’t know why my thumbs are so un-green. I care for my plants. I water them on occasion, and I’ve been known to fertilize them on rare occasion, but then I put on lots of fertilizer to make up for it. It may be because I don’t talk to them, although I have been known to utter a mild expletive over a newly discovered plant corpse. I don’t read to them, or play music for them, or gently wash their little leaves and petals. I don’t even spritz them on a regular basis as advised in my Plant Care for Dummies.
I suspect my plants know I don’t really, really care about them. I like the idea of having plants, but I’m just not willing to make the commitment. Sure, I purchase them with the best of intentions, and I try, I really do, but my plants just don’t understand me. It’s all about their wants, their needs. It doesn’t matter that I work hard every day so they can have a pot to live in. And then a newer, younger, prettier plant comes along and I admit it, I want it. Hmm, I wonder if my plants aren’t just dying from lack of care and attention: I wonder if they are committing suicide.
My attempts at gardening have been, at best, disappointing. I love corn-on-the-cob. My effort to grow it resulted in neither corn, nor cob. I thoroughly enjoyed the cucumber I coaxed from the soil, but failed completely to grow green beans, or peas, or carrots, or squash, or even radishes (yes, I admit it, I failed to grow radishes). My tomatoes, on the other hand, thrived. I was feeling quite proud of myself until I discovered that the tiny tomato roots had found their way to the cesspool. Needless to say, my plans to put by some home-canned tomatoes for winter, were dashed by the discovery. I was pleased that my plans for personally surviving the winter after eating copious amounts of naturally fertilized fruit (yes, tomatoes are a fruit), were not.
If my attempts at gardening were disappointing, my attempt at farming was a disaster. In Kona, Hawaii, everybody (well almost everybody) grows Kona Coffee. I was told it was essentially a weed and would grow despite my best efforts to sustain it. I planted 100 plants on my quarter acre. Properly interred, properly fertilized, properly watered and suitable spaced from each other (and the adjacent cesspool), 70 plants didn’t last the week. The rest struggled on. I planted 70 more plants, 10 survived, the rest were laid to rest in the growing green waste pile (I don’t know why it’s called green waste, it isn’t green, at least not anymore). I planted 60 more plants, 5 survived, and so I decided I really preferred a 45-plant orchard anyway; 40 plants survive to this day and produce occasional coffee beans; enough for several cups of coffee if I had the energy or inclination to pick, process, and roast them. I don’t.
My friend Bob DOES have a green thumb. His biggest problem is controlling the lush jungle that surrounds his house. My hibiscus hedge looks like a tank ran through it repeatedly. His is a work of art in green, white, and red. My ground cover is heavy on the ground, light on the cover. His ground cover is a carpet of undulating green with sparkling accents of red and yellow. His fruit trees bear voluminous amounts of delicious fruit every year. My remaining fruit tree (don’t ask, I don’t like to talk about it) will bring forth a few morsels every few years.
I don’t know why my thumbs are so un-green. I care for my plants. I water them on occasion, and I’ve been known to fertilize them on rare occasion, but then I put on lots of fertilizer to make up for it. It may be because I don’t talk to them, although I have been known to utter a mild expletive over a newly discovered plant corpse. I don’t read to them, or play music for them, or gently wash their little leaves and petals. I don’t even spritz them on a regular basis as advised in my Plant Care for Dummies.
I suspect my plants know I don’t really, really care about them. I like the idea of having plants, but I’m just not willing to make the commitment. Sure, I purchase them with the best of intentions, and I try, I really do, but my plants just don’t understand me. It’s all about their wants, their needs. It doesn’t matter that I work hard every day so they can have a pot to live in. And then a newer, younger, prettier plant comes along and I admit it, I want it. Hmm, I wonder if my plants aren’t just dying from lack of care and attention: I wonder if they are committing suicide.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Big Expensive Huses
I grew up in a little house on the prairie. Well, not really on the prairie, not even in prairie country, not even out west, but definitely little. Mom, dad, my brother, three sisters, and I lived in a three-bedroom (if you count the fixed-up attic) house with one (count it, one) bathroom. Altogether about 1,500 square feet (counting the fixed-up attic) and no garage, no tennis court, and not even one swimming pool. Amazingly we all survived, even though, on occasion, I had to pee in the cornfield.
I doubt that Donald Trump, on the other hand, ever needs to resort to the cornfield to relieve himself. In fact his 80,000-square-foot home in Palm Beach has (count them)18 to 22 bathrooms (depending on who’s counting). It also has 18 bedrooms, a fitness room, a home theatre, a library, a wine cellar/grotto, and staff quarters. It contains three additional structures that include a two-bedroom poolside retreat, a two-bedroom guest house, and a four-bedroom coach house, whatever that is. This Palm Beach home features incredible ocean views, a 100-foot-long pool (just the one), a hot tub, and two fireplaces. It sits on several acres, with 500 feet of ocean frontage and, as far as I know, has no cornfield. On the market for $125,000,000, it recently sold at the bargain price of $95,000,000.
It is, to be sure, a nice place. Compared to the home of Mukesh Ambani, however, it’s just a bungalow. The Ambani residence, named Antilia, is a 27-story (but as tall as a 60-story) building on just over an acre in downtown Mumbai. It boasts 60,000 square feet of living space (a bit smaller than the Trump bungalow) , with a multitude of bedrooms and bathrooms, a health spa, a theatre with a seating capacity for 50, multiple (meaning more than one) swimming pools, three floors of hanging gardens, a snow room, whatever that is, and a ballroom. The garage has parking for 160 cars, so, of course, one whole floor is dedicated to vehicle maintenance. There are eight elevators and three helipads and, of course, a small air traffic control center. It is valued at over $1,000,000,000 (one billion dollars). Assuming Mukesh got rich by not being frivolous, I’m guessing it was built for far less.
It is, to be sure, a nice place. Compared to the home of the Sultan of Brunei, Istana Nurul Iman, however, it’s just a starter home. The Sultan’s home contains 1,788 rooms, 257 bathrooms, and a floor area of 2,152,782 square feet. Amenities include five (that’s one plus four more) swimming pools, an air-conditioned stable for the Sultan's 200 polo ponies, a 110-car garage, a banquet hall that can be expanded to accommodate up to 4,000 guests, and a mosque accommodating 1,500 people. Built in 1984 at a cost of around $1.4 billion, it has 564 chandeliers, 51,000 light bulbs, 44 stairwells, and 18 elevators. It is also a home to a car collection that includes custom-made Ferraris and Bentleys as well as 165 Rolls-Royces. Oh- oh, what’s a Sultan to do? The garage is only big enough for 110 cars.
I doubt that Donald Trump, on the other hand, ever needs to resort to the cornfield to relieve himself. In fact his 80,000-square-foot home in Palm Beach has (count them)18 to 22 bathrooms (depending on who’s counting). It also has 18 bedrooms, a fitness room, a home theatre, a library, a wine cellar/grotto, and staff quarters. It contains three additional structures that include a two-bedroom poolside retreat, a two-bedroom guest house, and a four-bedroom coach house, whatever that is. This Palm Beach home features incredible ocean views, a 100-foot-long pool (just the one), a hot tub, and two fireplaces. It sits on several acres, with 500 feet of ocean frontage and, as far as I know, has no cornfield. On the market for $125,000,000, it recently sold at the bargain price of $95,000,000.
It is, to be sure, a nice place. Compared to the home of Mukesh Ambani, however, it’s just a bungalow. The Ambani residence, named Antilia, is a 27-story (but as tall as a 60-story) building on just over an acre in downtown Mumbai. It boasts 60,000 square feet of living space (a bit smaller than the Trump bungalow) , with a multitude of bedrooms and bathrooms, a health spa, a theatre with a seating capacity for 50, multiple (meaning more than one) swimming pools, three floors of hanging gardens, a snow room, whatever that is, and a ballroom. The garage has parking for 160 cars, so, of course, one whole floor is dedicated to vehicle maintenance. There are eight elevators and three helipads and, of course, a small air traffic control center. It is valued at over $1,000,000,000 (one billion dollars). Assuming Mukesh got rich by not being frivolous, I’m guessing it was built for far less.
It is, to be sure, a nice place. Compared to the home of the Sultan of Brunei, Istana Nurul Iman, however, it’s just a starter home. The Sultan’s home contains 1,788 rooms, 257 bathrooms, and a floor area of 2,152,782 square feet. Amenities include five (that’s one plus four more) swimming pools, an air-conditioned stable for the Sultan's 200 polo ponies, a 110-car garage, a banquet hall that can be expanded to accommodate up to 4,000 guests, and a mosque accommodating 1,500 people. Built in 1984 at a cost of around $1.4 billion, it has 564 chandeliers, 51,000 light bulbs, 44 stairwells, and 18 elevators. It is also a home to a car collection that includes custom-made Ferraris and Bentleys as well as 165 Rolls-Royces. Oh- oh, what’s a Sultan to do? The garage is only big enough for 110 cars.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Reality TV
Since I can remember, I’ve been a people watcher. When, as a young lad, I had to accompany mom on our annual trek to the factory outlet to buy school clothes, I would become so preoccupied watching other moms and other lads, that my mom would usually give up and decide that “hand-me-downs” and “let-outs” would “do just fine this year.” Once, as an adult needing to make a business trip by air, I missed my flight. I was distracted watching a mini real-life drama unfolding at the gate. I forget the plot of that real-life drama. I remember the plot of my real-life drama of trying to book another flight that would get me to my meeting before it was over.
To be sure, watching people live their lives can be fun. It can even be quite interesting and occasionally educational; but is it really prime time entertainment? Do we really need to see, in excruciating detail, other people going about the business of getting through their day, their week, their “real life”? Isn’t our own real life, reality enough?
Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy watching television shows about real people in competition. I loved game shows as a child, and I eagerly anticipate the return of American Idol every January. I watch America’s Got Talent on occasion, and Dancing With the Stars on rare occasion. Last Comic Standing can be fun, but I could do without the segments where the contestants are forced to live together in the mansion (or is that another show? Anyway, in some large domicile) in hopes that plotting, or bickering, or worse, will break out (it always does, I wonder why).
I sometimes watch competitions based on cooking. Iron Chef can be tasty (pardon the pun), but a little cheffing can go a long way. I refuse to watch Hell’s Kitchen. When did bad manners, insults, and a surly disposition become a prerequisite for mentors? I’m also not a big fan of competitions around fashion design, modeling, spokes personing, or cake decorating, but my wife enjoys them, so I watch with her to show that I care about her interests (but mostly because she controls the remote after 8:00 pm).
Reality shows about real occupations, amusing, different or dangerous, can be interesting, although I might prefer, not to know that people are risking their lives to transport goods across a barren wilderness on roads carved out of ice. Or risking their lives in a tiny boat on a frigid ocean to trap the Alaskan King Crab that I so enjoy devouring, with drawn butter and a big baked potato smothered in butter, and fresh green beans drenched in butter (but that’s another story). Anyway, these are more documentaries than reality shows.
Definitely not documentaries, and having very little to do with reality, are these “reality television” shows. Shows like Big Brother, The Bachelor, The Apprentice, and The Biggest Loser. Shows like Real Wedding Crashers, and in a related vein, Here Come the Newlyweds, then Till Death Do Us Part, and then The Marriage Ref. Shows like Super Nanny and Nanny 911, My Big Fat Obnoxious Boss and My Big Fat Obnoxious Fiancee, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy and Queer Eye for the Straight Girl (we mustn’t discriminate). Shows like Wife Swap and Trading Spouses, and of course, The Real Wives of… (insert your favorite city). Shows like Extreme Makeover and Extreme Makeover: Home (actually I kind of like that one, I used to be an architect).
And, of course, the granddaddy of them all: Survivor. “Two teams of ordinary people, abandoned in a harsh wilderness. Left to fend for themselves and compete in an effort to survive.” Really? I mean, really! It’s two teams of ordinary people plus a half dozen producers, plus a few directors, plus a crew of dozens more and a full writing staff. By the way, why do you need a writing staff when everything is extemporaneous and “real”? And let’s be honest (not required, I guess, to be “real”), how difficult is it to survive when “going days with little water and no food” can be remedied with a quick trip to the lunch buffet, required by the union for the writers and crew and never far away.
I really don’t understand the attraction of Survivor. And in these challenging times, I really don’t have the energy or inclination to try. I’ll be happy just to be one.
To be sure, watching people live their lives can be fun. It can even be quite interesting and occasionally educational; but is it really prime time entertainment? Do we really need to see, in excruciating detail, other people going about the business of getting through their day, their week, their “real life”? Isn’t our own real life, reality enough?
Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy watching television shows about real people in competition. I loved game shows as a child, and I eagerly anticipate the return of American Idol every January. I watch America’s Got Talent on occasion, and Dancing With the Stars on rare occasion. Last Comic Standing can be fun, but I could do without the segments where the contestants are forced to live together in the mansion (or is that another show? Anyway, in some large domicile) in hopes that plotting, or bickering, or worse, will break out (it always does, I wonder why).
I sometimes watch competitions based on cooking. Iron Chef can be tasty (pardon the pun), but a little cheffing can go a long way. I refuse to watch Hell’s Kitchen. When did bad manners, insults, and a surly disposition become a prerequisite for mentors? I’m also not a big fan of competitions around fashion design, modeling, spokes personing, or cake decorating, but my wife enjoys them, so I watch with her to show that I care about her interests (but mostly because she controls the remote after 8:00 pm).
Reality shows about real occupations, amusing, different or dangerous, can be interesting, although I might prefer, not to know that people are risking their lives to transport goods across a barren wilderness on roads carved out of ice. Or risking their lives in a tiny boat on a frigid ocean to trap the Alaskan King Crab that I so enjoy devouring, with drawn butter and a big baked potato smothered in butter, and fresh green beans drenched in butter (but that’s another story). Anyway, these are more documentaries than reality shows.
Definitely not documentaries, and having very little to do with reality, are these “reality television” shows. Shows like Big Brother, The Bachelor, The Apprentice, and The Biggest Loser. Shows like Real Wedding Crashers, and in a related vein, Here Come the Newlyweds, then Till Death Do Us Part, and then The Marriage Ref. Shows like Super Nanny and Nanny 911, My Big Fat Obnoxious Boss and My Big Fat Obnoxious Fiancee, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy and Queer Eye for the Straight Girl (we mustn’t discriminate). Shows like Wife Swap and Trading Spouses, and of course, The Real Wives of… (insert your favorite city). Shows like Extreme Makeover and Extreme Makeover: Home (actually I kind of like that one, I used to be an architect).
And, of course, the granddaddy of them all: Survivor. “Two teams of ordinary people, abandoned in a harsh wilderness. Left to fend for themselves and compete in an effort to survive.” Really? I mean, really! It’s two teams of ordinary people plus a half dozen producers, plus a few directors, plus a crew of dozens more and a full writing staff. By the way, why do you need a writing staff when everything is extemporaneous and “real”? And let’s be honest (not required, I guess, to be “real”), how difficult is it to survive when “going days with little water and no food” can be remedied with a quick trip to the lunch buffet, required by the union for the writers and crew and never far away.
I really don’t understand the attraction of Survivor. And in these challenging times, I really don’t have the energy or inclination to try. I’ll be happy just to be one.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Modern Technology, Part 4
My first computer was an I-Omega Super Brain. It contained a super-size, six-inch (diagonally measured) monitor that displayed “brilliant white letters on a jet black screen.” An obese (or perhaps just big-boned) beauty, it boasted a whopping 64 kilobytes of internal memory and two (not just one, but two) external drive bays that accepted floppy disks up to 48 kilobytes each. A floppy disk was a plastic, magnetic coating, recording device. Think of an anorexic CD that’s bendy and hides in a paper sleeve; 48 kilobytes of data on something you could hold in your hand was very impressive at the time.
By comparison, today’s flash drive (or thumb drive, or jump drive, or pocket disk or san disc, pick a generic name already), those cute little gadgets about the size of your pinky that plug into a USB port (Universal Serial Bus, in case you cared), hold up to 32 gigabytes of data. That’s almost a million times more information. One pinky-sized thumb drive (pinky drive, perhaps) can hold all the information in the Encyclopedia Britannica including pictures, Roget’s Thesaurus, and your Funk and Wagnalls, unabridged edition. By the way, if these book titles don't ring a bell, you probably won’t get this article. If the term book doesn’t ring a bell, you’re probably my youngest son.
Today’s computers are true wonders of modern technology. They allow us to do things we’ve never done, and do things we’ve always done, better and faster. They help us learn and to teach what we have learned. They have changed the way we gather information and the information available to gather. They have changed the way we get the news, the good news we enjoy, the bad news we need to hear, and even the very bad news we’d rather not. They have changed the way we are entertained, the way we shop, even the way we pay our bills, or not (the electronic transfer has been e-mailed, really).
As wonderful as computers are, at times, not so much. At times, they are incredible time- wasters and can steal time needed for work or study. Addictive video games, cyber bullying, and, worse, cyber stalking, can steal time and self-esteem and innocence. Just trying to keep up with the technology - the hardware, the software, the accessories, the add-ons, the strap-ons (sorry, different technology) - can steal our money and our resources. Not keeping up is not an option because the software keeps changing and the old hardware won’t run the new software. Sometimes the new hardware won’t run the new software because the new software has been replaced with the newer software which is needed to be compatible with new operating system which was developed to be compatible with the newest processor.
And then there’s the age-old question, what to do with the old hardware? You can’t give it away; schools can’t teach today’s children with yesterday’s technology. You can’t sell it; nobody wants hand-me-down electronics. You can’t even throw it away unless you can find an authorized electronics disposal facility (open only on alternate Thursdays between 12:00 and 1:00, please call ahead, we may be at lunch). Computers; we love them, we hate them. We can’t live without them, can’t live with them, and can’t bring them to the dump (but that’s another story).
By comparison, today’s flash drive (or thumb drive, or jump drive, or pocket disk or san disc, pick a generic name already), those cute little gadgets about the size of your pinky that plug into a USB port (Universal Serial Bus, in case you cared), hold up to 32 gigabytes of data. That’s almost a million times more information. One pinky-sized thumb drive (pinky drive, perhaps) can hold all the information in the Encyclopedia Britannica including pictures, Roget’s Thesaurus, and your Funk and Wagnalls, unabridged edition. By the way, if these book titles don't ring a bell, you probably won’t get this article. If the term book doesn’t ring a bell, you’re probably my youngest son.
Today’s computers are true wonders of modern technology. They allow us to do things we’ve never done, and do things we’ve always done, better and faster. They help us learn and to teach what we have learned. They have changed the way we gather information and the information available to gather. They have changed the way we get the news, the good news we enjoy, the bad news we need to hear, and even the very bad news we’d rather not. They have changed the way we are entertained, the way we shop, even the way we pay our bills, or not (the electronic transfer has been e-mailed, really).
As wonderful as computers are, at times, not so much. At times, they are incredible time- wasters and can steal time needed for work or study. Addictive video games, cyber bullying, and, worse, cyber stalking, can steal time and self-esteem and innocence. Just trying to keep up with the technology - the hardware, the software, the accessories, the add-ons, the strap-ons (sorry, different technology) - can steal our money and our resources. Not keeping up is not an option because the software keeps changing and the old hardware won’t run the new software. Sometimes the new hardware won’t run the new software because the new software has been replaced with the newer software which is needed to be compatible with new operating system which was developed to be compatible with the newest processor.
And then there’s the age-old question, what to do with the old hardware? You can’t give it away; schools can’t teach today’s children with yesterday’s technology. You can’t sell it; nobody wants hand-me-down electronics. You can’t even throw it away unless you can find an authorized electronics disposal facility (open only on alternate Thursdays between 12:00 and 1:00, please call ahead, we may be at lunch). Computers; we love them, we hate them. We can’t live without them, can’t live with them, and can’t bring them to the dump (but that’s another story).
Monday, December 13, 2010
Politically Correct
During World War I (the “Big One” according to my grandfather) there was “shell shock.” The expression needed no explanation, we all got it (the concept, not the affliction). During World War II (the “Big One” according to my father) there was the more politically correct “battle fatigue.” The expression needed a little explanation, afflicted soldiers, it turned out, were more than just tired. During the Vietnam War (actually the “Vietnam Conflict,” a “political action” to be politically correct); there was the most politically correct, “Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.” The expression evidently needs a lot of explanation, hundreds of papers and dozens of books have been written on the affliction. I still don’t really understand it; I think it’s similar to shell shock.
There are many other terms I don’t really understand, or find a bit ridiculous, or both. When I was a child some people were short, or fat, or lazy, or crazy, or poor, or homeless, or bald. Today they are just “challenged,” vertically, gravitationally, motivationally, cognitively, monetarily, or residentially. Or in my case, follically (also monetarily, but that’s another story).
I fondly remember when, if you had a job, you were a someone, not a something “specialist.” You were a teacher, or a gardener, or a mailman, or a waiter, or a plumber or a garbage collector. Now you are a “specialist” in education, or flora, or correspondence delivery, or sustenance delivery, or sanitation, or sanitation (sometimes clarity must be sacrificed for correctness). I remember when bad guys were just someone bad. They were robbers and muggers, or perverts and pedophiles, or murderers. Now they are “resource allocation specialists,” or “prepubescent individual exploitation specialists,” or “termination specialists” (not to be confused with exterminators, who murder household pests. Okay there’s a little overlap there). Of course there are also "specialists," physicians who concentrate on a particular field of tax shelter.
When did hookers become “sexual purveyors”; dirty old men become “sexually focused, chronologically advanced males”; rednecks become “rustically inclined individuals”; or cats become “feline associates” (dogs have masters, cats have associates)? When did cheating become “creative collaboration”; criticism become “creative assessment” (actually better); failure become “untraditional success”; ignorant become “factually unencumbered”; sleepy become “under alert” and ugly become “under attractive”?
Finally, when exactly did “black” (more politically correct, I assume, than Negro) become “African American”? And when did “white” (more politically correct, I assume, than Caucasian) become “melanin-impoverished member of the mutant albino genetic-recessive global minority”?
There are many other terms I don’t really understand, or find a bit ridiculous, or both. When I was a child some people were short, or fat, or lazy, or crazy, or poor, or homeless, or bald. Today they are just “challenged,” vertically, gravitationally, motivationally, cognitively, monetarily, or residentially. Or in my case, follically (also monetarily, but that’s another story).
I fondly remember when, if you had a job, you were a someone, not a something “specialist.” You were a teacher, or a gardener, or a mailman, or a waiter, or a plumber or a garbage collector. Now you are a “specialist” in education, or flora, or correspondence delivery, or sustenance delivery, or sanitation, or sanitation (sometimes clarity must be sacrificed for correctness). I remember when bad guys were just someone bad. They were robbers and muggers, or perverts and pedophiles, or murderers. Now they are “resource allocation specialists,” or “prepubescent individual exploitation specialists,” or “termination specialists” (not to be confused with exterminators, who murder household pests. Okay there’s a little overlap there). Of course there are also "specialists," physicians who concentrate on a particular field of tax shelter.
When did hookers become “sexual purveyors”; dirty old men become “sexually focused, chronologically advanced males”; rednecks become “rustically inclined individuals”; or cats become “feline associates” (dogs have masters, cats have associates)? When did cheating become “creative collaboration”; criticism become “creative assessment” (actually better); failure become “untraditional success”; ignorant become “factually unencumbered”; sleepy become “under alert” and ugly become “under attractive”?
Finally, when exactly did “black” (more politically correct, I assume, than Negro) become “African American”? And when did “white” (more politically correct, I assume, than Caucasian) become “melanin-impoverished member of the mutant albino genetic-recessive global minority”?
Diminishing Vocabulary
I enjoy writing. I don’t love it. I might have loved it once, years ago when I was rich in words. Today, when the times have robbed so many of us of so much, I find my vocabulary, like my fortune, has dwindled to a tiny fraction of what it once was. So many dollars and so many words have somehow gone missing. Wouldn’t it have been nice had I thought to put away a few dollars for a rainy day, or a few words for an interesting thought. Were it not for dictionaries and Google (incidently, according to my dictionary, it really should be “googol”), my writings would certainly be reduced to ramblings. Or has that ship already sailed?
I have always loved words. The lovely, liquid, often long, sometimes lugubrious language of poetry. The splashing, hissing, buzzing, hiccupping, knocking, and kerplunking of the comics. The articles about animals, including mammals, specifically camels, who are often found trammeling the desert. And the stories of young (or not so young) Casanovas who promise, “I’ll walk you down the aisle on a tropical isle if you just say yes.”
Unfortunately, each passing year marks the passing of a few hundred more words from my lexicon. More and more things become “things,” whose given name escapes me. Fortunately, I live in Hawaii, where most everything can be described as “da kine” (but that’s another story), so my limitations are perhaps less obvious to those outside my immediate family. Speaking of immediately family, compared to my mother-in-law (bless her heart, which is huge) I am still a verbal giant. She retains only a few hundred words, including a few carefully chosen mild expletives, which serve her very well. Never mind that she loves to drink Formosas, or that her daughter gave her a pedophile for her birthday, or that the same daughter’s autopsy came back negative, or that her dear departed husbands asses are buried in the back yard next to the syphilis bushes.
No longer a verbal giant (if ever I was) and more akin to a verbal midget (I’m sorry, verbal small person, but that’s also another story), it would be nice if I still had the vocabulary and skills I once possessed (or the wealth I once enjoyed, but that’s still another story). If my memory wasn’t failing me and I still possessed a wealth of words, I could surely be prolific. I could pen worthy articles and correspond with important people. I could verbalize my great thoughts and compose treatises about my original, innovative ideas. If only I were just still rich in words and still loved writing, and could remember any of my great thoughts or innovative ideas.
I have always loved words. The lovely, liquid, often long, sometimes lugubrious language of poetry. The splashing, hissing, buzzing, hiccupping, knocking, and kerplunking of the comics. The articles about animals, including mammals, specifically camels, who are often found trammeling the desert. And the stories of young (or not so young) Casanovas who promise, “I’ll walk you down the aisle on a tropical isle if you just say yes.”
Unfortunately, each passing year marks the passing of a few hundred more words from my lexicon. More and more things become “things,” whose given name escapes me. Fortunately, I live in Hawaii, where most everything can be described as “da kine” (but that’s another story), so my limitations are perhaps less obvious to those outside my immediate family. Speaking of immediately family, compared to my mother-in-law (bless her heart, which is huge) I am still a verbal giant. She retains only a few hundred words, including a few carefully chosen mild expletives, which serve her very well. Never mind that she loves to drink Formosas, or that her daughter gave her a pedophile for her birthday, or that the same daughter’s autopsy came back negative, or that her dear departed husbands asses are buried in the back yard next to the syphilis bushes.
No longer a verbal giant (if ever I was) and more akin to a verbal midget (I’m sorry, verbal small person, but that’s also another story), it would be nice if I still had the vocabulary and skills I once possessed (or the wealth I once enjoyed, but that’s still another story). If my memory wasn’t failing me and I still possessed a wealth of words, I could surely be prolific. I could pen worthy articles and correspond with important people. I could verbalize my great thoughts and compose treatises about my original, innovative ideas. If only I were just still rich in words and still loved writing, and could remember any of my great thoughts or innovative ideas.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Airport Security
Make no mistake, I never want to be a passenger in an aircraft being highjacked, or being commandeered, or being re-purposed as a lethal weapon, or carrying a bomb, or carrying a person carrying a bomb, or carrying a person intent on Hari Kari, or even carrying Harry Caray (I’m really not a Cubs fan).
For that matter, I’d prefer not to be a passenger on an aircraft being detained endlessly on the tarmac, or carrying crying children, or carrying children in the seat behind you that keep kicking the back of your seat, or carrying really big people who can’t or won’t buy two seats, so they put the armrests up and take half of your seat, or people that... (but that’s another story).
Anyway, I get it that we need “enhanced” airport security. I get that the best way to deal with potential disasters is to nip them at the gate (pardon the paraphrasing). I just wonder if some of the procedures that have been instituted really make sense. For example, are nail clippers really a potential weapon? Or, couldn’t a terrorist hide explosives somewhere other than in his shoes, between his butt cheeks, say? Please Mr. Terrorist, do not take this as a suggestion; the logical result would be very time consuming, not to mention a bit inconvenient. “Passengers are advised to arrive at the airport five hours before departure. Please wear easily removable clothing.”
And what’s with “no liquids in excess of three ounces per container.” Is it just me, or couldn’t a clever terrorist divide up his pound of explosives into six containers (that’s 2.67 ounces per container, in case you don’t have your calculator handy)? And don’t explosives also come in amorphous plastic form? Of course, we could always amend the rule, “no liquids and/or puttys, silly or otherwise, in excess of three ounces per container.”
Now I can understand that computers pose a special problem. I mean they are just crammed full of fancy electronic stuff, and I know that it takes a lot of fancy electronic stuff to detonate a bomb. A terrorist could build a “computer-like” device with pounds of explosives and detonation device all-in-one. Then, but only after the seat belt sign had been turned off and the captain had advised him was okay to turn on electronic devices, he could blow up the aircraft (himself included, of course, but that’s another story). Fortunately it’s not possible, evidently, to build a “computer-like” device with a functioning screen; so as long as we require potential terrorists to turn on their computers we’ll be able to uncover the bogus computer/bombs, and be safe.
Perhaps I’m just jaded. I still remember fondly the days when you could arrive at the airport a few minutes before departure with three bags to check and two more to carry on (but that’s yet another story). Perhaps I should take comfort in the knowledge that, despite the dangerous times in which we live, I can be a passenger in an aircraft that is safe (thank you, TSA) from the threat of being high-jacked by a band of nail-clipper-wielding terrorists.
For that matter, I’d prefer not to be a passenger on an aircraft being detained endlessly on the tarmac, or carrying crying children, or carrying children in the seat behind you that keep kicking the back of your seat, or carrying really big people who can’t or won’t buy two seats, so they put the armrests up and take half of your seat, or people that... (but that’s another story).
Anyway, I get it that we need “enhanced” airport security. I get that the best way to deal with potential disasters is to nip them at the gate (pardon the paraphrasing). I just wonder if some of the procedures that have been instituted really make sense. For example, are nail clippers really a potential weapon? Or, couldn’t a terrorist hide explosives somewhere other than in his shoes, between his butt cheeks, say? Please Mr. Terrorist, do not take this as a suggestion; the logical result would be very time consuming, not to mention a bit inconvenient. “Passengers are advised to arrive at the airport five hours before departure. Please wear easily removable clothing.”
And what’s with “no liquids in excess of three ounces per container.” Is it just me, or couldn’t a clever terrorist divide up his pound of explosives into six containers (that’s 2.67 ounces per container, in case you don’t have your calculator handy)? And don’t explosives also come in amorphous plastic form? Of course, we could always amend the rule, “no liquids and/or puttys, silly or otherwise, in excess of three ounces per container.”
Now I can understand that computers pose a special problem. I mean they are just crammed full of fancy electronic stuff, and I know that it takes a lot of fancy electronic stuff to detonate a bomb. A terrorist could build a “computer-like” device with pounds of explosives and detonation device all-in-one. Then, but only after the seat belt sign had been turned off and the captain had advised him was okay to turn on electronic devices, he could blow up the aircraft (himself included, of course, but that’s another story). Fortunately it’s not possible, evidently, to build a “computer-like” device with a functioning screen; so as long as we require potential terrorists to turn on their computers we’ll be able to uncover the bogus computer/bombs, and be safe.
Perhaps I’m just jaded. I still remember fondly the days when you could arrive at the airport a few minutes before departure with three bags to check and two more to carry on (but that’s yet another story). Perhaps I should take comfort in the knowledge that, despite the dangerous times in which we live, I can be a passenger in an aircraft that is safe (thank you, TSA) from the threat of being high-jacked by a band of nail-clipper-wielding terrorists.
Monday, December 6, 2010
What's In A Nickname
My name is Richard. As a child my folks and friends called me “Dicky.” I found it a little annoying until, as a slightly heavy eight-year-old, I became “Chubbs.” Much later in life I became “Dick,” which stuck until I met my third wife, Nancy, occasionally called “Nanners” by her friend “DJ.” Nancy refused to date, much less marry a “Dick” so I now just go by “Richard,” which bears a certain resemblance to my given name.
My brother was “Punky,” short for “Pumpkin,” a moniker he didn’t shake until he joined the Navy at 17. I suspect there was a connection there. My sister Karen was called “Sister.” She was introduced to my brother and me as our new “sister,” so naturally... Susan became “Susie,” and Pam became, well, “Pam” (the folks were in their 40’s by then, it was just easier). Yes, there were five of us, plus the folks, and we all lived in a tiny house with one bathroom (but that’s another story).
Speaking of the folks, my mom, Phyllis Marie Burbank Bernadette Hunt Farnham, was known as “Mickey” (due to her folks having a summer cottage next door to Mickey Rooney’s summer cottage) by all except her best friend “Millie,” who called her “Peg” (don’t have a clue). My dad, Willard Boyce Farnham, was always “Wink,” (due to him being short, and it being short for “Wee Willy Winkie”). Ironically: I never saw him wink, even once. His best friend, our next door neighbor and my best friend’s dad, was “Pinky” (he did have a bit of a pinkish hue on occasion). His wife Josephine was known as (no surprise here) “Jo.”
My best friend was Everette Joseph Bombard, BJ for short. I don’t know why “BJ” and not “EJ,” but BJ Bombard had a nice ring to it. My first girlfriend (sort of, we played house a few times) was Elizabeth Ann Densmore, better know as “Betty Ann.” This made her nickname initials (nicknitials, I suppose) B-A-D (hmmm). My other best friend was Wayne Bither; Wayne had no nickname but desperately needed one. He was too tall and too skinny, with way too big ears, and walked like Charles Chaplin (nicknamed “Charlie”). If he had been known as Rock, or Cary, or Kirk, it might have helped.
Two friends in grade school shared my first name, Richard. One was Richard Gillespie, nicknamed “Ricky,” and the other was Richard Douse, nicknamed “Dickie” (ignorance or cruelty, we’ll never know). Dickie has since risen to near the top of the Boy Scouts of America organization (true), a group heavily supported, I believe, by the Disney organization (maybe not). I also knew “Stub” (short guy), “Smelly” (selfexplanatory), “Poochie” (resembled his dog Poochie), and “Spot” (who didn’t, but had freckles). There was also Joaquin Perez, who, we called “Wahkeen” (Yes, I know, now).
In high school I knew “Squeezy” (you guessed it), “Spaz” (you could never, ever loan him anything you valued), “One Stone” (an unfortunate wrestling accident) and his brother “Little Stone.” There was “Wiggler” (couldn’t ever sit still), “Heifer” (it was Vermont, a state with more cows than people) and “Flem Wad” (use your imagination). Flem Wad was good friends with Jimmy Lyons, a giant kid with huge muscles and a mean disposition. He was the class bully, correct that, the school bully and had two prominent scars on his face. So naturally we all called him – James. Giant, huge muscles, mean disposition; HELLO!
What’s up with that?
My brother was “Punky,” short for “Pumpkin,” a moniker he didn’t shake until he joined the Navy at 17. I suspect there was a connection there. My sister Karen was called “Sister.” She was introduced to my brother and me as our new “sister,” so naturally... Susan became “Susie,” and Pam became, well, “Pam” (the folks were in their 40’s by then, it was just easier). Yes, there were five of us, plus the folks, and we all lived in a tiny house with one bathroom (but that’s another story).
Speaking of the folks, my mom, Phyllis Marie Burbank Bernadette Hunt Farnham, was known as “Mickey” (due to her folks having a summer cottage next door to Mickey Rooney’s summer cottage) by all except her best friend “Millie,” who called her “Peg” (don’t have a clue). My dad, Willard Boyce Farnham, was always “Wink,” (due to him being short, and it being short for “Wee Willy Winkie”). Ironically: I never saw him wink, even once. His best friend, our next door neighbor and my best friend’s dad, was “Pinky” (he did have a bit of a pinkish hue on occasion). His wife Josephine was known as (no surprise here) “Jo.”
My best friend was Everette Joseph Bombard, BJ for short. I don’t know why “BJ” and not “EJ,” but BJ Bombard had a nice ring to it. My first girlfriend (sort of, we played house a few times) was Elizabeth Ann Densmore, better know as “Betty Ann.” This made her nickname initials (nicknitials, I suppose) B-A-D (hmmm). My other best friend was Wayne Bither; Wayne had no nickname but desperately needed one. He was too tall and too skinny, with way too big ears, and walked like Charles Chaplin (nicknamed “Charlie”). If he had been known as Rock, or Cary, or Kirk, it might have helped.
Two friends in grade school shared my first name, Richard. One was Richard Gillespie, nicknamed “Ricky,” and the other was Richard Douse, nicknamed “Dickie” (ignorance or cruelty, we’ll never know). Dickie has since risen to near the top of the Boy Scouts of America organization (true), a group heavily supported, I believe, by the Disney organization (maybe not). I also knew “Stub” (short guy), “Smelly” (selfexplanatory), “Poochie” (resembled his dog Poochie), and “Spot” (who didn’t, but had freckles). There was also Joaquin Perez, who, we called “Wahkeen” (Yes, I know, now).
In high school I knew “Squeezy” (you guessed it), “Spaz” (you could never, ever loan him anything you valued), “One Stone” (an unfortunate wrestling accident) and his brother “Little Stone.” There was “Wiggler” (couldn’t ever sit still), “Heifer” (it was Vermont, a state with more cows than people) and “Flem Wad” (use your imagination). Flem Wad was good friends with Jimmy Lyons, a giant kid with huge muscles and a mean disposition. He was the class bully, correct that, the school bully and had two prominent scars on his face. So naturally we all called him – James. Giant, huge muscles, mean disposition; HELLO!
What’s up with that?
Friday, December 3, 2010
Modern Technology, Part 3
The house I live in has two really big TV’s (sort of). Remember when computer projectors came out? You could project your Power Point presentation onto a screen (or a sheet, or even a wall, in case your screen budget was exhausted for the year) so, at the same time, everyone in the room could see how boring Power Point presentations were. Well it turns out, those same projectors can be hooked up to your TV or cable box and effectively create a really big TV.
The house I live in also has three cable boxes, a LCD TV, a Plasma TV, a DLP TV and three CRT TV’s. They all get ABC, NBC, CBS, CNN, HNN, ESPN, and lots of other letters I can’t remember. Altogether: over 200 channels of “there’s nothing on” (but that’s another story). The house also has a VHS player, 7 DVD players, and a BluRay player, for watching “no good movies anymore.” And all these devices came with one of the true wonders of modern technology, the remote control, without which, we would have to actually get up to adjust the device; which might dramatically reduce the pleasure we receive from watching “nothing” or “no good anymore.”
All told there are 20 remote control devices ( I know because even though I can no longer add numbers in the double digits, I own a calculator; but that’s also another story): 20 remotes, wonderful, wireless widgets with, unfortunately, 20 unique designs. Each remote contains from 18 to 54 buttons (yes, 54) and, believe it or not, no similar buttons are located in similar places on any of them (not quite true, several have the main power button in the vicinity of the upper right hand corner). I say similar because some buttons that do similar things don’t have similar names on other, yet similar, remotes.
Not to worry, several remotes are “universal,” and can be programmed to operate devices other than the one with which they came. Just follow the simple 27-step process to enter the unique device code for each other device you wish to control from your universal remote. “Should you make a mistake during this simple process, simply start over.” Needless to say, I elected to forego the time-saving process. Being a real man, I can master 20 different remotes with ease. Bring it on!
My wife, on the other hand, is not a real man (to my everlasting delight) and seems to encounter a bit of confusion when faced with the challenge of turning on the projector (and the external fan we had to install because it tended to overheat and shut off repeatedly, don’t get me started); turning on the cable box; set the cable box to the correct device; turning off the cable box because we are going to watch a movie; turning on the BluRay player; setting the BluRay player to the correct device because it also lets us watch TV or go on the internet; turning on the Bose sound system; setting the Bose to the correct device because it also plays CD’s and has a built in radio (FM only); and then toggling through the “source” options on the projector because it thinks we are still trying to watch television. And finally, turning everything off, including the lights and air conditioning (don’t worry, we have a remote) because now it’s very late (past 7:30 pm) and time to go to bed.
The up side of all this? Despite having too much life insurance, and at times being a bit difficult to live with, my wife will probably continue to put up with me. She enjoys, on occasion, watching “nothing on” or a “no good anymore” movie.
The house I live in also has three cable boxes, a LCD TV, a Plasma TV, a DLP TV and three CRT TV’s. They all get ABC, NBC, CBS, CNN, HNN, ESPN, and lots of other letters I can’t remember. Altogether: over 200 channels of “there’s nothing on” (but that’s another story). The house also has a VHS player, 7 DVD players, and a BluRay player, for watching “no good movies anymore.” And all these devices came with one of the true wonders of modern technology, the remote control, without which, we would have to actually get up to adjust the device; which might dramatically reduce the pleasure we receive from watching “nothing” or “no good anymore.”
All told there are 20 remote control devices ( I know because even though I can no longer add numbers in the double digits, I own a calculator; but that’s also another story): 20 remotes, wonderful, wireless widgets with, unfortunately, 20 unique designs. Each remote contains from 18 to 54 buttons (yes, 54) and, believe it or not, no similar buttons are located in similar places on any of them (not quite true, several have the main power button in the vicinity of the upper right hand corner). I say similar because some buttons that do similar things don’t have similar names on other, yet similar, remotes.
Not to worry, several remotes are “universal,” and can be programmed to operate devices other than the one with which they came. Just follow the simple 27-step process to enter the unique device code for each other device you wish to control from your universal remote. “Should you make a mistake during this simple process, simply start over.” Needless to say, I elected to forego the time-saving process. Being a real man, I can master 20 different remotes with ease. Bring it on!
My wife, on the other hand, is not a real man (to my everlasting delight) and seems to encounter a bit of confusion when faced with the challenge of turning on the projector (and the external fan we had to install because it tended to overheat and shut off repeatedly, don’t get me started); turning on the cable box; set the cable box to the correct device; turning off the cable box because we are going to watch a movie; turning on the BluRay player; setting the BluRay player to the correct device because it also lets us watch TV or go on the internet; turning on the Bose sound system; setting the Bose to the correct device because it also plays CD’s and has a built in radio (FM only); and then toggling through the “source” options on the projector because it thinks we are still trying to watch television. And finally, turning everything off, including the lights and air conditioning (don’t worry, we have a remote) because now it’s very late (past 7:30 pm) and time to go to bed.
The up side of all this? Despite having too much life insurance, and at times being a bit difficult to live with, my wife will probably continue to put up with me. She enjoys, on occasion, watching “nothing on” or a “no good anymore” movie.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
What Ever Happened to Dumps
In the little town in Vermont where I grew up, we had a dump. It was on the bank of the Winooski River. Even back then it seemed a bit odd to have a dump located right next to a river. Things were always rolling down the bank into the water; and whenever it rained, a rainbow colored ooze seeped into the river for days. I guess the feeling was that the river was polluted anyway so what difference did it make? Besides, the fish we caught downstream tasted just fine. Winooski means onion in Native American, and the river was aptly named. In today’s vernacular I suppose the river would have been “aromatically challenged.” Back in the day, it just stunk.
Not that the smell discouraged anyone from visiting the town dump, in fact, several people even used the dump to dump (pardon the pun) their garbage. For several more, however, the dump was a gathering place. It was a place of intrigue and high adventure, a virtual treasure trove of great stuff, just waiting to be uncovered. For a boy of ten, there were few better ways to spend a Saturday than exploring the dump. If you got there early, before all the good stuff was gone, there was no telling what wonderful gems of detritus you might discover.
It was important to know and follow the rules, however. I’m not referring to the boring rules written on the sign which greeted you as you entered the dump. I’m talking about the unwritten rules passed down from generation to generation of townspeople, from kid to kid, from vagabond to vagabond.
1 - NEVER VISIT THE DUMP AT NIGHT!
The police might pick you up; and the feral dogs, cats, and rats (are there domestic rats?) didn’t like the competition.
2 - IF IT MOVES, LEAVE IT ALONE!
Duh!
3 - ALWAYS WEAR THICK SOLED SHOES WHEN EXPLORING THE DUMP!
At our dump, the trash wasn’t buried, it was burned, I guess to reduce the pollution of the river. Air pollution wasn’t likely to be a problem (there’s so much air), and most days the prevailing winds blew the soot and smell away from town. You had to wear thick soled shoes to keep your feet from being burned by the embers that were usually smoldering just below the surface.
The dump was eventually closed, and all the trash and treasures buried for eternity. A trailer park (excuse me, a mobile home community) now sits on the “reclaimed” land. It’s a lovely mobile home commuity, with beautiful landscaping, lots of amenities, and a great view of the river. Nevermind the sink holes that pop up (I guess more accurately pop down) now and again, and the pesky non-domestic rat problem.
What’s up with that?
Not that the smell discouraged anyone from visiting the town dump, in fact, several people even used the dump to dump (pardon the pun) their garbage. For several more, however, the dump was a gathering place. It was a place of intrigue and high adventure, a virtual treasure trove of great stuff, just waiting to be uncovered. For a boy of ten, there were few better ways to spend a Saturday than exploring the dump. If you got there early, before all the good stuff was gone, there was no telling what wonderful gems of detritus you might discover.
It was important to know and follow the rules, however. I’m not referring to the boring rules written on the sign which greeted you as you entered the dump. I’m talking about the unwritten rules passed down from generation to generation of townspeople, from kid to kid, from vagabond to vagabond.
1 - NEVER VISIT THE DUMP AT NIGHT!
The police might pick you up; and the feral dogs, cats, and rats (are there domestic rats?) didn’t like the competition.
2 - IF IT MOVES, LEAVE IT ALONE!
Duh!
3 - ALWAYS WEAR THICK SOLED SHOES WHEN EXPLORING THE DUMP!
At our dump, the trash wasn’t buried, it was burned, I guess to reduce the pollution of the river. Air pollution wasn’t likely to be a problem (there’s so much air), and most days the prevailing winds blew the soot and smell away from town. You had to wear thick soled shoes to keep your feet from being burned by the embers that were usually smoldering just below the surface.
The dump was eventually closed, and all the trash and treasures buried for eternity. A trailer park (excuse me, a mobile home community) now sits on the “reclaimed” land. It’s a lovely mobile home commuity, with beautiful landscaping, lots of amenities, and a great view of the river. Nevermind the sink holes that pop up (I guess more accurately pop down) now and again, and the pesky non-domestic rat problem.
What’s up with that?
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
The Symmetry of Life
My parents, may they rest in peace, loved to tell the tale of how I came into the world kicking and screaming; unlike my older brother, who arrived with a wink in his eye and a smile on his face. I suspect his wink was just one eye opening sooner than the other, and I’m pretty sure his smile was just gas. He certainly contained an abundance of it later in life. That I was kicking and screaming may have been a reaction to the sound spanking I received soon after entering, but more likely it was due to being suddenly extracted from a warm, wet, and wonderful womb.
Being just born, my new world was understandably quite small, a world of regimen, carefully controlled activities and little excitement. I was incapable of speaking, walking, feeding myself, except out of a bottle, using the bathroom or doing pretty much anything else, except lying around and sleeping. As with all babies, I required constant attention and round-the-clock care. Failing to receive it, I would make my displeasure known, often by kicking and screaming.
Of course, as time went by, I learned to babble and finally speak, crawl and finally walk, use the bathroom, and even feed myself. Over the years, I grew larger in size, became more coordinated, even a bit athletic, and slowly expanded my horizons. I attended schools and universities where I garnered a wealth of information. I started businesses, not a few, where I attained a modicum of wealth. I married, more than once, and raised children, several, over far too many years (but that’s another story). I moved several times and traveled to many faraway places. As I grew older my world got larger and larger.
And then it started shrinking. I am now settled down, settled in and considering retiring. My kids are grown and moved away (not so much, but that’s also another story). My workload is decreasing, my wealth of information is escaping (as is, unfortunately, my modicum of wealth) and my athleticism is rapidly becoming couch potatoism. I’m smaller in size (not so much smaller as shorter and wider), as is my vocabulary, of which I used to be quite proud.
I know the day is coming when I will become far less coordinated, followed soon by far less ambulatory. My vocabulary will no doubt shrink to a few hundred words and then a few dozen words, which I will insist are the really important ones. I’ll soon get to the point when I can no longer walk without a walker, when I babble instead of speaking, when I wear my depends with pride and have to drink all my meals.
Eventually I will re-enter that world of regimen, carefully controlled activities, and little excitement. I won’t be doing a whole lot except lying around and sleeping, and will again require constant attention and round-the-clock care. When even round-the-clock care is not enough, it is my fondest hope that I will depart this world as I came in, kicking and screaming.
Being just born, my new world was understandably quite small, a world of regimen, carefully controlled activities and little excitement. I was incapable of speaking, walking, feeding myself, except out of a bottle, using the bathroom or doing pretty much anything else, except lying around and sleeping. As with all babies, I required constant attention and round-the-clock care. Failing to receive it, I would make my displeasure known, often by kicking and screaming.
Of course, as time went by, I learned to babble and finally speak, crawl and finally walk, use the bathroom, and even feed myself. Over the years, I grew larger in size, became more coordinated, even a bit athletic, and slowly expanded my horizons. I attended schools and universities where I garnered a wealth of information. I started businesses, not a few, where I attained a modicum of wealth. I married, more than once, and raised children, several, over far too many years (but that’s another story). I moved several times and traveled to many faraway places. As I grew older my world got larger and larger.
And then it started shrinking. I am now settled down, settled in and considering retiring. My kids are grown and moved away (not so much, but that’s also another story). My workload is decreasing, my wealth of information is escaping (as is, unfortunately, my modicum of wealth) and my athleticism is rapidly becoming couch potatoism. I’m smaller in size (not so much smaller as shorter and wider), as is my vocabulary, of which I used to be quite proud.
I know the day is coming when I will become far less coordinated, followed soon by far less ambulatory. My vocabulary will no doubt shrink to a few hundred words and then a few dozen words, which I will insist are the really important ones. I’ll soon get to the point when I can no longer walk without a walker, when I babble instead of speaking, when I wear my depends with pride and have to drink all my meals.
Eventually I will re-enter that world of regimen, carefully controlled activities, and little excitement. I won’t be doing a whole lot except lying around and sleeping, and will again require constant attention and round-the-clock care. When even round-the-clock care is not enough, it is my fondest hope that I will depart this world as I came in, kicking and screaming.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Generic Brand Names
As a child, jello was my favorite dessert. It sparkled, it wiggled, it was cold, and, loaded with sugar, it tasted great. But it turns out I wasn’t eating jello at all. I was eating a naturally sweetened, artificially fruit flavored, gelatin dessert treat. I wonder what, exactly, artificial fruit flavoring is. I’m sure it isn’t extracted from artificial fruit (artificial fruit tastes really terrible, never mind how I know). Anyway “Jello” is not a product: it’s a brand. Mom never bought “Jello” because it was too expensive. It didn’t matter, gelatin dessert treat was fine with me (remember the sugar). Nowadays my wife doesn’t buy “Jello” either. She also doesn’t buy naturally sweetened, artificially fruit-flavored, gelatin dessert treats (remember the sugar).
Do you think you’ve been buying kleenex all these years. Unless you’ve been buying “Kleenex,” you’ve just been purchasing two-ply (possible lotion infused) facial tissue. Have you been carefully cleansing your wounds and covering them with what you though were a “Band-Aids”? More likely, the dressings were just sterilized, breathable, single-use, adhesive pads with non-stick absorbent centers. Your trusty old hoover may, in fact be a “Hoover,” but more likely it’s just a vacuum cleaner, maybe a “Dyson” vacuum cleaner, which, I understand, really sucks (but in a good way). Over the years I know you’ve used scotch tape to wrap Christmas presents, or possibly magic tape. The transparent plastic, single-side, adhesive tape you used might well have been “Scotch Tape,” or possibly even “Magic Tape” (frosty on the roll, clear on the job).
Do your kids play with small, multi-colored, modular, interlocking building blocks? They might actually be playing with “Lego” (not “Legos,” by the way, you can look it up). Perhaps they once owned a personal portable cassette tape player, most likely a “Walkman.” Perhaps it has been replaced with a personal portable digital music player, most likely an “iPod.” If they are athletic, they may have a pair of neoprene wheeled, in-line skates, possibly “Rollerblades.” If they are really athletic and coordinated, they may even own a skateboard, possibly a skateboard (okay, not a generic brand name).
At one time or another we have all had a “Coke,” or some other caramel colored, cola bean flavored, carbonated soft drink. We’ve had “Ruffles,” corrugation sliced, deep fried potato chips; or “Twinkies,” chocolate covered, sugar cream infused, individual sized roll cakes. If we live in Hawaii (and possibly a few other places), we regularly have “Spam,” a canned, pre-cooked, pork shoulder and ham meat product. Kids everywhere, including a few of us older kids, love “Popsicles,” naturally (or unnaturally) sweetened, artificially fruit-flavored, frozen juice treats; and everybody’s just got to love “Ben & Jerry’s,” a delicious, naturally sweetened with real sugar (remember the sugar), comes in dozens of exotic flavors, made only with all natural ingredients, creamy and delicious ice cream. Okay, it’s not a generic brand name, but it should be.
And then there’s aspirin, cellophane, dry ice, email, kerosene, laundromat, thermos, videotape, yo-yo, and zipper, just a few examples of what were once brand names, now officially generic names, adopted into the lexicon of modern language. I often find myself wondering: Are there more? How many more? What was the very first brand name to go generic? Do other languages exhibit this same phenomenon? Does anyone really care about all this? Do I really care about this? Not really!
Do you think you’ve been buying kleenex all these years. Unless you’ve been buying “Kleenex,” you’ve just been purchasing two-ply (possible lotion infused) facial tissue. Have you been carefully cleansing your wounds and covering them with what you though were a “Band-Aids”? More likely, the dressings were just sterilized, breathable, single-use, adhesive pads with non-stick absorbent centers. Your trusty old hoover may, in fact be a “Hoover,” but more likely it’s just a vacuum cleaner, maybe a “Dyson” vacuum cleaner, which, I understand, really sucks (but in a good way). Over the years I know you’ve used scotch tape to wrap Christmas presents, or possibly magic tape. The transparent plastic, single-side, adhesive tape you used might well have been “Scotch Tape,” or possibly even “Magic Tape” (frosty on the roll, clear on the job).
Do your kids play with small, multi-colored, modular, interlocking building blocks? They might actually be playing with “Lego” (not “Legos,” by the way, you can look it up). Perhaps they once owned a personal portable cassette tape player, most likely a “Walkman.” Perhaps it has been replaced with a personal portable digital music player, most likely an “iPod.” If they are athletic, they may have a pair of neoprene wheeled, in-line skates, possibly “Rollerblades.” If they are really athletic and coordinated, they may even own a skateboard, possibly a skateboard (okay, not a generic brand name).
At one time or another we have all had a “Coke,” or some other caramel colored, cola bean flavored, carbonated soft drink. We’ve had “Ruffles,” corrugation sliced, deep fried potato chips; or “Twinkies,” chocolate covered, sugar cream infused, individual sized roll cakes. If we live in Hawaii (and possibly a few other places), we regularly have “Spam,” a canned, pre-cooked, pork shoulder and ham meat product. Kids everywhere, including a few of us older kids, love “Popsicles,” naturally (or unnaturally) sweetened, artificially fruit-flavored, frozen juice treats; and everybody’s just got to love “Ben & Jerry’s,” a delicious, naturally sweetened with real sugar (remember the sugar), comes in dozens of exotic flavors, made only with all natural ingredients, creamy and delicious ice cream. Okay, it’s not a generic brand name, but it should be.
And then there’s aspirin, cellophane, dry ice, email, kerosene, laundromat, thermos, videotape, yo-yo, and zipper, just a few examples of what were once brand names, now officially generic names, adopted into the lexicon of modern language. I often find myself wondering: Are there more? How many more? What was the very first brand name to go generic? Do other languages exhibit this same phenomenon? Does anyone really care about all this? Do I really care about this? Not really!
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Dieting
I admit I have been gravity challenged much of my life. I was not a chubby baby, as was my brother. He was so rotund as a baby that Mom and Dad nicknamed him “Pumpkin.” “Pumpkin” soon became “Punky,” and unfortunately the nickname, as nicknames are prone to do, stuck. I suspect it was a good part of the reason he left home at 17 to join the Navy. I’m pretty sure he wasn’t thereafter known as “Seaman Punky.”
My gravity problem began when I was about seven years old. I was, in fact, a slim and healthy seven-year-old until the aforementioned Mom and Dad decided that slim and healthy were mutually exclusive. They were both a bit “big-boned,” as were most of their friends, so their conclusion was probably predictable. In any case, I was put on a regimen of vitamin B7 to cure my weight deficiency. Or was it B12, or perhaps B14, or perhaps B22? BINGO! But I digress.
Fortunately (or maybe not), the regimen worked. By the time I became eight, I was a virtual chubby cherub. And a relatively happy cherub I remained all through grade school. It was in high school, when girls suddenly became much more interesting, that I discovered the nickname “Chubbs” and the term “girlfriend” were mutually exclusive. It was in high school that I began dieting.
I have, to some degree, been dieting ever since. I believe I have, at one time or another, been on every diet known to man (okay, maybe not every diet, but a whole lot). I have tried (in alphabetical order for easy reference) the Atkins Diet, The Apple Cider Vinegar Diet (I grew up in Vermont’s apple country), the Bio Slim Diet, the Bio Trim Diet, the Cambridge Diet, the Carb Buster Diet and the Dexatrim Diet. The Dexatrim Diet wasn’t so much a diet as a way to stay awake during class in college: so many late nights studying and such. Being on a “diet” meant I could get pills from the infirmary for a buck each, instead of from Drug Store Bob (he actually worked in a drug store) for considerably more.
I have tried the Egg Diet, the Grapefruit Diet, the Hawaii Diet (after I moved to Hawaii, it seemed appropriate), the Ice Cream Diet (my personal favorite, but didn’t work at all) and the Nutrisystem Diet. I called it the Cash for Cardboard Diet. Can food that needs absolutely no refrigeration and has a three year shelf life really be good for you? I have tried the Pritikin Diet, the Slim Fast Diet (more accurately the Slim Slow Diet), the South Beach Diet, the South of the Border Diet (lots of beans, not recommended for people with spouses and/or friends), and even the Weight Watchers Diet.
Make no mistake, most of the diets worked, at least for a while. I have gone from as much as 235 pounds to as little as 155 pounds, time and time again. For some reason I just can’t seem to keep the weight off. I have always followed each regimen religiously (well maybe a little binge here and there), except maybe for the parts about lifestyle change and exercise.
My gravity problem began when I was about seven years old. I was, in fact, a slim and healthy seven-year-old until the aforementioned Mom and Dad decided that slim and healthy were mutually exclusive. They were both a bit “big-boned,” as were most of their friends, so their conclusion was probably predictable. In any case, I was put on a regimen of vitamin B7 to cure my weight deficiency. Or was it B12, or perhaps B14, or perhaps B22? BINGO! But I digress.
Fortunately (or maybe not), the regimen worked. By the time I became eight, I was a virtual chubby cherub. And a relatively happy cherub I remained all through grade school. It was in high school, when girls suddenly became much more interesting, that I discovered the nickname “Chubbs” and the term “girlfriend” were mutually exclusive. It was in high school that I began dieting.
I have, to some degree, been dieting ever since. I believe I have, at one time or another, been on every diet known to man (okay, maybe not every diet, but a whole lot). I have tried (in alphabetical order for easy reference) the Atkins Diet, The Apple Cider Vinegar Diet (I grew up in Vermont’s apple country), the Bio Slim Diet, the Bio Trim Diet, the Cambridge Diet, the Carb Buster Diet and the Dexatrim Diet. The Dexatrim Diet wasn’t so much a diet as a way to stay awake during class in college: so many late nights studying and such. Being on a “diet” meant I could get pills from the infirmary for a buck each, instead of from Drug Store Bob (he actually worked in a drug store) for considerably more.
I have tried the Egg Diet, the Grapefruit Diet, the Hawaii Diet (after I moved to Hawaii, it seemed appropriate), the Ice Cream Diet (my personal favorite, but didn’t work at all) and the Nutrisystem Diet. I called it the Cash for Cardboard Diet. Can food that needs absolutely no refrigeration and has a three year shelf life really be good for you? I have tried the Pritikin Diet, the Slim Fast Diet (more accurately the Slim Slow Diet), the South Beach Diet, the South of the Border Diet (lots of beans, not recommended for people with spouses and/or friends), and even the Weight Watchers Diet.
Make no mistake, most of the diets worked, at least for a while. I have gone from as much as 235 pounds to as little as 155 pounds, time and time again. For some reason I just can’t seem to keep the weight off. I have always followed each regimen religiously (well maybe a little binge here and there), except maybe for the parts about lifestyle change and exercise.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Modern Technology, Part 2
Remember records? Lovely disks of black plastic (“black wax biscuits” in the vernacular of the day) etched with music. There were 78’s (because they rotated at 78 revolutions per minute), with the music of the Big Bands and songs of the greatest singers that ever lived (my opinion, I could be wrong). There were LP’s (long playing albums) containing not one, but several songs from your favorite artist. They were expensive, costing up to $5.99 per album, but well worth the exorbitant price. Then there were 45’s (your guessed it, 45 revolutions per minute). They contained only one song, but cost under a buck. I have no idea why, but they were manufactured with a big hole in the center requiring a special spindle to play them on your turntable (you guessed it, because it turned round and round). No doubt it was a sinister plot devised by spindle company stock owning politicians.
I loved records. I collected records. I had a collection of over 1000 records including a few dozen classic 78’s, a couple hundred LP’s and several hundred 45’s. I loved them, right up until the day my brother and I sailed them off the lip of the local dump. What’s a dump? That’s another story. They flew like “black wax Frisbees” all the way to the river (yes, the dump was on the bank of a river). What’s a Frisbee? That’s also another story.
I remember the day I heard my first CD. I was shopping at Gaynes, “where you gain more,” (think Wal Mart lite) and heard it from all the way from seven aisles over. The sound filled the store. It was loud, it was clear. Gone were the subtle hisses, pops, and squeaks that embellished my records (maybe not so subtle later on, hence the dump incident). I must admit, I was impressed. I was so impressed that within a couple years I had a collection of over 1000 CD’s. It’s not what you think, I still have them – somewhere – I’m almost sure.
I probably don’t need to bore you with the story of my expansive VHS collection. Suffice it to say, I had a collected over 1000 VHS tapes when DVD’s hit the stores. I’m happy to report that they did not fly off the edge of the dump (there wasn’t a dump anymore, anyway), and they didn’t even end up in the landfill (at least not yet). I was able to sell them all to a local video store for almost a dollar each.
Today I am the proud owner of over 2000 DVD’s. Hello! Is someone not paying attention? I am undaunted by the advent of BluRay. And no, I did not buy a single HD DVD. I’m sure Blu Ray is just a passing fad and will soon be replaced by Red Ray or Orange Ray or whatever the latest Ray may be. I’m sure the features will be phenomenal and include interactive, reactive, proactive and several other active type things. I won’t be buying any BluRay disks. I won’t be buying any future type of Ray disks either. I have discovered NetFlix!
I loved records. I collected records. I had a collection of over 1000 records including a few dozen classic 78’s, a couple hundred LP’s and several hundred 45’s. I loved them, right up until the day my brother and I sailed them off the lip of the local dump. What’s a dump? That’s another story. They flew like “black wax Frisbees” all the way to the river (yes, the dump was on the bank of a river). What’s a Frisbee? That’s also another story.
I remember the day I heard my first CD. I was shopping at Gaynes, “where you gain more,” (think Wal Mart lite) and heard it from all the way from seven aisles over. The sound filled the store. It was loud, it was clear. Gone were the subtle hisses, pops, and squeaks that embellished my records (maybe not so subtle later on, hence the dump incident). I must admit, I was impressed. I was so impressed that within a couple years I had a collection of over 1000 CD’s. It’s not what you think, I still have them – somewhere – I’m almost sure.
I probably don’t need to bore you with the story of my expansive VHS collection. Suffice it to say, I had a collected over 1000 VHS tapes when DVD’s hit the stores. I’m happy to report that they did not fly off the edge of the dump (there wasn’t a dump anymore, anyway), and they didn’t even end up in the landfill (at least not yet). I was able to sell them all to a local video store for almost a dollar each.
Today I am the proud owner of over 2000 DVD’s. Hello! Is someone not paying attention? I am undaunted by the advent of BluRay. And no, I did not buy a single HD DVD. I’m sure Blu Ray is just a passing fad and will soon be replaced by Red Ray or Orange Ray or whatever the latest Ray may be. I’m sure the features will be phenomenal and include interactive, reactive, proactive and several other active type things. I won’t be buying any BluRay disks. I won’t be buying any future type of Ray disks either. I have discovered NetFlix!
Friday, November 19, 2010
Anti-virus Software
I’m certainly not a computer geek. I don’t think I’m any kind of geek, but I’m not sure what a geek actually is, so I’d best soft-pedal the self-appraisal.
Because I’m not a geek, I am, evidently, very susceptible to an insidious disease to which non-geeks are prone. I recently caught a dreaded virus, a computer virus. I’m pretty sure the disease isn’t fatal, but I’ve heard rumors of infected people suddenly exhibiting very erratic behavior including loud utterances, wild uncontrollable gestures, and even violence involving inanimate objects.
Of course, it is not I who was actually infected, it was my computer. None the less, my symptoms were very real, and I shared the same lethargy, confusion and decreased productivity as my trusted laptop. Much, I suppose, as we all suffer when a dear friend and companion is ailing, or when a loved one is stricken with a serious and debilitating disease. I couldn’t seem to get started on any new task, anything I did seemed to take forever, and often I would completely forget what I was doing and have to start over. Sometimes I would get so overwhelmed, I would literally “crash” and have to take a nap.
I was comforted, however, in the knowledge that cures for this particular disease were widely available on the internet. One might ask, and this is a reasonable query, why my computer didn’t have preventetive software pre-installed by the manufacturer (why wasn’t it vaccinated, so to speak).
Alas, it wasn’t, but I quickly located a highly regarded and virtually, pardon the pun, free software to cure the ailment. I quickly downloaded and installed the software (it took about 3 hours but I’ve learned that computer hours are like dog years in reverse, 3 hours to us being only 20 minutes to software manufacturers). And, in fact, the software is working as advertised. The virus, actually many viruses I’ve since learned, are gone and I’m confident they will not return. If they do, they will quickly be vanquished by the software that is constantly “running in the background to provide 24/7 protection.”
Unfortunately, because the software is constantly running in the background, my computer is not running very well in the foreground. It takes forever to open a new program, then takes forever to run it. Often a program will stop running completely and have to start over. Sometimes the processor gets so overloaded, the computer literally “crashes” and “goes to sleep” (takes a nap, so to speak).
Because I’m not a geek, I am, evidently, very susceptible to an insidious disease to which non-geeks are prone. I recently caught a dreaded virus, a computer virus. I’m pretty sure the disease isn’t fatal, but I’ve heard rumors of infected people suddenly exhibiting very erratic behavior including loud utterances, wild uncontrollable gestures, and even violence involving inanimate objects.
Of course, it is not I who was actually infected, it was my computer. None the less, my symptoms were very real, and I shared the same lethargy, confusion and decreased productivity as my trusted laptop. Much, I suppose, as we all suffer when a dear friend and companion is ailing, or when a loved one is stricken with a serious and debilitating disease. I couldn’t seem to get started on any new task, anything I did seemed to take forever, and often I would completely forget what I was doing and have to start over. Sometimes I would get so overwhelmed, I would literally “crash” and have to take a nap.
I was comforted, however, in the knowledge that cures for this particular disease were widely available on the internet. One might ask, and this is a reasonable query, why my computer didn’t have preventetive software pre-installed by the manufacturer (why wasn’t it vaccinated, so to speak).
Alas, it wasn’t, but I quickly located a highly regarded and virtually, pardon the pun, free software to cure the ailment. I quickly downloaded and installed the software (it took about 3 hours but I’ve learned that computer hours are like dog years in reverse, 3 hours to us being only 20 minutes to software manufacturers). And, in fact, the software is working as advertised. The virus, actually many viruses I’ve since learned, are gone and I’m confident they will not return. If they do, they will quickly be vanquished by the software that is constantly “running in the background to provide 24/7 protection.”
Unfortunately, because the software is constantly running in the background, my computer is not running very well in the foreground. It takes forever to open a new program, then takes forever to run it. Often a program will stop running completely and have to start over. Sometimes the processor gets so overloaded, the computer literally “crashes” and “goes to sleep” (takes a nap, so to speak).
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Voice Mail
Is it just me, or is it getting harder and harder to get real information or talk to real people on the phone these days? It seems that no matter what company I call, to ask a question about a bill for instance, the phone is always answered by the same recording of the same pleasant lady with the same exhaustive recorded greeting. As for me, I’m already exhausted from trying to decipher a bill with 26 pages of charges, surcharges, additional charges, access charges, excise charges, excise taxes, state taxes, federal taxes, and processing fees (but that’s another story).
In any case, the pleasant lady must always begin by informing me to “please listen carefully as our menu has recently changed.” Really? Nearly every company in the world just changed their menu? What a remarkable coincidence! And do I need to know this anyway? I have no idea what the menu used to be, so I probably wouldn’t have been confused.
None the less, having been duly warned, I listen carefully as the pleasant lady continues her recorded greeting and begins relating the comprehensive list of number options from which I can make my selection. In great detail, I learn how to receive automated answers to every question imaginable, except mine. Being incredibly naive, I patiently wait for the correct number option to speak to a real person. Of course, there is no such number option. Or perhaps I just missed it. (I have no excuse, I was specifically instructed to listen carefully). Fortunately, I can listen to the menu again by pressing number option one.
Should I foolishly decide instead, to select a number option for an automated answer, I must first enter or say my 8 or 12 or 16 digit account number. Whether I enter or say it, all 16 digits will be read back to me so I can enter or say “one” if the number is correct. Heaven help me if I must enter or say “two” because the number is incorrect. I find this requirement to enter the account number interesting because in the rare instance when I actually reached a real person, the first thing they always say is, “may I please have your account number?”
The second thing they invariably say is “I’m sorry, you’ve reached the wrong department. You need to call…..”
Monday, November 15, 2010
Not Available in Hawaii
“Lucky we live Hawaii,” is a favorite expression of residents of my home, our 50th state. And lucky we are in many ways. Nearly perfect weather year round. Dramatic scenery punctuated by pristine beaches abutting crystal clear, azure blue waters. And some of the friendliest people to be found anywhere this side of the great hereafter. In fact, the great hereafter is probably a lot like: here.
Lucky indeed, unless we happen to be one of the 200 million shoppers in the US who like to shop online. Granted, Hawaii has only about 1.5 million residents, and I’m sure a lot of us don’t shop online, but some of us do (some being equal to over 1 million shoppers). And I suspect we would online-shop even more if so many online retailers didn’t, apparently, consider us unworthy. THEY DON’T SHIP TO HAWAII. I don’t want to mention any names (OVER the concern of STOCKing COMtroversy) but they know who they are. Perhaps they think that because most of us live “on the beach in grass shacks,” we don’t own computers. Or if we own them, the beach surely doesn’t have wi-fi.
I’m guessing it has something to do with location. Hawaii is, after all, a long way from “America” (don’t get me started, that’s another story). Although many maps of the US depict Hawaii and Alaska just a few miles off the coast of Southern California, this isn’t actually the case. You need a boat or a plane to get to Hawaii unless you’re a really, really good swimmer. I suspect some retailers fear that shipping to such a faraway place must be nearly impossible or, at least, very expensive.
The Post Office, it seems, doesn’t realize the extreme difficulty of shipping to Hawaii and offers to deliver “flat rate” parcels for the same cost as to the next town over. UPS even ships to Hawaii for “ground rates,” even though they have to make use of an above the ground vehicle. But let’s be fair. If companies that don’t ship to Hawaii are seriously OVERSTOCKed, they may not have time to uncover the truth about shipping to Hawaii. I believe, however, that the information is available, online.
Lucky indeed, unless we happen to be one of the 200 million shoppers in the US who like to shop online. Granted, Hawaii has only about 1.5 million residents, and I’m sure a lot of us don’t shop online, but some of us do (some being equal to over 1 million shoppers). And I suspect we would online-shop even more if so many online retailers didn’t, apparently, consider us unworthy. THEY DON’T SHIP TO HAWAII. I don’t want to mention any names (OVER the concern of STOCKing COMtroversy) but they know who they are. Perhaps they think that because most of us live “on the beach in grass shacks,” we don’t own computers. Or if we own them, the beach surely doesn’t have wi-fi.
I’m guessing it has something to do with location. Hawaii is, after all, a long way from “America” (don’t get me started, that’s another story). Although many maps of the US depict Hawaii and Alaska just a few miles off the coast of Southern California, this isn’t actually the case. You need a boat or a plane to get to Hawaii unless you’re a really, really good swimmer. I suspect some retailers fear that shipping to such a faraway place must be nearly impossible or, at least, very expensive.
The Post Office, it seems, doesn’t realize the extreme difficulty of shipping to Hawaii and offers to deliver “flat rate” parcels for the same cost as to the next town over. UPS even ships to Hawaii for “ground rates,” even though they have to make use of an above the ground vehicle. But let’s be fair. If companies that don’t ship to Hawaii are seriously OVERSTOCKed, they may not have time to uncover the truth about shipping to Hawaii. I believe, however, that the information is available, online.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Modern Technology
I admit it. I love gadgets. Being your classic early adopter (otherwise known as unpaid beta tester, so to speak), I purchased one of the very first videotape player machines. It was a truly impressive (meaning very big and very heavy) piece of equipment into which you inserted giant “walkman” tapes that allowed you to watch movies, yes real movie theatre movies, on your television. The tapes were only $80 to $90 each, so if you watched one just 14 or 15 times, it was almost as cheap as going to the real movies.
This wonderful machine looked a lot like a giant “walkman” player, complete with doors that popped open, trays that jumped up and huge buttons that only required two hands and a bit of leverage to depress. It was a steal at only $999.99. So, from a wide selection of over two dozen movies, I also purchased two recent movie titles to watch on my marvel of modern technology. As I remember, I purchased Midnight Cowboy and The Graduate. A bit racy, perhaps, for the times (Midnight Cowboy was in fact X rated), but I was now on the cutting edge of consumerism. Decorum be damned.
My new video tapeplayer machine gave me many many weeks of reliable service and continued entertainment. Granted, the pop-up tray stopped popping up after a couple of days, but a carefully inserted butter knife remedied the problem, with the added bonus of the tray popping back down all by itself. Everything else on this wonderful machine worked as promised; and except for the names on the buttons quickly wearing off, I had had no real problems.
I couldn’t afford to purchase any additional movies for my player, so I watched the ones I had several times. I did stop discovering new and subtle nuances of character and plot after about 15 viewings. I stopped looking after about 30. I would have been happy to trade movies with my friends, but none of my friends had a videotape player machine or movies to trade. They were not, unfortunately, early adopters. They foolishly preferred to spend their money on such things as food and shelter.
None the less, I took comfort in the fact that I was a pioneer. I had the very first video tape player machine in my neighborhood. I could watch real movies on my television. I was a man of vision. When my friends were just purchasing their very first machines, I would already have an impressive collection of videotape movies.
Unfortunately, my vision may have been a bit short-sighted. I was an early adopter (a beta tester, so to speak) of a BetaMax.
This wonderful machine looked a lot like a giant “walkman” player, complete with doors that popped open, trays that jumped up and huge buttons that only required two hands and a bit of leverage to depress. It was a steal at only $999.99. So, from a wide selection of over two dozen movies, I also purchased two recent movie titles to watch on my marvel of modern technology. As I remember, I purchased Midnight Cowboy and The Graduate. A bit racy, perhaps, for the times (Midnight Cowboy was in fact X rated), but I was now on the cutting edge of consumerism. Decorum be damned.
My new video tapeplayer machine gave me many many weeks of reliable service and continued entertainment. Granted, the pop-up tray stopped popping up after a couple of days, but a carefully inserted butter knife remedied the problem, with the added bonus of the tray popping back down all by itself. Everything else on this wonderful machine worked as promised; and except for the names on the buttons quickly wearing off, I had had no real problems.
I couldn’t afford to purchase any additional movies for my player, so I watched the ones I had several times. I did stop discovering new and subtle nuances of character and plot after about 15 viewings. I stopped looking after about 30. I would have been happy to trade movies with my friends, but none of my friends had a videotape player machine or movies to trade. They were not, unfortunately, early adopters. They foolishly preferred to spend their money on such things as food and shelter.
None the less, I took comfort in the fact that I was a pioneer. I had the very first video tape player machine in my neighborhood. I could watch real movies on my television. I was a man of vision. When my friends were just purchasing their very first machines, I would already have an impressive collection of videotape movies.
Unfortunately, my vision may have been a bit short-sighted. I was an early adopter (a beta tester, so to speak) of a BetaMax.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Outsourcing
It seems that over the last few years a significant number of jobs previously held by residents of the US of A have been transferred to residents of India. I guess it’s because the residents or India are far more qualified to perform these jobs. Otherwise, in this economy, why would US companies be taking jobs away from US workers? I’m sure it can’t be due to the fact that the many Indian workers make in a day about what many American workers make during a coffee break.
Tech support seems to be especially adaptable to the “Indian Alternative.” I’m pretty sure my recent call to get help with my HP computer was taken in Mumbai. The lady greeted me with; “Good evening (it was 9:00 in the morning), my name is Padma, how may I be helping you please?” I’m pretty sure it was Mumbai because American tech support people are seldom women, and never so polite.
I’ve been told that outsourcing is actually good for our economy: Sudhakar Ram, managing director of Mastek, Mumbai, does make a very compelling argument. No doubt, it allows large corporations to improve service and cut costs (at least cut costs), and this is always good news. The stockholders are happy, the executives are happy (the displaced workers, maybe not so much), and executive bonuses are up.
BPO and KPO are the new buzz acronyms: Business Process and Knowledge Process Outsourcing. Over 75% of major US corporations are heavily engaged in the PO’s. Over one million US jobs have been PO’d already, and over one billion US dollars are PO’d every year. I’m not sure our economy can handle much more good news.
Undoubtedly, new jobs will be created from all the PO’ing going on. Unemployment counseling and outsourcing consulting should be growth industries. Realtors specializing in foreclosures should do very well, and of course many more government employees will be needed to deal with all the newly unemployed. Wait! Wouldn’t the processing of unemployment claims be a natural for outsourcing?
Tech support seems to be especially adaptable to the “Indian Alternative.” I’m pretty sure my recent call to get help with my HP computer was taken in Mumbai. The lady greeted me with; “Good evening (it was 9:00 in the morning), my name is Padma, how may I be helping you please?” I’m pretty sure it was Mumbai because American tech support people are seldom women, and never so polite.
I’ve been told that outsourcing is actually good for our economy: Sudhakar Ram, managing director of Mastek, Mumbai, does make a very compelling argument. No doubt, it allows large corporations to improve service and cut costs (at least cut costs), and this is always good news. The stockholders are happy, the executives are happy (the displaced workers, maybe not so much), and executive bonuses are up.
BPO and KPO are the new buzz acronyms: Business Process and Knowledge Process Outsourcing. Over 75% of major US corporations are heavily engaged in the PO’s. Over one million US jobs have been PO’d already, and over one billion US dollars are PO’d every year. I’m not sure our economy can handle much more good news.
Undoubtedly, new jobs will be created from all the PO’ing going on. Unemployment counseling and outsourcing consulting should be growth industries. Realtors specializing in foreclosures should do very well, and of course many more government employees will be needed to deal with all the newly unemployed. Wait! Wouldn’t the processing of unemployment claims be a natural for outsourcing?
Monday, November 8, 2010
Class Action Lawsuits
I have been notified that I am a plaintiff is a class action lawsuit against Classmates.com. I don’t remember signing up for Classmates.com, but if I’m a plaintiff, I must have signed up, and I’m sure I must have been severely wronged by the actions of what must be a greedy and corrupt conglomerate out to exploit the vulnerabilities of classmates everywhere. I mean, if they weren’t greedy and corrupt, why would I be suing them?
I’m not exactly sure what I am getting if and when I win this lawsuit. It appears it could be as much as $3.00, however more likely $2.00. Unfortunately I won’t be able to spend my $2.00 for just any crazy extravagant purchase I might have imagined. I will, however, be able to upgrade my Classmates.com membership to “Gold” status for $2.00 less than those shortsighted individuals who had neither the insight to recognize how severely they had been hurt, or the vision to take legal action to redress the injury.
Out of curiosity, I went to the Classmates.com website to see just what my savings would get me, only to discover that if I upgrade now I can save $2.50 off the normal $5.00 cost for a three month “Gold Membership.” Imagine my dilemma! Do I upgrade now and save $2.50 or wait until after the lawsuit is settled and maybe save $3.00? I must admit, I’m inclined to wait. After all, there is an important principle involved here.
I agree, my award may not seem like much compensation for my injuries, but I take heart in the knowledge that two of my fellow plaintiffs stand to receive $2500 each. I know they will spend the money wisely, perhaps on a well deserved vacation, and perhaps even drink a toast to all those other plaintiffs who have suffered so much at the hands of Classmates.com.
Of course the attorneys will receive a well-deserved $1,050,000 plus expenses for their extraordinary efforts on my behalf. I mean, the disclosure document alone ran to 66 pages, and it’s just full of very impressive legal-type language. Not to mention the exhaustive work involved in emailing all us plaintiffs and the endless negotiations which will be needed to ensure we all get the $3.00 we deserve, instead of the paltry $2.00 the defendants hope we will settle for.
I’m not exactly sure what I am getting if and when I win this lawsuit. It appears it could be as much as $3.00, however more likely $2.00. Unfortunately I won’t be able to spend my $2.00 for just any crazy extravagant purchase I might have imagined. I will, however, be able to upgrade my Classmates.com membership to “Gold” status for $2.00 less than those shortsighted individuals who had neither the insight to recognize how severely they had been hurt, or the vision to take legal action to redress the injury.
Out of curiosity, I went to the Classmates.com website to see just what my savings would get me, only to discover that if I upgrade now I can save $2.50 off the normal $5.00 cost for a three month “Gold Membership.” Imagine my dilemma! Do I upgrade now and save $2.50 or wait until after the lawsuit is settled and maybe save $3.00? I must admit, I’m inclined to wait. After all, there is an important principle involved here.
I agree, my award may not seem like much compensation for my injuries, but I take heart in the knowledge that two of my fellow plaintiffs stand to receive $2500 each. I know they will spend the money wisely, perhaps on a well deserved vacation, and perhaps even drink a toast to all those other plaintiffs who have suffered so much at the hands of Classmates.com.
Of course the attorneys will receive a well-deserved $1,050,000 plus expenses for their extraordinary efforts on my behalf. I mean, the disclosure document alone ran to 66 pages, and it’s just full of very impressive legal-type language. Not to mention the exhaustive work involved in emailing all us plaintiffs and the endless negotiations which will be needed to ensure we all get the $3.00 we deserve, instead of the paltry $2.00 the defendants hope we will settle for.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Credit Card Companies, Part 2
When the economy imploded we, the taxpayers, bailed them out. Actually, I believe we bailed out the banks that own the credit card companies, or perhaps it was the companies that own the banks that own the credit card companies, or was it the companies that own the companies that own the banks that own the credit card companies? OK, I don’t know whom we bailed out, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t we, the taxpayers.
Here’s the interesting part. Because they could no longer meet their financial commitments, we loaned (spelled G-A-V-E) banks the money to do so until times got better. And fortunately, they reciprocated by giving us, the credit card holder (spelled T-A-X-P-A-Y-E- R), more time and a lower interest rate to help us meet our financial commitments.
Or did I mis-remember that? Did they actually double or triple our interest rate, lower our credit limit, and, should we then miss a payment, start contacting us on a regular basis to give us a “friendly” reminder that we seem to have fallen behind?
Is it just me, or is there a certain resemblance here to another long-established and time-honored lending institution? Easily made loans with little or no credit verification, extremely high interest rates, and “friendly” reminders for failure to make payments (assuming broken knee caps qualify as friendly reminders). Have today’s credit card companies become a bit predatory, perhaps even shark-like?
Here’s another interesting part. Miss not one, but several payments, and all the rules seem to change. Suddenly it’s no longer important to make payments on time. Suddenly interest disappears altogether and payment plans can be easily arranged. In fact, for an immediate cash payment of as little as 25% of the balance, the debt will be considered “paid in full.” Note: your ability to obtain credit in the future (or ever) may be adversely affected; “snuffed out,” so to speak.
Am I missing something here? Wouldn’t it make more sense to help out the credit card holder (spelled T-A-X-P-A-Y-E-R) rather than “snuff him out”?
Here’s the interesting part. Because they could no longer meet their financial commitments, we loaned (spelled G-A-V-E) banks the money to do so until times got better. And fortunately, they reciprocated by giving us, the credit card holder (spelled T-A-X-P-A-Y-E- R), more time and a lower interest rate to help us meet our financial commitments.
Or did I mis-remember that? Did they actually double or triple our interest rate, lower our credit limit, and, should we then miss a payment, start contacting us on a regular basis to give us a “friendly” reminder that we seem to have fallen behind?
Is it just me, or is there a certain resemblance here to another long-established and time-honored lending institution? Easily made loans with little or no credit verification, extremely high interest rates, and “friendly” reminders for failure to make payments (assuming broken knee caps qualify as friendly reminders). Have today’s credit card companies become a bit predatory, perhaps even shark-like?
Here’s another interesting part. Miss not one, but several payments, and all the rules seem to change. Suddenly it’s no longer important to make payments on time. Suddenly interest disappears altogether and payment plans can be easily arranged. In fact, for an immediate cash payment of as little as 25% of the balance, the debt will be considered “paid in full.” Note: your ability to obtain credit in the future (or ever) may be adversely affected; “snuffed out,” so to speak.
Am I missing something here? Wouldn’t it make more sense to help out the credit card holder (spelled T-A-X-P-A-Y-E-R) rather than “snuff him out”?
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Frequent Flier Miles
Many, I mean many many, years ago I joined the American Airlines Frequent Flyer Program. I wasn’t actually an American Airlines Frequent Flyer, and in I’d never even flown on American Airlines. I’d hardly flown on any airline, for that matter, but it seems that actually flying isn’t required in order to accumulate “frequent flyer miles.”
All that I needed to do was obtain and use the brand new AAdvantage MasterCard. I think the first A in AAdvantage is silent, like the first A in Aardvark or the P in Psychotic, which I undoubtedly was at the time.
In any case, I used my new AAdvantage Card with gusto, some might even say abandon, and racked up “miles” at an impressive pace. Dreaming of exotic vacations in faraway places, I may have failed to notice that my new credit card, with quite an impressive credit line, had an even more impressive interest rate; but that’s another story.
Soon came the day to book that first vacation, and with over 60,000 “miles” in the bank, so to speak, I calculated that the airfare was “paid in full.” It turns out my calculations were a bit off. Plans to travel during the holidays (it seemed to make sense as I wouldn’t be working then) were dashed when I discovered the concept of “blackout dates.” I’m sure “blackout dates” were mentioned on the credit card agreement, undoubtedly next to the itty bitty print disclosing the interest rates.
Undeterred, I changed my plans to travel when “blackout dates” didn’t apply. But surprisingly, it turned out that there were no seats available on any of the alternate dates I suggested. I seriously doubted that every seat on every flight I proposed was sold out, and my suspicions were, in fact, justified. It was then that I learned about the concept of different “reward levels.”
I did finally take that first vacation, albeit much later and costing far more “miles” than anticipated, and I’ve taken several vacations since, all courtesy of American Airlines. Interestingly, I don’t remember ever actually purchasing a ticket on American Airlines. Wasn’t that supposed to be the whole point?
All that I needed to do was obtain and use the brand new AAdvantage MasterCard. I think the first A in AAdvantage is silent, like the first A in Aardvark or the P in Psychotic, which I undoubtedly was at the time.
In any case, I used my new AAdvantage Card with gusto, some might even say abandon, and racked up “miles” at an impressive pace. Dreaming of exotic vacations in faraway places, I may have failed to notice that my new credit card, with quite an impressive credit line, had an even more impressive interest rate; but that’s another story.
Soon came the day to book that first vacation, and with over 60,000 “miles” in the bank, so to speak, I calculated that the airfare was “paid in full.” It turns out my calculations were a bit off. Plans to travel during the holidays (it seemed to make sense as I wouldn’t be working then) were dashed when I discovered the concept of “blackout dates.” I’m sure “blackout dates” were mentioned on the credit card agreement, undoubtedly next to the itty bitty print disclosing the interest rates.
Undeterred, I changed my plans to travel when “blackout dates” didn’t apply. But surprisingly, it turned out that there were no seats available on any of the alternate dates I suggested. I seriously doubted that every seat on every flight I proposed was sold out, and my suspicions were, in fact, justified. It was then that I learned about the concept of different “reward levels.”
I did finally take that first vacation, albeit much later and costing far more “miles” than anticipated, and I’ve taken several vacations since, all courtesy of American Airlines. Interestingly, I don’t remember ever actually purchasing a ticket on American Airlines. Wasn’t that supposed to be the whole point?
Credit Card Companies
If you believe the advertising, they are the consumer’s best friend. If you get the new whatever card, not only will all your finances suddenly become manageable and organized, but you will reap benefits beyond the imagination: double and even triple reward points that can be used to purchase all kinds of wonderful stuff (never mind if it’s stuff you don’t need) and purchase travel with “no blackout dates.” Actually the “no blackout dates” would be nice; my frequent flyer miles seem to have nothing but blackout dates, but that’s another story. One might think that instead of “benefits beyond the imagination,” the companies might just offer reasonable interest rates and minimal penalties. But then one might be incredibly naive.
Is it my imagination or do the credit card companies function just a tiny bit like drug dealers? Don’t the pushers on the street corners offer you a free trial of the newest mind-bending substance - don’t worry, it’s not really additive - in order to get you hooked. Only to then charge exorbitant prices for their product down the road, when you’ve got to have it. Likewise, have you ever received a credit card solicitation offering up to tens of thousands of dollars (emphasis on the “up to”) at just 3%, 2%, or even 0% interest? Just sign the check, attached for your convenience, and the money is yours to use any way you please. You can even pay down your other high interest credit cards (of course not our high interest credit cards). “Don’t worry, there aren’t any catches,” or at least none you’ll know about unless you read the tiny print on the back of this offer, something that anyone with a microscope handy can easily do.
Should you actually read the back of the offer, you may discover that your 0% interest rate automatically becomes 14% to 18% within a few months. And should you be foolish enough to make more than the minimum payment on the balance, rest assured that the additional payment will pay down the 0% balance, nothing at a higher rate. By the way, don’t even dream of being late on a payment; the rate could jump to 29.99% or higher (evidently 29.99% is significantly lower than 30%) and stay there, forever. I guess the reasoning must be that, if you are having trouble making your payments at 15%, doubling the interest rate will certainly solve the problem.
If for some unexplainable reason it doesn’t solve the problem, it gets even better; but that also is another story.
Is it my imagination or do the credit card companies function just a tiny bit like drug dealers? Don’t the pushers on the street corners offer you a free trial of the newest mind-bending substance - don’t worry, it’s not really additive - in order to get you hooked. Only to then charge exorbitant prices for their product down the road, when you’ve got to have it. Likewise, have you ever received a credit card solicitation offering up to tens of thousands of dollars (emphasis on the “up to”) at just 3%, 2%, or even 0% interest? Just sign the check, attached for your convenience, and the money is yours to use any way you please. You can even pay down your other high interest credit cards (of course not our high interest credit cards). “Don’t worry, there aren’t any catches,” or at least none you’ll know about unless you read the tiny print on the back of this offer, something that anyone with a microscope handy can easily do.
Should you actually read the back of the offer, you may discover that your 0% interest rate automatically becomes 14% to 18% within a few months. And should you be foolish enough to make more than the minimum payment on the balance, rest assured that the additional payment will pay down the 0% balance, nothing at a higher rate. By the way, don’t even dream of being late on a payment; the rate could jump to 29.99% or higher (evidently 29.99% is significantly lower than 30%) and stay there, forever. I guess the reasoning must be that, if you are having trouble making your payments at 15%, doubling the interest rate will certainly solve the problem.
If for some unexplainable reason it doesn’t solve the problem, it gets even better; but that also is another story.
Foreclosures
If hundreds of thousands of homes are in foreclosure and maybe two million families will lose their homes this year, the government must be doing something right. I mean must be doing something – right?
Well it turns out, they are doing something, something being spelled H-A-M-P, which stands for Home Affordable Modification Program. The program is designed to reduce the mortgage payment of homeowners unable to make their present payment due to a significant reduction in income. It seems that losing one’s job can result in a significant reduction in income. Who knew?
The program may be working. In fact, I personally know of someone who received a HAMP modification, and it’s rumored there might be another one. Actually, there have been several thousand more. Unfortunately, however, about two thirds of those who have entered the program have since dropped out. I suspect it’s that nasty lack of work thing.
I’m a little surprised that it took government intervention to mandate a program to help homeowners in trouble. It would seem logical that the lenders, usually banks, would have tried to help the situation on their own, given the likelihood of several million loans going bad and several million unhappy borrowers. Several million potential bank credit card users, I might add. Speaking of credit cards – but don’t get me started; that’s a story for another time.
Wouldn’t it seem that the financial ramifications of all these “underperforming loans” would suggest that the lenders try some creative solutions other than foreclosure? What about the inevitable PR disaster? Then again, if my early Sunday School training doesn’t fail me, the money lenders have had a PR problem for some time. I guess 2000 years haven’t been sufficient time to improve the situation.
In any case, we have a situation with millions of people losing their homes, the government trying to help, with limited success, and the banks trying, incredibly, to speed up the foreclosure process, so more homes can be sold at a loss or sit and deteriorate, even sooner.
Well it turns out, they are doing something, something being spelled H-A-M-P, which stands for Home Affordable Modification Program. The program is designed to reduce the mortgage payment of homeowners unable to make their present payment due to a significant reduction in income. It seems that losing one’s job can result in a significant reduction in income. Who knew?
The program may be working. In fact, I personally know of someone who received a HAMP modification, and it’s rumored there might be another one. Actually, there have been several thousand more. Unfortunately, however, about two thirds of those who have entered the program have since dropped out. I suspect it’s that nasty lack of work thing.
I’m a little surprised that it took government intervention to mandate a program to help homeowners in trouble. It would seem logical that the lenders, usually banks, would have tried to help the situation on their own, given the likelihood of several million loans going bad and several million unhappy borrowers. Several million potential bank credit card users, I might add. Speaking of credit cards – but don’t get me started; that’s a story for another time.
Wouldn’t it seem that the financial ramifications of all these “underperforming loans” would suggest that the lenders try some creative solutions other than foreclosure? What about the inevitable PR disaster? Then again, if my early Sunday School training doesn’t fail me, the money lenders have had a PR problem for some time. I guess 2000 years haven’t been sufficient time to improve the situation.
In any case, we have a situation with millions of people losing their homes, the government trying to help, with limited success, and the banks trying, incredibly, to speed up the foreclosure process, so more homes can be sold at a loss or sit and deteriorate, even sooner.
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