We have a customer in a very average little town in northern Illinois. I think it's actually Illinois' second or third largest city, but let's just say it ain't Chicago. It reminds me of Anytown, only without the life that a major university brings (which, in Anytown, is the only life you'll find.) I absolutely love the people with whom I work there; to a person, they're the smartest and most fun group with whom I've had the privilege to associate. I've made some friendships there that transcend the job, and that's very cool.
But, other than those folks, the place has nothing which distinguishes it from any other very average town in the Midwest. Except this: from city limit to city limit, restaurant service is horrible. Upscale joint, local dive, national chain, doesn't matter. I've taken to calling the place the Land of the Eight Percent Tip.
And so it was that I found myself at a Steak 'n' Shake very late one night last week, and the shake I ordered never arrived. For me, it was just steak, no shake. So I dutifully put the 8 percent on the credit card slip, sighed and shook my head, and walked out the door. I got my keys out of my pocket, pointed them around the parking lot in one of my typical attempts to identify which rental car is mine, and then felt a chill of a high-20s evening.
That chill shook me a little bit; just enough to make me drop my keys.
In a storm drain.
I knew it was going to happen the millisecond they left my hand. And all I could do was calmly think, "Yep, they're gonna land in the drain." I could see them down there; about five feet down, just far enough to where getting them out was going to be a project.
After determining that the cover of the drain was indeed cemented down, and that I was indeed cold, and that it was indeed 12:30 a.m. and it was doubtful that anybody at Alamo Rent-A-Car was going to care at that hour (or perhaps at any other), I went back into the restaurant ... and pleaded my case with the kid to whom I had just granted 10 percent. I told him my tale of woe. He went to the back of the store and came back with a broom handle, a long hook-like rod and one of his friends.
We poked around in the drain for about 10 minutes, when the friend came up with an idea. In the absence of a flashlight (nobody had a flashlight!), the guy went back into the restaurant and came back with several paper placemats and a Bic lighter. He lit the paper on fire and dropped it in the drain. "Hope there's no gas in there," he said as he dropped it.
The idea was genius; not only did it warm us up, but it gave us sufficient light to coax the keys onto the hook with the broom handle. The waiter nudged, I hooked, and we brought the keys back to their rightful above-ground place.
I was, of course, grateful; so grateful that I gave the kid all the cash in my pocket, which meant that his 8 percent wound up being closer to 100. Being a kid -- and probably on some level aware that I had basically stiffed him -- he took the cash.
Good for him, I say. And from now on, I ... well, I'll probably still meet bad service with a bad tip. But I will add a new procedure to the travel system -- the keys stay in the pocket until I get to the car.
Monday, January 30, 2006
Monday, January 16, 2006
Fisher Price's My First Poker Blog
The casino in our city, Saturday night. Sat down at a $2 Texas Hold-'em table, started off with J-Kd, flop came up 2c-4s-9c, turn showed 6-c. I folded. It only got worse from there. But it's been a while since I had that much fun losing that much money.
The experience was diluted a bit by having a fight break out at the next table over, which was kind of distracting. The dealer at our table very much had a show-must-go-on attitude, which I guess he's trained to do, and kept slinging cards while he was yelling for security and we players were all watching for the inevitable firearm.
I take consolation in the fact that I never had good cards; I never folded too soon, basically. Had I played a little more pessimistically, the chips would have at least lasted longer, but I still doubt I'd be bragging about my winnings. I allowed myself to get rushed into a decision a few times, which seems to be the key difference between playing online and playing live (and with real money). I needed to give myself that extra second or two to think about what I was doing, and to get a read on the rest of the table.
But the fact that I've spent that many words analyzing what was possibly the weakest performance in the history of poker suggests that I'll probably be back.
-----
Overall, The Wife and I had a horrendously unsuccessful night at the casino. It was her first time in a casino, my fourth. The other three times (twice in Kansas City, once in Denmark) I came out a little bit ahead, mostly by playing blackjack. The Wife is apparently not Lady Luck. I'm not going to say how much we lost Satruday, lest people think we suddenly have a lot of disposable income and start calling us wanting loans. All I can say is thank God we have a big tax refund coming.
We spent most of the night giggling at our incompetence. We were flummoxed by the bingo game on the slot machines. We weren't sure why it was there, but we noticed that it seemed to change when we touched the screen, so we preceded every play on the slot machine with three taps on the bingo card.
In our state, gambling is only legal on "Native American land," which means the tribe buys up a few plots in the hotel district, plants its flag there and waits for it to start raining money. I consoled myself as we walked out, having drunkenly decided that I've made my reparations to the Indians for how my people treated them 150 years ago. We're even now.
-----
(To the overly sensitive, politically correct or Native American among us: That was a joke. Lighten up.)
-----
I'm not an early adopter; I'm just catching on to this poker thing. I'm playing at one of the few online sites compatible with Macs. I won my first few hands, then buzzed through my fake bankroll with alarming speed. Thankfully, refilling is as easy as clicking a button, and I'm now comfortably a few hundred fake dollars ahead.
Poker is a game that's well suited for my conflicting personality traits. I don't trust anybody and I tend to over-analyze situations, but I'm also one of the most optimistic people I know.
I do prefer to take my risks in environments I control (which is why I have no qualms with riding a motorcycle 140 mph but won't get on a rollercoaster). Ultimately, knowledge is control.
Thankfully, there are plenty of sources of knowledge out there. Cousin Otis has managed to make a career out of this, having extracted himself from the grind of mainstream journalism to become a globe-trotting poker blogger. That's so 2006; writing online about a game that incredible numbers of people are suddenly watching on television. Cards on TV? My parents played cards in the kitchen when I was a kid. My dad and mom and aunts and uncles would get together nearly every weekend to play canasta or some other equally uncool game. I can't imagine watching that on TV.
But I found myself on a Song flight recently with the little TV in the seat, watching ESPN during off hours. And there it was ... guys sitting around the table playing cards. After having successfully ignored the poker boom in the last two years, other than to occasionally marvel at the blogs, I found myself mesmerized. I found myself wondering why the hell So-and-So called with 5-2 offsuit. And then, I went online.
It'll be a long, long while before I'm comfortable using my kids' college money on a card game. But I now understand the appeal, and it probably won't be long before I'm seeking out a game.
The experience was diluted a bit by having a fight break out at the next table over, which was kind of distracting. The dealer at our table very much had a show-must-go-on attitude, which I guess he's trained to do, and kept slinging cards while he was yelling for security and we players were all watching for the inevitable firearm.
I take consolation in the fact that I never had good cards; I never folded too soon, basically. Had I played a little more pessimistically, the chips would have at least lasted longer, but I still doubt I'd be bragging about my winnings. I allowed myself to get rushed into a decision a few times, which seems to be the key difference between playing online and playing live (and with real money). I needed to give myself that extra second or two to think about what I was doing, and to get a read on the rest of the table.
But the fact that I've spent that many words analyzing what was possibly the weakest performance in the history of poker suggests that I'll probably be back.
-----
Overall, The Wife and I had a horrendously unsuccessful night at the casino. It was her first time in a casino, my fourth. The other three times (twice in Kansas City, once in Denmark) I came out a little bit ahead, mostly by playing blackjack. The Wife is apparently not Lady Luck. I'm not going to say how much we lost Satruday, lest people think we suddenly have a lot of disposable income and start calling us wanting loans. All I can say is thank God we have a big tax refund coming.
We spent most of the night giggling at our incompetence. We were flummoxed by the bingo game on the slot machines. We weren't sure why it was there, but we noticed that it seemed to change when we touched the screen, so we preceded every play on the slot machine with three taps on the bingo card.
In our state, gambling is only legal on "Native American land," which means the tribe buys up a few plots in the hotel district, plants its flag there and waits for it to start raining money. I consoled myself as we walked out, having drunkenly decided that I've made my reparations to the Indians for how my people treated them 150 years ago. We're even now.
-----
(To the overly sensitive, politically correct or Native American among us: That was a joke. Lighten up.)
-----
I'm not an early adopter; I'm just catching on to this poker thing. I'm playing at one of the few online sites compatible with Macs. I won my first few hands, then buzzed through my fake bankroll with alarming speed. Thankfully, refilling is as easy as clicking a button, and I'm now comfortably a few hundred fake dollars ahead.
Poker is a game that's well suited for my conflicting personality traits. I don't trust anybody and I tend to over-analyze situations, but I'm also one of the most optimistic people I know.
I do prefer to take my risks in environments I control (which is why I have no qualms with riding a motorcycle 140 mph but won't get on a rollercoaster). Ultimately, knowledge is control.
Thankfully, there are plenty of sources of knowledge out there. Cousin Otis has managed to make a career out of this, having extracted himself from the grind of mainstream journalism to become a globe-trotting poker blogger. That's so 2006; writing online about a game that incredible numbers of people are suddenly watching on television. Cards on TV? My parents played cards in the kitchen when I was a kid. My dad and mom and aunts and uncles would get together nearly every weekend to play canasta or some other equally uncool game. I can't imagine watching that on TV.
But I found myself on a Song flight recently with the little TV in the seat, watching ESPN during off hours. And there it was ... guys sitting around the table playing cards. After having successfully ignored the poker boom in the last two years, other than to occasionally marvel at the blogs, I found myself mesmerized. I found myself wondering why the hell So-and-So called with 5-2 offsuit. And then, I went online.
It'll be a long, long while before I'm comfortable using my kids' college money on a card game. But I now understand the appeal, and it probably won't be long before I'm seeking out a game.
Saturday, January 14, 2006
Way, way too close to home
You probably heard about the school shooting in Central Florida on Friday. Kid takes gun to middle school, brandishes it, school clears out, cops chase kid into bathroom, corner kid. Kid points gun at cop, cop shoots kid. Kid is on life support as of this writing.
If we hadn't made the decision two years ago this month to uproot our lives and change my career, The Wife and I would have been among the frantic parents in the mob scene outside the school Friday morning. That was the middle school the Old Daughter would have attended.
-----
This spurred a discussion in the house this evening. The Wife was mortified that the SWAT team shot this poor kid, who just had a little pellet gun. "They didn't have to shoot to kill," she said. "They had him cornered in the bathroom, for Pete's said. Why didn't they just shoot him in the leg or something?"
I pointed out that it was a pellet gun made to look just like a 9mm Beretta, and that the cop did exactly the right thing. "A kid takes a gun to my kid's school," I said, "I want him taken out. I want the cops to drop him. I don't care if he's 15." If a SWAT team had been able to get to Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold a little sooner, maybe that's 12 other families who would have been spared the unspeakable grief they've dealt with the last six years.
I'm probably closer to wrong, and she's probably closer to right. A kid dying is a tragedy, and I hope this kid holds on and gets treatment and becomes a productive member of society. But dammit, my first priority is my children's safety.
My kid was safely in her own middle school Friday, 100 miles to the southwest of the horror, and knows nothing of this incident. But we've already had to explain more to her this year than we've wanted to. An eighth-grader at her school committed suicide earlier this year. It was not that long ago that we were having to teach her how to tie her shoes; now we're having to show her some of the world's darkest corners.
I know that's the only way that she's going to grow up with the ability to understand and deal with such things. But it's not right, and it's not something for which I'm prepared as a parent.
I graduated from high school in 1986, which wasn't exactly the Little House on the Prairie era. In the approximately 2,160 days in which I attended public schools, I never once thought for a second that somebody might get shot there. We lost fellow students to car wrecks, childhood diseases and tornadoes, but not suicide.
I try not to believe the world is a worse or crazier place now than it has ever been. Days like today test that belief.
If we hadn't made the decision two years ago this month to uproot our lives and change my career, The Wife and I would have been among the frantic parents in the mob scene outside the school Friday morning. That was the middle school the Old Daughter would have attended.
-----
This spurred a discussion in the house this evening. The Wife was mortified that the SWAT team shot this poor kid, who just had a little pellet gun. "They didn't have to shoot to kill," she said. "They had him cornered in the bathroom, for Pete's said. Why didn't they just shoot him in the leg or something?"
I pointed out that it was a pellet gun made to look just like a 9mm Beretta, and that the cop did exactly the right thing. "A kid takes a gun to my kid's school," I said, "I want him taken out. I want the cops to drop him. I don't care if he's 15." If a SWAT team had been able to get to Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold a little sooner, maybe that's 12 other families who would have been spared the unspeakable grief they've dealt with the last six years.
I'm probably closer to wrong, and she's probably closer to right. A kid dying is a tragedy, and I hope this kid holds on and gets treatment and becomes a productive member of society. But dammit, my first priority is my children's safety.
My kid was safely in her own middle school Friday, 100 miles to the southwest of the horror, and knows nothing of this incident. But we've already had to explain more to her this year than we've wanted to. An eighth-grader at her school committed suicide earlier this year. It was not that long ago that we were having to teach her how to tie her shoes; now we're having to show her some of the world's darkest corners.
I know that's the only way that she's going to grow up with the ability to understand and deal with such things. But it's not right, and it's not something for which I'm prepared as a parent.
I graduated from high school in 1986, which wasn't exactly the Little House on the Prairie era. In the approximately 2,160 days in which I attended public schools, I never once thought for a second that somebody might get shot there. We lost fellow students to car wrecks, childhood diseases and tornadoes, but not suicide.
I try not to believe the world is a worse or crazier place now than it has ever been. Days like today test that belief.
Friday, January 13, 2006
And then God said, "Let there be California"
I was headed home after our Southern California project got off to a rough start. The Co-Worker, who's managing the project, stayed behind another day. She suggested that I relieve my stress by taking the Pacific Coast Highway rather than the customary freeway route, U.S. 101 and I-405, back to Los Angeles International Airport. I asked if she was sure that it was faster. "Oh, yeah," she said. "And beautiful, too."
As I drove through Oxnard, apparently a military and agricultural outpost, I wasn't so sure. Looked like any other surface-street alternative route to me. At this point, it's just California 1 South, Oxnard Boulevard.
Then, my rented Chrysler Sebring convertible made a slight jog to the right, and the truth was revealed.
Oh. My. God.
I just don't have words. Thank God I was wearing sunglasses, because I was literally near tears as absolutely breathtaking scenery led to even more superlative sights. On the left, a mountain rising to the amazingly clear blue sky; in the middle, me and the Sebring; on the right, the Pacific crashing into the rocks stacked at the side of the road.
I see now why people overpay to live in Southern California. I appreciate why people build those houses in Malibu atop those cliffs, despite the very real possibility that they'll slide off into the ocean someday (and ultimately, I'm not so sure that would be a bad thing.) I wonder why anybody who is recruited to attend Pepperdine University, whose campus runs along the east side of the highway south of Malibu, would turn it down.
There are just no words. It was epiphany-level beautiful.
In a way, Los Angeles might be the true Anytown USA. It was disconcerting to be on a road for the first time and see so many familiar exits: Mulholland Drive, Wilshire Boulevard, Sunset Boulevard, Santa Monica Boulevard ("All I wanna do/is have some fun"). You want diversity? I looked to my right at one red light in Santa Monica, and saw an early-'70s Vega with the old blue California license plates, belching gray smoke from its exhaust pipe directly onto the shiny new Rolls waiting behind the Vega at the light. That's not a sight I'm going to see back in Suburbia; nor, likely, was it a sight I was going to see on the 405.
I live in one of America's versions of Paradise; it takes much more than a 69-degree day in January to impress me. I certainly came away impressed, and then some.
As I drove through Oxnard, apparently a military and agricultural outpost, I wasn't so sure. Looked like any other surface-street alternative route to me. At this point, it's just California 1 South, Oxnard Boulevard.
Then, my rented Chrysler Sebring convertible made a slight jog to the right, and the truth was revealed.
Oh. My. God.
I just don't have words. Thank God I was wearing sunglasses, because I was literally near tears as absolutely breathtaking scenery led to even more superlative sights. On the left, a mountain rising to the amazingly clear blue sky; in the middle, me and the Sebring; on the right, the Pacific crashing into the rocks stacked at the side of the road.
I see now why people overpay to live in Southern California. I appreciate why people build those houses in Malibu atop those cliffs, despite the very real possibility that they'll slide off into the ocean someday (and ultimately, I'm not so sure that would be a bad thing.) I wonder why anybody who is recruited to attend Pepperdine University, whose campus runs along the east side of the highway south of Malibu, would turn it down.
There are just no words. It was epiphany-level beautiful.
In a way, Los Angeles might be the true Anytown USA. It was disconcerting to be on a road for the first time and see so many familiar exits: Mulholland Drive, Wilshire Boulevard, Sunset Boulevard, Santa Monica Boulevard ("All I wanna do/is have some fun"). You want diversity? I looked to my right at one red light in Santa Monica, and saw an early-'70s Vega with the old blue California license plates, belching gray smoke from its exhaust pipe directly onto the shiny new Rolls waiting behind the Vega at the light. That's not a sight I'm going to see back in Suburbia; nor, likely, was it a sight I was going to see on the 405.
I live in one of America's versions of Paradise; it takes much more than a 69-degree day in January to impress me. I certainly came away impressed, and then some.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
My next car
The first car I remember really wanting was a 1970 Dodge Challenger that was for sale on my walk to school when I was a 15-year-old, license-less, car-less high school sophomore. I, of course, had no access to the $1,500 that was going to be necessary to buy it. But, man, it looked sweet: 340 six-pack, big rectangular exhausts, all stock, well preserved.
Now Chrysler goes and shows me this. I would camp out at my local Dodge dealer if that came to fruition.
Now Chrysler goes and shows me this. I would camp out at my local Dodge dealer if that came to fruition.
If only
I deal with buggy software a lot (and not just the stuff I install and support.) The latest buggy piece of software with which I'm dealing is a program that syncs my Blackberry to my Mac. Somehow, rather than syncing, it cleared my calendar.
The more I look at it, the more I like the way my new calendar looks.
The more I look at it, the more I like the way my new calendar looks.
Sunday, January 01, 2006
Happy New Life
Just in time to get that all-important '05 tax deduction for our good friends C and L, little Teagan comes along at 8 pounds and 5 ounces Saturday afternoon. She's got three big brothers, which, over the course of the next 20 or so years, is either going to be the best thing that ever happened to her, or the worst. Welcome; it's going to be a fun ride.
After the fireworks, smoke
It's 1 hour and 11 minutes into the first day of the first year of the second half of the first decade of the 21st century. Suddenly, for reasons I don't quite understand, I feel a lot older than I did an hour and 11 minutes ago.