I pulled this one from the archives to share with all of you. It is a story I wrote a few years back while living in Virginia City. It was a submission to one of the Writer's Weekly quarterly short story contests. I think I made the Top 20 with this one. The prize was a free e-book. Not a Pulitzer, but coming in near the top is always fun. I also used it in my application to P.S.U.
The restaurant mentioned in the story, Pasta Bella, is an actual place. It was my favorite Seattle restaurant, and the meal I describe in the story is legit too. AMAZING! If you're ever in Seattle, I give you my money back guarantee on this meal.
Also, I used the names of a lesbian couple who rented an apartment from me in Seattle. I think my friend Donna will be the only one of you who will remember them [Irish bar on Mercer Street during Bumbershoot, with that actual Irish guy who exclaimed "Aw, That's fuckin' brilliant!" when he saw the tattoo on my forearm]
I know the folks in Reno are wondering what's with me and lesbians named Tamara (another October birthday). Perhaps I'm cursed.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy...
10.09.2007
The Prediction
“You will soon be with child, my dear,” the psychic exclaimed.
She thanked him. As they were leaving, she said to her sister, “Michelle, you’re definitely buying dinner now, since I just blew fifty bucks on that freak show.”
“Come on, Tamara. What are you upset about? You just have to think of it as entertainment. Did you really think that a guy called ‘The Amazing Zorta’ was going to help you solve all your problems and plan your life?”
“No, but to tell me ‘You will soon be with child’? What the HELL does that mean? Seriously, I’ve got a pretty butch haircut, tattoos, and I’m wearing Doc Marten’s. Doesn’t that pretty much tell the guy, ‘This chick’s gayer than gay’? I just don’t get it,” Tamara said. “Where do you want to eat, anyway? I’m getting hungry.”
“Let’s go to Pasta Bella,” said Michelle. “I’ve been craving their spinach gorgonzola walnut ravioli lately, and their crème caramel for dessert is simply orgasmic.”
The women took the #2 bus uptown to the restaurant, but did not speak. Tamara spent the entire ride thinking about what the psychic said, and recounted many conversations she had with her partner, Tracy, about child rearing. During their five-year relationship, Tracy frequently mentioned that having children was not part of her life plan. Tamara had always envisioned becoming a mother some day, but denied these feelings because she didn’t want to make Tracy unhappy.
Tamara was the first to speak after their meal had arrived.
“How do you do it?” she asked.
“What do you mean?” asked Michelle.
“Being a single mom. I mean, how do you do the ‘nurse thing’ all week, and still have time and energy to come home and be such a great mother to Ben?” asked Tamara.
“It isn’t always easy,” Michelle said. “You just have to prioritize what’s important to you, and make it happen. After Ben’s dad bailed, I didn’t think I could do it, but honestly, it hasn’t been too difficult. That’s why I became a nurse. The 12-hour shifts are nice because I only have to work three days a week. Ben’s with a babysitter a lot, but I still have four whole days with him.”
“Yeah, I’m just not sure I could do it,” said Tamara.
“Of course you could. What makes you say that?” asked Michelle.
“Maybe, I suppose. Tracy doesn’t want to have kids, though. What that psychic said has really gotten me thinking. What am I supposed to tell Tracy? That suddenly after all these years I’ve changed my mind? It was one thing when I was in my early 20’s and struggling, but now that I’m pushing 30 and doing OK, the biological clock is ticking a lot louder. Know what I mean?” Tamara asked.
“Personally, I don’t know how you could be with somebody who doesn’t want to have kids, especially since you’ve always talked about having them. Maybe you should just have a conversation with her. Tell her your feelings have grown more intense. Maybe she’d be supportive. If not, maybe it’s time for an ultimatum. I know you love her, but you have to decide what’s more important to you, ultimately. It’s not like life is a dress rehearsal. You only get one shot at it,” said Michelle.
“I suppose you’re right,” Tamara said. “It’s just so hard.”
After dinner, the two exchanged “I love you’s.” Michelle took the #2 back downtown to where her condo was. Tamara decided to take a long walk home. She had plenty to think about. Deep down, she knew what Michelle had said about life not being a dress rehearsal was true. If she really wanted to have children, then she was going to have to make that a priority, even if it meant leaving Tracy. She spent hours walking up and down the streets of her neighborhood trying to figure out how to approach the conversation with Tracy.
She walked through the front door to find Tracy sitting quietly on the couch.
“Hey, we have to talk,” they both muttered simultaneously. Something felt weird.
Tamara let Tracy go first. “What is it?” she asked.
“It’s Michelle,” said Tracy. “The hospital called. They said she was killed by a drunk driver in a crosswalk downtown.”
A wave of shock overcame Tamara, and she began to bawl. “I just had dinner with her tonight. How can this be possible?” she cried.
Tracy held Tamara in her arms until both their tears subsided.
“Oh my God!” realized Tamara. “What about Ben?”
“He’ll live with us,” Tracy said bluntly.
“But I thought you didn’t want to have kids,” Tamara said, still sobbing.
“That’s what families do,” Tracy said. “It wasn’t a priority before, but this is totally different. I love you, and I know you would do the same for me. We’ll do whatever it takes to make it work.”
They cried again, but the tears were of a slightly different variety.
“I guess we better call the babysitter,” Tracy said.
“Yeah,” said Tamara. “The babysitter.”
She thanked him. As they were leaving, she said to her sister, “Michelle, you’re definitely buying dinner now, since I just blew fifty bucks on that freak show.”
“Come on, Tamara. What are you upset about? You just have to think of it as entertainment. Did you really think that a guy called ‘The Amazing Zorta’ was going to help you solve all your problems and plan your life?”
“No, but to tell me ‘You will soon be with child’? What the HELL does that mean? Seriously, I’ve got a pretty butch haircut, tattoos, and I’m wearing Doc Marten’s. Doesn’t that pretty much tell the guy, ‘This chick’s gayer than gay’? I just don’t get it,” Tamara said. “Where do you want to eat, anyway? I’m getting hungry.”
“Let’s go to Pasta Bella,” said Michelle. “I’ve been craving their spinach gorgonzola walnut ravioli lately, and their crème caramel for dessert is simply orgasmic.”
The women took the #2 bus uptown to the restaurant, but did not speak. Tamara spent the entire ride thinking about what the psychic said, and recounted many conversations she had with her partner, Tracy, about child rearing. During their five-year relationship, Tracy frequently mentioned that having children was not part of her life plan. Tamara had always envisioned becoming a mother some day, but denied these feelings because she didn’t want to make Tracy unhappy.
Tamara was the first to speak after their meal had arrived.
“How do you do it?” she asked.
“What do you mean?” asked Michelle.
“Being a single mom. I mean, how do you do the ‘nurse thing’ all week, and still have time and energy to come home and be such a great mother to Ben?” asked Tamara.
“It isn’t always easy,” Michelle said. “You just have to prioritize what’s important to you, and make it happen. After Ben’s dad bailed, I didn’t think I could do it, but honestly, it hasn’t been too difficult. That’s why I became a nurse. The 12-hour shifts are nice because I only have to work three days a week. Ben’s with a babysitter a lot, but I still have four whole days with him.”
“Yeah, I’m just not sure I could do it,” said Tamara.
“Of course you could. What makes you say that?” asked Michelle.
“Maybe, I suppose. Tracy doesn’t want to have kids, though. What that psychic said has really gotten me thinking. What am I supposed to tell Tracy? That suddenly after all these years I’ve changed my mind? It was one thing when I was in my early 20’s and struggling, but now that I’m pushing 30 and doing OK, the biological clock is ticking a lot louder. Know what I mean?” Tamara asked.
“Personally, I don’t know how you could be with somebody who doesn’t want to have kids, especially since you’ve always talked about having them. Maybe you should just have a conversation with her. Tell her your feelings have grown more intense. Maybe she’d be supportive. If not, maybe it’s time for an ultimatum. I know you love her, but you have to decide what’s more important to you, ultimately. It’s not like life is a dress rehearsal. You only get one shot at it,” said Michelle.
“I suppose you’re right,” Tamara said. “It’s just so hard.”
After dinner, the two exchanged “I love you’s.” Michelle took the #2 back downtown to where her condo was. Tamara decided to take a long walk home. She had plenty to think about. Deep down, she knew what Michelle had said about life not being a dress rehearsal was true. If she really wanted to have children, then she was going to have to make that a priority, even if it meant leaving Tracy. She spent hours walking up and down the streets of her neighborhood trying to figure out how to approach the conversation with Tracy.
She walked through the front door to find Tracy sitting quietly on the couch.
“Hey, we have to talk,” they both muttered simultaneously. Something felt weird.
Tamara let Tracy go first. “What is it?” she asked.
“It’s Michelle,” said Tracy. “The hospital called. They said she was killed by a drunk driver in a crosswalk downtown.”
A wave of shock overcame Tamara, and she began to bawl. “I just had dinner with her tonight. How can this be possible?” she cried.
Tracy held Tamara in her arms until both their tears subsided.
“Oh my God!” realized Tamara. “What about Ben?”
“He’ll live with us,” Tracy said bluntly.
“But I thought you didn’t want to have kids,” Tamara said, still sobbing.
“That’s what families do,” Tracy said. “It wasn’t a priority before, but this is totally different. I love you, and I know you would do the same for me. We’ll do whatever it takes to make it work.”
They cried again, but the tears were of a slightly different variety.
“I guess we better call the babysitter,” Tracy said.
“Yeah,” said Tamara. “The babysitter.”
10.08.2007
October Birthdays
I know a lot of people with October birthdays.
When I sent out the mailer for blOgtoberfest, I had this great idea that I could kill about 8 birds with one stone by paying tribute to all of these folks by writing about them on their birthdays. Not thinking two steps ahead, I recently realized that perhaps these fine people don't want their lives to be written about and splattered across the web, so I have decided against that plan. But I thought it would be nice to take this one blog and acknowledge all these folks. So here goes:
October 2:
Stephanie's mom, Phyllis.
October 4:
My grandma, Erma. Age: 84. Simple beginnings. Fun woman. Able to make friends and have conversations with anybody she runs into. The greatest small talker I've ever known besides my wife.
October 6:
Our niece, Sarah. Age: 1. Cutest baby, second only to Elliott.
October 8:
My cousin Melissa. Age: (not going to blow her cover). Looks 10 years younger than she actually is, however. Just had a gorgeous daughter named Olivia in August.
October 12:
Our Man Horn aka Paul. Age: Younger than me. Artist extraordinaire. The only person on the list who has a permanent link on my blog. Gave up working for the man to follow his dream. Much respected in my book. If I had half his talent, I'd be set for life.
October 19:
My brother, Trevor. Age: 36 this year. Good kid. Unfortunate life circumstances. Love him regardless. Fantastic goofball sense of humor.
October 24:
My crazy friend Jessica's baby Ella. Age: 1. Stole my favorite baby girl name. Must be the cutest kid I haven't met or seen pictures of yet. This is a huge hint, Jess.
October 25:
Our gal, Val. Age: (not blowing her cover, either). Still a great friend after all these years. Living the dream in London. Awaiting her long overdue return to Portland.
October 26:
My cousin Jen's fantastic twins Cameron and Andrew. Age: 3 this year. Talk about 2 adorable little boys... this in addition to her other two adorable boys. I just realized if they ever play basketball, their nickname could be "Double team."
Also Stephanie's Aunt Maggie's birthday. Age: timeless. Fantastic woman. Godmother to Elliott. Loves him to death and puts him to sleep like no other.
I think that's it. I hope I didn't leave anybody out. If I did, send me some hate mail and I will gladly print my retribution. In a way, I'm jealous of everybody on this list because their birthday is so close to Halloween that they have a built in excuse to throw a costume party.
When I sent out the mailer for blOgtoberfest, I had this great idea that I could kill about 8 birds with one stone by paying tribute to all of these folks by writing about them on their birthdays. Not thinking two steps ahead, I recently realized that perhaps these fine people don't want their lives to be written about and splattered across the web, so I have decided against that plan. But I thought it would be nice to take this one blog and acknowledge all these folks. So here goes:
October 2:
Stephanie's mom, Phyllis.
October 4:
My grandma, Erma. Age: 84. Simple beginnings. Fun woman. Able to make friends and have conversations with anybody she runs into. The greatest small talker I've ever known besides my wife.
October 6:
Our niece, Sarah. Age: 1. Cutest baby, second only to Elliott.
October 8:
My cousin Melissa. Age: (not going to blow her cover). Looks 10 years younger than she actually is, however. Just had a gorgeous daughter named Olivia in August.
October 12:
Our Man Horn aka Paul. Age: Younger than me. Artist extraordinaire. The only person on the list who has a permanent link on my blog. Gave up working for the man to follow his dream. Much respected in my book. If I had half his talent, I'd be set for life.
October 19:
My brother, Trevor. Age: 36 this year. Good kid. Unfortunate life circumstances. Love him regardless. Fantastic goofball sense of humor.
October 24:
My crazy friend Jessica's baby Ella. Age: 1. Stole my favorite baby girl name. Must be the cutest kid I haven't met or seen pictures of yet. This is a huge hint, Jess.
October 25:
Our gal, Val. Age: (not blowing her cover, either). Still a great friend after all these years. Living the dream in London. Awaiting her long overdue return to Portland.
October 26:
My cousin Jen's fantastic twins Cameron and Andrew. Age: 3 this year. Talk about 2 adorable little boys... this in addition to her other two adorable boys. I just realized if they ever play basketball, their nickname could be "Double team."
Also Stephanie's Aunt Maggie's birthday. Age: timeless. Fantastic woman. Godmother to Elliott. Loves him to death and puts him to sleep like no other.
I think that's it. I hope I didn't leave anybody out. If I did, send me some hate mail and I will gladly print my retribution. In a way, I'm jealous of everybody on this list because their birthday is so close to Halloween that they have a built in excuse to throw a costume party.
10.07.2007
Grey Matters
Today we have a special treat! An actual fan-based blog suggestion. Here's the original request:
"I have an idea for your blog. I have been recently watching a lot of
gray's anatomy and i want to know if there are really that many hospital
romances that go on in real life and if it is surgeons, nurses, orderlies? etc. It seems a little ridiculous to me but i guess it makes for good television :)"
First, I have to forgive Valerie for the typo in her e-mail [Turnabout is fair play]. "Grey's Anatomy" is one of my favorite shows. Stephanie turned me on to it after the first season. I liked it so much, I traded E.R. for it... kind of like skiing after I learned to snowboard... I simply haven't gone back.
GAWDDAMMIT! BLOGGER ATE MY RESPONSE. I HAD JUST POSTED IT AND WAS PROOFREADING IT WHEN IT DELETED MOST OF THE MESSAGE. I COULD NOT GET IT BACK. AAAAARRRGH! I will re-type it after I finish a movie I want to watch while Stephanie is still awake.
OK, I'm back. Don't bother watching "I Think I Love My Wife." Even if you're a Chris Rock fan, this one sucks. Boring from start to finish.
So, back to my response. Before I answer the question directly, I want to say something about two shows in general. First, E.R. does a pretty good job about having the actors look like they know their way around a hospital. The actor's motions are consistent with how we really do things. A lot of their special effects and make up are top notch too. The problem with E.R. [things that would never really happen] is there are so many explosions and gunshots and stabbings etc within the E.R. itself that the hospital should have been shut down or it's security department shut down. Second, about Greys Anatomy: There are a couple of things about the show that really bug me. 1) It's supposed to take place in Seattle, and it's fairly obvious after having lived there that it doesn't. There is no such place as Seattle Grace Medical Center. I suppose for legal reasons, that's a necessary evil. 2) The other thing that really bugs me about the show is that you don't see any nurses anywhere unless they're screwing a doctor in a locker room. Believe it or not, nurses do not hang out in locker rooms waiting to screw doctors. They don't even do that in pornos. 3) On top of all that, they make it seem like residents and interns do all the work, when actually, it's nurses who run the show day to day. I mean, we can't do our job without doctors, but residents and interns (at least where I work) sure do learn an awful lot from us, not the other way around.
Now, on to the meat of your question [pun intended]. The hospital environment (by that, I mean ICUs, E.R.s, etc) lend themselves to complex human interactions. We work side by side for long hours through intense situations. That's a recipe for lots of interpersonal possibilities. Also, people on the outside don't really understand what we ACTUALLY do for a living. It's fast-paced and intense sometimes. I honestly think we see things that people just shouldn't see. So, a lot of times, it seems like nobody gets US but US. I think when you put people in that situation [college and the military are other examples that leap to mind], things are bound to happen eventually, just like if you put bugs in a petrie dish, they will grow.
I've only worked at two hospitals, so I can only speak for what I've seen at both places. Where I worked in Reno, it was kind of crazy like that. There were nurses sleeping with doctors, nurses sleeping with CNAs, nurses with other nurses, not to mention other departments like labarotory, respiratory therapy, etc. I know of two pregnancies out of wedlock, people leaving their S.O.s for other people, sexual harrassment charges being filed. It was kind of ridiculous. As I'm typing this, I am remembering crazy parties, barbecues, trips to the Tahoe nude beaches, insane Halloween parties and much much more. I knew of nurses working as strippers on the side. Orderlies fired for stealing and selling medical supplies (and getting caught and fired). The list goes on. I mean, television writers couldn't make this stuff up.
Where I work now, it's mostly people that are coupled up or have kids. Most of the drama comes from people who are either stupid, immature or single. I think that's the trifecta for drama. Usually, people with high drama in their lives fall into one of those categories. Most of the people I work with now are great. Most of the drama comes from personal differences, not necessarily the kind of drama on Grey's Anatomy.
So, either there isn't as much drama where I work now, or I simply pay less attention to it. But honestly, it's hard to miss when it's happening, so I think it just isn't happening. It's a great bunch, and I'm extremely happy. I've worked places before where people were gossipy and in your business and it sucks to have your reputation be at risk, especially if what's being spread around is far from the truth.
At any rate, there's enough truth in the stories on Grey's Anatomy that it makes for good drama. It may not take place at the pace it does on television, but I think there's enough truth to it that it seems legit (kind of like how stereotypes always have some thread of truth regardless of how ridiculous they are on the whole)
Thanks for the suggestion. Keep 'em coming.
"I have an idea for your blog. I have been recently watching a lot of
gray's anatomy and i want to know if there are really that many hospital
romances that go on in real life and if it is surgeons, nurses, orderlies? etc. It seems a little ridiculous to me but i guess it makes for good television :)"
First, I have to forgive Valerie for the typo in her e-mail [Turnabout is fair play]. "Grey's Anatomy" is one of my favorite shows. Stephanie turned me on to it after the first season. I liked it so much, I traded E.R. for it... kind of like skiing after I learned to snowboard... I simply haven't gone back.
GAWDDAMMIT! BLOGGER ATE MY RESPONSE. I HAD JUST POSTED IT AND WAS PROOFREADING IT WHEN IT DELETED MOST OF THE MESSAGE. I COULD NOT GET IT BACK. AAAAARRRGH! I will re-type it after I finish a movie I want to watch while Stephanie is still awake.
OK, I'm back. Don't bother watching "I Think I Love My Wife." Even if you're a Chris Rock fan, this one sucks. Boring from start to finish.
So, back to my response. Before I answer the question directly, I want to say something about two shows in general. First, E.R. does a pretty good job about having the actors look like they know their way around a hospital. The actor's motions are consistent with how we really do things. A lot of their special effects and make up are top notch too. The problem with E.R. [things that would never really happen] is there are so many explosions and gunshots and stabbings etc within the E.R. itself that the hospital should have been shut down or it's security department shut down. Second, about Greys Anatomy: There are a couple of things about the show that really bug me. 1) It's supposed to take place in Seattle, and it's fairly obvious after having lived there that it doesn't. There is no such place as Seattle Grace Medical Center. I suppose for legal reasons, that's a necessary evil. 2) The other thing that really bugs me about the show is that you don't see any nurses anywhere unless they're screwing a doctor in a locker room. Believe it or not, nurses do not hang out in locker rooms waiting to screw doctors. They don't even do that in pornos. 3) On top of all that, they make it seem like residents and interns do all the work, when actually, it's nurses who run the show day to day. I mean, we can't do our job without doctors, but residents and interns (at least where I work) sure do learn an awful lot from us, not the other way around.
Now, on to the meat of your question [pun intended]. The hospital environment (by that, I mean ICUs, E.R.s, etc) lend themselves to complex human interactions. We work side by side for long hours through intense situations. That's a recipe for lots of interpersonal possibilities. Also, people on the outside don't really understand what we ACTUALLY do for a living. It's fast-paced and intense sometimes. I honestly think we see things that people just shouldn't see. So, a lot of times, it seems like nobody gets US but US. I think when you put people in that situation [college and the military are other examples that leap to mind], things are bound to happen eventually, just like if you put bugs in a petrie dish, they will grow.
I've only worked at two hospitals, so I can only speak for what I've seen at both places. Where I worked in Reno, it was kind of crazy like that. There were nurses sleeping with doctors, nurses sleeping with CNAs, nurses with other nurses, not to mention other departments like labarotory, respiratory therapy, etc. I know of two pregnancies out of wedlock, people leaving their S.O.s for other people, sexual harrassment charges being filed. It was kind of ridiculous. As I'm typing this, I am remembering crazy parties, barbecues, trips to the Tahoe nude beaches, insane Halloween parties and much much more. I knew of nurses working as strippers on the side. Orderlies fired for stealing and selling medical supplies (and getting caught and fired). The list goes on. I mean, television writers couldn't make this stuff up.
Where I work now, it's mostly people that are coupled up or have kids. Most of the drama comes from people who are either stupid, immature or single. I think that's the trifecta for drama. Usually, people with high drama in their lives fall into one of those categories. Most of the people I work with now are great. Most of the drama comes from personal differences, not necessarily the kind of drama on Grey's Anatomy.
So, either there isn't as much drama where I work now, or I simply pay less attention to it. But honestly, it's hard to miss when it's happening, so I think it just isn't happening. It's a great bunch, and I'm extremely happy. I've worked places before where people were gossipy and in your business and it sucks to have your reputation be at risk, especially if what's being spread around is far from the truth.
At any rate, there's enough truth in the stories on Grey's Anatomy that it makes for good drama. It may not take place at the pace it does on television, but I think there's enough truth to it that it seems legit (kind of like how stereotypes always have some thread of truth regardless of how ridiculous they are on the whole)
Thanks for the suggestion. Keep 'em coming.
10.06.2007
A Life In The Moment
I saw this movie recently. Stephanie rented it, but I ended up watching it. It was based true life events from book written by a guy named Dan Millman called "Way of the Peaceful Warrior: A Book that Changes Lives."
The story is basically about a young male gymnast on the Cal Berkeley team some 30 years ago, although the movie made it seem more modern. The main character is a promising young gymnast, his talent driven by painful personal history. He is injured in a motorcyle accident and is basically told he may never walk, let alone compete, ever again. Fueled by the anger and rage that got him there in the first place, he fights his way back and thinks he is ready to compete again, but is not quite up to his previous performance level. He encounters an odd man, "Socrates" at a gas station at 3 a.m. played by Nick Nolte who becomes his mentor/guru.
Think Mr. Miyagi and Ralph Macchio, but with gymnastics instead of karate. The movie was largely under(or over)acted but the overall message was pretty strong.
Through the course of mentoring the young gymnast, Socrates teaches the young man how to FOCUS and live IN THE MOMENT. The main character regains strength and fights his way back to the competetive level. One of the final scenes shows him in "the zone" at a competition. Each move, although happening at light speed, shows him performing in a sort of time-space continuum where time virtually stands still. The whole process is very Matrix-like on film, and even though it was a little hokey, by the end of it, you're really rooting for the guy, and you seem to fall in love with the characters without noticing. I'm not going to say that I was bawling like a baby by the end of it, but the message to live in the moment was strong, as was the message that if you FOCUS hard enough, you can accomplish anything.
Flash forward to now. After watching this movie, I have felt, that the latter part of September and the beginning of October have felt like time is standing still, yet at the same time moving really fast for me. What I mean is, life is just moving along like normal, but I seem to be going through this process where I am IN each moment with crystal clarity and I feel like I am on the right life path. Sure, I have fleeting thoughts of "What if THIS happens" or "What about THAT", but for the most part, life feels right. It's kind of surreal, in a way I have never experienced before.
I don't think I'm doing a very good job of explaining it. Maybe this will help make it clearer: Elliott is really making big strides, but in little ways, developmentally. His cognition is amazing. Every new task you show him or he learns he gets quickly, and simply adds it to the pile of stuff he has already mastered. Every day, we are able to see these changes, however subtle, where people on the outside may not. Microscope in on that one level further and I feel like he and I have a bond that is so powerful, words cannot describe it. I feel very in tune with him right now and that I understand him in ways that nobody else can, not even Stephanie. She, obviously has her own powerful relationship with him, but I recognize my own with a strength and clarity that is profoundly unique. Maybe other parents have experienced this. Perhaps others with their careers or talents. Whatever it is it's amazing. I liken it to the first time, after being pounded relentlessly by the ground and ice, being able to snowboard flawlessly down a run in fresh powder. There's this sense of confidence and euphoria all balled into one. It's extremely empowering and exciting at the same time. If this is what living in the moment is like, I am on board.
As far as focus goes, I am finding it a little hard to stay on track with the daily writing. BlOgtoberfest is turning out to be more difficult than I had anticipated, and I'm only a week into it. It's been a nice dry run to see what a writing career will feel like. It's a solitary place; an awkward-ish lonely place, but at the same time comfortable and rewarding. I think it is a good indicator of things to come, and I like it, despite it feeling difficult.
I am still toe-tapping at the mailbox, but have not heard from the school.
Anybody else going through anything similar? Or, have you gone through anything similar and have some wisdom to share from the other side? Just curious.
The story is basically about a young male gymnast on the Cal Berkeley team some 30 years ago, although the movie made it seem more modern. The main character is a promising young gymnast, his talent driven by painful personal history. He is injured in a motorcyle accident and is basically told he may never walk, let alone compete, ever again. Fueled by the anger and rage that got him there in the first place, he fights his way back and thinks he is ready to compete again, but is not quite up to his previous performance level. He encounters an odd man, "Socrates" at a gas station at 3 a.m. played by Nick Nolte who becomes his mentor/guru.
Think Mr. Miyagi and Ralph Macchio, but with gymnastics instead of karate. The movie was largely under(or over)acted but the overall message was pretty strong.
Through the course of mentoring the young gymnast, Socrates teaches the young man how to FOCUS and live IN THE MOMENT. The main character regains strength and fights his way back to the competetive level. One of the final scenes shows him in "the zone" at a competition. Each move, although happening at light speed, shows him performing in a sort of time-space continuum where time virtually stands still. The whole process is very Matrix-like on film, and even though it was a little hokey, by the end of it, you're really rooting for the guy, and you seem to fall in love with the characters without noticing. I'm not going to say that I was bawling like a baby by the end of it, but the message to live in the moment was strong, as was the message that if you FOCUS hard enough, you can accomplish anything.
Flash forward to now. After watching this movie, I have felt, that the latter part of September and the beginning of October have felt like time is standing still, yet at the same time moving really fast for me. What I mean is, life is just moving along like normal, but I seem to be going through this process where I am IN each moment with crystal clarity and I feel like I am on the right life path. Sure, I have fleeting thoughts of "What if THIS happens" or "What about THAT", but for the most part, life feels right. It's kind of surreal, in a way I have never experienced before.
I don't think I'm doing a very good job of explaining it. Maybe this will help make it clearer: Elliott is really making big strides, but in little ways, developmentally. His cognition is amazing. Every new task you show him or he learns he gets quickly, and simply adds it to the pile of stuff he has already mastered. Every day, we are able to see these changes, however subtle, where people on the outside may not. Microscope in on that one level further and I feel like he and I have a bond that is so powerful, words cannot describe it. I feel very in tune with him right now and that I understand him in ways that nobody else can, not even Stephanie. She, obviously has her own powerful relationship with him, but I recognize my own with a strength and clarity that is profoundly unique. Maybe other parents have experienced this. Perhaps others with their careers or talents. Whatever it is it's amazing. I liken it to the first time, after being pounded relentlessly by the ground and ice, being able to snowboard flawlessly down a run in fresh powder. There's this sense of confidence and euphoria all balled into one. It's extremely empowering and exciting at the same time. If this is what living in the moment is like, I am on board.
As far as focus goes, I am finding it a little hard to stay on track with the daily writing. BlOgtoberfest is turning out to be more difficult than I had anticipated, and I'm only a week into it. It's been a nice dry run to see what a writing career will feel like. It's a solitary place; an awkward-ish lonely place, but at the same time comfortable and rewarding. I think it is a good indicator of things to come, and I like it, despite it feeling difficult.
I am still toe-tapping at the mailbox, but have not heard from the school.
Anybody else going through anything similar? Or, have you gone through anything similar and have some wisdom to share from the other side? Just curious.
10.05.2007
Animal Behavior
I tell people all the time that (besides Human Sexuality) the best class I ever took in college was Animal Behavior.
It's absolutely amazing to me how animals adapt to whatever environment or niche they occupy. The class I took also had a lab section. We learned about all different kinds of experiments that exploited certain aspects of animal behavior as well as conducting a few of our own. On one of these outings, our class ventured out into the one of the quad areas of UW. First, our instructor handed us all a handful of peanuts. Our task was to break some of the nuts open, while leaving others intact, and scatter them about the quad then wait to see what squirrels would do with them. After a short period of time, it became obvious that squirrels would eat the broken open nuts at the spot where the nut was found, but with intact peanuts, the squirrels would carry the nut 20-30 feet away and bury it. Why? Because squirrels have learned over time that nuts are perishable. That's why they eat the open nuts on the spot, and bury the intact nuts to use later.
Another experiment we conducted involved crows. Our instructor played a tape recording of several crow calls and explained each call as the experiment unfolded. The first recording was a call that supposedly summonsed crows to an area for food (as an example). I never knew crows were a communal bird, but before long, no less than a dozen crows showed up in the canopy of trees surrounding us. Oddly enough, there seemed to be a few more squirrels than usual as well. Many of them flew to ground level, and started gathering some of the nuts we had been tossing around. The next call, was the sound of a crow being murdered (literally, no pun intended). The crows in the canopy stood silent while the crows on the ground took shelter in the trees. The squirrels on the ground stood still as well. The next call was a distress call, and all the crows scattered. Interestingly enough, so did the squirrels. As it turns out, crows have a fairly sophisticated method of communicating over large distances, and squirrels, via evolution, have learned to understand the calls of the crows.
Totally fascinating to me. I have never forgotten this class because of this experiment.
The other day, Stephanie and I were taking our daily walk through the neighborhood, enjoying the brisk fall air and changing trees, when the most splendid thing happened. We were walking under a couple of walnut trees. Some of the nuts were falling from the sky, seeming a little too close for comfort. Looking up in the air, it was obvious that a murder of crows was trying feast on the nuts in the tree. There were crows in the trees, on telephone wires, or any place else they could carry a nut to. They were dropping the nuts from the sky to try to break them open so the nut inside could be easily retrieved. At first, I thought they might be trying to protect the area and were trying to bombard us with the nuts in a quite cartoon-like fashion. Really, they were not after us afterall, just lunch.
We went about our walk, in pretty much the usual fashion... picking up aluminum cans to save the planet and pay for Harvard Medical School, meanwhile observing that the walk seems shorter and shorter each time we walk it, just like we always do. I realized this time, however, that we are all creatures of habit and we are merely one of a series of species that is well-adapted to our environment. As humans, we may be more complicated in our abilities, thought processes, opposable thumbs... or whatever sets us apart from the monkeys or dolphins or crows, but when you get right down to it, we're all just animals trying to survive in our habitats, making the best use of tools and resources we have available to us so that we can propagate for another cycle or eat for another day.
Thank god we're on the end of the continuum that figured out how to grow, grind and drink coffee from beans and drive fancy hybrid cars, and not from the end that has to drop nuts from trees to get lunch. Evolution Rules!
It's absolutely amazing to me how animals adapt to whatever environment or niche they occupy. The class I took also had a lab section. We learned about all different kinds of experiments that exploited certain aspects of animal behavior as well as conducting a few of our own. On one of these outings, our class ventured out into the one of the quad areas of UW. First, our instructor handed us all a handful of peanuts. Our task was to break some of the nuts open, while leaving others intact, and scatter them about the quad then wait to see what squirrels would do with them. After a short period of time, it became obvious that squirrels would eat the broken open nuts at the spot where the nut was found, but with intact peanuts, the squirrels would carry the nut 20-30 feet away and bury it. Why? Because squirrels have learned over time that nuts are perishable. That's why they eat the open nuts on the spot, and bury the intact nuts to use later.
Another experiment we conducted involved crows. Our instructor played a tape recording of several crow calls and explained each call as the experiment unfolded. The first recording was a call that supposedly summonsed crows to an area for food (as an example). I never knew crows were a communal bird, but before long, no less than a dozen crows showed up in the canopy of trees surrounding us. Oddly enough, there seemed to be a few more squirrels than usual as well. Many of them flew to ground level, and started gathering some of the nuts we had been tossing around. The next call, was the sound of a crow being murdered (literally, no pun intended). The crows in the canopy stood silent while the crows on the ground took shelter in the trees. The squirrels on the ground stood still as well. The next call was a distress call, and all the crows scattered. Interestingly enough, so did the squirrels. As it turns out, crows have a fairly sophisticated method of communicating over large distances, and squirrels, via evolution, have learned to understand the calls of the crows.
Totally fascinating to me. I have never forgotten this class because of this experiment.
The other day, Stephanie and I were taking our daily walk through the neighborhood, enjoying the brisk fall air and changing trees, when the most splendid thing happened. We were walking under a couple of walnut trees. Some of the nuts were falling from the sky, seeming a little too close for comfort. Looking up in the air, it was obvious that a murder of crows was trying feast on the nuts in the tree. There were crows in the trees, on telephone wires, or any place else they could carry a nut to. They were dropping the nuts from the sky to try to break them open so the nut inside could be easily retrieved. At first, I thought they might be trying to protect the area and were trying to bombard us with the nuts in a quite cartoon-like fashion. Really, they were not after us afterall, just lunch.
We went about our walk, in pretty much the usual fashion... picking up aluminum cans to save the planet and pay for Harvard Medical School, meanwhile observing that the walk seems shorter and shorter each time we walk it, just like we always do. I realized this time, however, that we are all creatures of habit and we are merely one of a series of species that is well-adapted to our environment. As humans, we may be more complicated in our abilities, thought processes, opposable thumbs... or whatever sets us apart from the monkeys or dolphins or crows, but when you get right down to it, we're all just animals trying to survive in our habitats, making the best use of tools and resources we have available to us so that we can propagate for another cycle or eat for another day.
Thank god we're on the end of the continuum that figured out how to grow, grind and drink coffee from beans and drive fancy hybrid cars, and not from the end that has to drop nuts from trees to get lunch. Evolution Rules!
Connectivity Glitch
I went to sign on last night for my Oct. 4th entry, and my internet connection was down. I will try to figure out how to make it up. Working today. Another late night entry, I suppose. See you later.
10.03.2007
Down to the Wire
The cliffhanger for yesterday's blog promised I would write about Lasik eye surgery today. I was hoping to write a nice, scientifically sound piece with a little fluff and a happy ending [not to be confused with the other kind of "fluff" and "happy ending"]. I wasn't counting on having my test subject decline to participate claiming privacy concerns at the last minute.
I respect my subjects wishes, so I will postpone until further notice. Mental note: Lesson learned about pre-authorization and written releases. That still leaves me in a bit of a quandary... what to write about. BlOgtoberfest wouldn't mean much if I bailed out on the third day. I'd lose all credibility [what little I had to begin with] and the project would basically be rendered meaningless. Alas, I find myself at the 11th hour scrambling for material.
I could write about procrastination. I certainly have mastered it as an art form. I could also write about some things that have been pissing me off lately, but I'm not really in the mood to gripe this late at night. I prefer to get pissed off in the morning when I have more energy for it. It's so much more satisfying to call tech support in India or Apple Computers when I've had two cups of coffee and no breakfast and the last usable shred of blood sugar is depleted as the person on the other end of the phone says, "...and how may I help you today?". Stephanie suggested I write about being impatient. It has been over a month and I still have not heard from PSU about my admission packet despite my toe tapping at the mailbox. Suppressing my urge to pester the school has been difficult, but I know it is wiser to remain anxious than to stalk an English Department. I could talk about the glee I felt when I heard Britney Spears lost custody of her kids, but that would just make me sound spiteful.
So, I think I will keep it light.
Before I met Stephanie, I used to cruise the singles websites pretty regularly. Come on, don't act like you haven't done it. I remember this one post, I think on match.com, where a profile I had been drawn to contained something I have never forgotten. The girl lived in Vancouver, which was automatically a dealbreaker. That will be funny to those who live in Portland or who know I'm an area code snob [i.e. you can't say you live in Seattle if your telephone area code isn't 206. If you're area code is 425, you're and Eastsider, that's the bottom line. Yo, 313, Fuck Free World.(Watch "8 Mile")]. Anyway, the girl's post contained something I thought was utterly hilarious. That was, she wanted prospective suitors to email her with their best SPAM (yes, the lunch meat) Haiku. If she liked it enough, you got a response. That simple.
I think everybody knows what haiku is, but for those who don't, it's a form of poetry [with Japanese origins] written in 17 syllables divided into 3 lines of 5, 7, and 5 syllables, and employing highly evocative allusions and comparisons, often on the subject of nature or one of the seasons. That's the plagiarized definition, anyway. I believe that in Japan, they have Haiku contests, perhaps parades, and haiku poets hold high honor like samurais and Pokemon. OK, I pulled that part out of my ass.
I always thought haiku about SPAM was just about the most original idea ever. I once considered writing a SPAM Haiku coffee table book complete with photos that would be accompanied by a 365-day desk calendar with the SPAM haiku of the day on each page. For obvious reasons, I gave that dream up.
Here's my crack at SPAM Haiku:
Pink mystery meat,
Juicy aspic and nuggets,
Line my sandwich bags.
Solid blue tin can,
Containing random meat bits
Where can I get some?
What is that pink stuff
Dripping off my lunch plate now?
Have I lost an ear?
See how fun that is? I really could go on all night. Spunky little phrases like these are easy for me to churn out. I don't know what the Japanese find so fascinating about haiku, but throw in a processed meat product, and it gets interesting.
Leave your comments. I can't wait to hear your versions.
[Tomorrow's blog will be a tribute to my grandma, since it's her birthday. She doesn't get the blog, or own a computer for that matter, but hopefully she knows how I feel about her. Tomorrow, you will too.]
C
I respect my subjects wishes, so I will postpone until further notice. Mental note: Lesson learned about pre-authorization and written releases. That still leaves me in a bit of a quandary... what to write about. BlOgtoberfest wouldn't mean much if I bailed out on the third day. I'd lose all credibility [what little I had to begin with] and the project would basically be rendered meaningless. Alas, I find myself at the 11th hour scrambling for material.
I could write about procrastination. I certainly have mastered it as an art form. I could also write about some things that have been pissing me off lately, but I'm not really in the mood to gripe this late at night. I prefer to get pissed off in the morning when I have more energy for it. It's so much more satisfying to call tech support in India or Apple Computers when I've had two cups of coffee and no breakfast and the last usable shred of blood sugar is depleted as the person on the other end of the phone says, "...and how may I help you today?". Stephanie suggested I write about being impatient. It has been over a month and I still have not heard from PSU about my admission packet despite my toe tapping at the mailbox. Suppressing my urge to pester the school has been difficult, but I know it is wiser to remain anxious than to stalk an English Department. I could talk about the glee I felt when I heard Britney Spears lost custody of her kids, but that would just make me sound spiteful.
So, I think I will keep it light.
Before I met Stephanie, I used to cruise the singles websites pretty regularly. Come on, don't act like you haven't done it. I remember this one post, I think on match.com, where a profile I had been drawn to contained something I have never forgotten. The girl lived in Vancouver, which was automatically a dealbreaker. That will be funny to those who live in Portland or who know I'm an area code snob [i.e. you can't say you live in Seattle if your telephone area code isn't 206. If you're area code is 425, you're and Eastsider, that's the bottom line. Yo, 313, Fuck Free World.(Watch "8 Mile")]. Anyway, the girl's post contained something I thought was utterly hilarious. That was, she wanted prospective suitors to email her with their best SPAM (yes, the lunch meat) Haiku. If she liked it enough, you got a response. That simple.
I think everybody knows what haiku is, but for those who don't, it's a form of poetry [with Japanese origins] written in 17 syllables divided into 3 lines of 5, 7, and 5 syllables, and employing highly evocative allusions and comparisons, often on the subject of nature or one of the seasons. That's the plagiarized definition, anyway. I believe that in Japan, they have Haiku contests, perhaps parades, and haiku poets hold high honor like samurais and Pokemon. OK, I pulled that part out of my ass.
I always thought haiku about SPAM was just about the most original idea ever. I once considered writing a SPAM Haiku coffee table book complete with photos that would be accompanied by a 365-day desk calendar with the SPAM haiku of the day on each page. For obvious reasons, I gave that dream up.
Here's my crack at SPAM Haiku:
Pink mystery meat,
Juicy aspic and nuggets,
Line my sandwich bags.
Solid blue tin can,
Containing random meat bits
Where can I get some?
What is that pink stuff
Dripping off my lunch plate now?
Have I lost an ear?
See how fun that is? I really could go on all night. Spunky little phrases like these are easy for me to churn out. I don't know what the Japanese find so fascinating about haiku, but throw in a processed meat product, and it gets interesting.
Leave your comments. I can't wait to hear your versions.
[Tomorrow's blog will be a tribute to my grandma, since it's her birthday. She doesn't get the blog, or own a computer for that matter, but hopefully she knows how I feel about her. Tomorrow, you will too.]
C
10.02.2007
It's Not Easy Being GREEN
I'm not sure how many of you know this story, but my move to Portland was a fairly spontaneous one. I had moved back to Nevada in 2001 after living in Seattle for nearly 7 years. Whenever I feel like my life is stagnant, I have been known to make big changes with reckless abandon.
That's an entirely different blog.
Toward the end of 2004 I was looking for such a change. In October of '04, I had decided to sell my house in (then) Virginia City to buy a piece of commercial property (also in V.C). It was a very cool old brick building smack dab in the middle of downtown Virginia City. It had a cavernous, I mean massive, open downstairs and a very rundown apartment upstairs that at one point had been a boarding house. The thought was, I would run a cafe downstairs and live upstairs. The building was in pretty good shape for being 130 years old, and I was really excited about it. The offer was in, the appraisal was done ($3,000 for a commercial appraisal-- ouch), and we were set to close escrow December 30th. Everything but the final paperwork was signed.
I had already made plans that year to spend New Year's Eve in Portland. Tickets were purchased. Valerie and I had been coming up with themes for the party we would be co-hosting (That was the year 'school' was the theme-- Good Times). Well, as the story goes, I spoke with my real estate agent the week before I left. We were talking about the deal and my plans for the cafe. He was excited because Virginia City really needed a place that served a decent cup of coffee. He casually mentioned to me that I needed to make sure to carefully screen all potential employees for drugs and backgrounds because there is an element in V.C. that he said, "would either run off your customer base, or rob you blind."
This statement really stuck with me and got me doing a lot of thinking. I thought, "This is not the kind of town I want to raise kids in." I always knew I would eventually find the right someone to start a family with, but it wasn't until that moment that I understood how important a decision it is.
So, here I am in Portland. It's New Year's Eve, and all my friends at the party, specifically Alison asked me, "So when are you moving here?" I had been asked this question before, but never considered it as a serious option. I actually liked being in Nevada, liked my job and loved my house. Things were pretty good, but there was that certain something that was missing. I had missed living in the Northwest since I left Seattle. And, after visiting Portland so often over the years, I used to say to people that if I ever moved back to the Pacific Northwest again, I would move to Portland. On the plane ride home after that trip, I decided to do just that. My house was already sold. My belongings were already packed. All I really needed to do was have a place to go. The next day that I was scheduled to work, I gave notice. My last day was January 12th, 2005. I came to Portland at the end of January and within a week lined up a job and made an offer on a house. By March, it was a done deal. Luckily, the paperwork that would have made my commercial real estate deal official expired on 12/30/04. It was because I was in Portland for New Years that I was able to move here and get out of the deal without any penalties.
That's the backstory, so here's the blog. Portland is a great town. There are many, too many, reasons to live here. First of all, I love the weather and the climate. I like it when things are green. Water makes that happen. I also love the way the city feels. By that, I mean, that because of all the neighborhoods, it still feels like you live in a small town, but have all the conveniences of being in a city. Add to that the public transportation system, more restaurants than you could ever eat at, cultural events, the annual Brewfest, I mean it's just fantastic and keeps getting better. I also love that the community at large votes in a way that is more in line with what I believe than it ever did in Nevada. It's going to take a lot of California overflow to turn Nevada into a blue state, and by then it would suck more than is tolerable. Anyway, the point is, I love that people (and the city itself) are so progressive when it comes to pretty much everything. I love that people are concerned about the environment, and DO something about it. In Virginia City, there was no such thing as curbside recycling. Here, I don't think there's much you can't recycle. What doesn't go in the curbside bin can go to a grocery store for recycling.
I guess the overall point of what I'm trying to get at, is that just feels good to be doing things for the environment, and living in a town where that's supported and sought after. Now, since Elliott has been born, it seems even more important so that he and his kids, and their kids, and so on, respect and care for our planet. I think Portland is a great place to do that.
To date, Stephanie and I have made the following adjustments in our lives, and it just plain feels good, plus it feels like the right thing to do: 1) I personally try to recycle everything they will take. I even take the little cardboard rip cords off of frozen food and recycle them. For some reason, our curbside recyclers only take plastic bottles with "necks". I admit, I haven't been rinsing out the yogurt containers and taking them to where they do recycle, but that's coming. 2) We bought a Prius hybrid in July. We love this car. It averages around 50 miles per gallon. It's much roomier and functional than you might expect and rides really smoothly. We rave about it all the time, so I won't ramble, but we love it. The last time I filled the gas tank of my old truck, it was $75. The first time we filled the Prius, it was $15.65. Basically, we reduced our fuel consumption by about 75 percent. 3) We have started taking daily walks and have been picking up cans and recycling along the way. At first, it started out as a fundraising effort (The 5 cent deposits add up. As Stephanie likes to say, "You wouldn't walk by a nickel without picking it up." So now, we pick up cans on our daily walks. The first day we did it together, we picked up $3.25 worth of cans and bottles. We casually joke that this is how we are going to put Elliott through Harvard Medical School... but we've done such a good job of picking up the section of trail that we walk, that we're lucky if we make a quarter nowadays. 4) We take our own cups when we go out for coffee. This may not seem like a big deal, but with 2 people going for coffee at least once daily, that adds up to over 700 cups we personally keep out of landfills each year. That's an easy one 5) The newest GREEN venture of ours is that we are just now converting our oil furnace to BIODIESEL. We just got the tank filled for the first time today. Supposedly it burns at the same rate as regular heating oil, just much much cleaner. No special equipment is necessary. The only thing we'll have to do is have the furnace serviced in a few weeks to clean out the last of the crud that the oil system will leave behind. It's 20 cents more per gallon, but we feel it's worth it.
I guess the final frontier for us will be politics. Volunteering is tough and being proactive in a practical sense even more so. Anyway, we're doing what we can and hope that everybody else is doing the same. We still have a long way to go. Eventually, I'd like to convert to all organic cleaning solutions, hygiene products, etc. but it's a process. I think we also don't want to be the freaky green people either. I know there are many more people who take it more seriously than we do. I could start commuting by bike or buy a completely electric car. There is a definite end point where you want to do what you can, but it can be taken too far.
Anyway, I didn't intend to be preachy. I just hope to inspire people to do what they can. In a world that feel like it's sliding backwards most of the time, it feels good to be doing what we can to preserve this beautiful world we live in.
Live life. Be green. Peace.
[Tomorrow's topic: Lasik eye surgery... since Stephanie is having it done.]
That's an entirely different blog.
Toward the end of 2004 I was looking for such a change. In October of '04, I had decided to sell my house in (then) Virginia City to buy a piece of commercial property (also in V.C). It was a very cool old brick building smack dab in the middle of downtown Virginia City. It had a cavernous, I mean massive, open downstairs and a very rundown apartment upstairs that at one point had been a boarding house. The thought was, I would run a cafe downstairs and live upstairs. The building was in pretty good shape for being 130 years old, and I was really excited about it. The offer was in, the appraisal was done ($3,000 for a commercial appraisal-- ouch), and we were set to close escrow December 30th. Everything but the final paperwork was signed.
I had already made plans that year to spend New Year's Eve in Portland. Tickets were purchased. Valerie and I had been coming up with themes for the party we would be co-hosting (That was the year 'school' was the theme-- Good Times). Well, as the story goes, I spoke with my real estate agent the week before I left. We were talking about the deal and my plans for the cafe. He was excited because Virginia City really needed a place that served a decent cup of coffee. He casually mentioned to me that I needed to make sure to carefully screen all potential employees for drugs and backgrounds because there is an element in V.C. that he said, "would either run off your customer base, or rob you blind."
This statement really stuck with me and got me doing a lot of thinking. I thought, "This is not the kind of town I want to raise kids in." I always knew I would eventually find the right someone to start a family with, but it wasn't until that moment that I understood how important a decision it is.
So, here I am in Portland. It's New Year's Eve, and all my friends at the party, specifically Alison asked me, "So when are you moving here?" I had been asked this question before, but never considered it as a serious option. I actually liked being in Nevada, liked my job and loved my house. Things were pretty good, but there was that certain something that was missing. I had missed living in the Northwest since I left Seattle. And, after visiting Portland so often over the years, I used to say to people that if I ever moved back to the Pacific Northwest again, I would move to Portland. On the plane ride home after that trip, I decided to do just that. My house was already sold. My belongings were already packed. All I really needed to do was have a place to go. The next day that I was scheduled to work, I gave notice. My last day was January 12th, 2005. I came to Portland at the end of January and within a week lined up a job and made an offer on a house. By March, it was a done deal. Luckily, the paperwork that would have made my commercial real estate deal official expired on 12/30/04. It was because I was in Portland for New Years that I was able to move here and get out of the deal without any penalties.
That's the backstory, so here's the blog. Portland is a great town. There are many, too many, reasons to live here. First of all, I love the weather and the climate. I like it when things are green. Water makes that happen. I also love the way the city feels. By that, I mean, that because of all the neighborhoods, it still feels like you live in a small town, but have all the conveniences of being in a city. Add to that the public transportation system, more restaurants than you could ever eat at, cultural events, the annual Brewfest, I mean it's just fantastic and keeps getting better. I also love that the community at large votes in a way that is more in line with what I believe than it ever did in Nevada. It's going to take a lot of California overflow to turn Nevada into a blue state, and by then it would suck more than is tolerable. Anyway, the point is, I love that people (and the city itself) are so progressive when it comes to pretty much everything. I love that people are concerned about the environment, and DO something about it. In Virginia City, there was no such thing as curbside recycling. Here, I don't think there's much you can't recycle. What doesn't go in the curbside bin can go to a grocery store for recycling.
I guess the overall point of what I'm trying to get at, is that just feels good to be doing things for the environment, and living in a town where that's supported and sought after. Now, since Elliott has been born, it seems even more important so that he and his kids, and their kids, and so on, respect and care for our planet. I think Portland is a great place to do that.
To date, Stephanie and I have made the following adjustments in our lives, and it just plain feels good, plus it feels like the right thing to do: 1) I personally try to recycle everything they will take. I even take the little cardboard rip cords off of frozen food and recycle them. For some reason, our curbside recyclers only take plastic bottles with "necks". I admit, I haven't been rinsing out the yogurt containers and taking them to where they do recycle, but that's coming. 2) We bought a Prius hybrid in July. We love this car. It averages around 50 miles per gallon. It's much roomier and functional than you might expect and rides really smoothly. We rave about it all the time, so I won't ramble, but we love it. The last time I filled the gas tank of my old truck, it was $75. The first time we filled the Prius, it was $15.65. Basically, we reduced our fuel consumption by about 75 percent. 3) We have started taking daily walks and have been picking up cans and recycling along the way. At first, it started out as a fundraising effort (The 5 cent deposits add up. As Stephanie likes to say, "You wouldn't walk by a nickel without picking it up." So now, we pick up cans on our daily walks. The first day we did it together, we picked up $3.25 worth of cans and bottles. We casually joke that this is how we are going to put Elliott through Harvard Medical School... but we've done such a good job of picking up the section of trail that we walk, that we're lucky if we make a quarter nowadays. 4) We take our own cups when we go out for coffee. This may not seem like a big deal, but with 2 people going for coffee at least once daily, that adds up to over 700 cups we personally keep out of landfills each year. That's an easy one 5) The newest GREEN venture of ours is that we are just now converting our oil furnace to BIODIESEL. We just got the tank filled for the first time today. Supposedly it burns at the same rate as regular heating oil, just much much cleaner. No special equipment is necessary. The only thing we'll have to do is have the furnace serviced in a few weeks to clean out the last of the crud that the oil system will leave behind. It's 20 cents more per gallon, but we feel it's worth it.
I guess the final frontier for us will be politics. Volunteering is tough and being proactive in a practical sense even more so. Anyway, we're doing what we can and hope that everybody else is doing the same. We still have a long way to go. Eventually, I'd like to convert to all organic cleaning solutions, hygiene products, etc. but it's a process. I think we also don't want to be the freaky green people either. I know there are many more people who take it more seriously than we do. I could start commuting by bike or buy a completely electric car. There is a definite end point where you want to do what you can, but it can be taken too far.
Anyway, I didn't intend to be preachy. I just hope to inspire people to do what they can. In a world that feel like it's sliding backwards most of the time, it feels good to be doing what we can to preserve this beautiful world we live in.
Live life. Be green. Peace.
[Tomorrow's topic: Lasik eye surgery... since Stephanie is having it done.]
10.01.2007
Welcome to blOgtoberfest !
For a few weeks now, I have been wondering what would happen if I wrote or blogged every day for an entire month.
As of late, I find it extremely challenging to balance work, life, and the pursuit of a dream. I really wish I had the luxury of writing for 4-6 hours a day, but I simply don't at this juncture. Work gets in the way 3 days a week, and the rest is filled with taking family walks, enjoying every cup of coffee and making sure the numbers on the scale go down instead of up... things that in the grand scheme are more important.
That doesn't mean that I don't desire to hole up and lose myself in exploring the craft. I had a really amazing... no, surreal, experience on nitrous during a root canal several weeks ago. I have wanted to write about the experience since it happened, but got sidetracked, which, for me, means the idea dies. I have never found a good way to jot ideas down as they come to me. Note pads never seem to be in the right place, or I'm too busy to stop what I'm doing to write ideas down. Palm pilots seem like a good solution, but really, that's just an expensive note pad. All the same shortcomings apply.
For me, persistence is helpful. Having deadlines even more so. So, in celebration of October and my love for word play, I came up with the idea for blOgtoberfest... a month long celebration of my blog and my writing and any noteworthy random thought that might enter my head, and sharing the results with all of you, my most coveted critics and loyal fans.
I am really excited about taking the month-long journey of daily writing. I fear, as any writer does, that I will come up dry for ideas, and may need your help. If there's anything you're interested in and would like to start a formal discussion on, shoot me an email or respond in the form of a comment to the blog, and I guarantee we'll squeeze them all in. Let's have nothing be off limits.
By the way, for those of you with birthdays in October, consider my blog on your birthday my own personal tribute to you. I don't want to leave anybody out, so if your birthday is anything but October 4th, 12th, or 25th [those are taken, or will need to be amended] let me know and I will make special effort to include your tribute in the fun. The finale will be a special Halloween blog, an original All Hallows Eve tale written by yours truly.
Until tomorrow...
As of late, I find it extremely challenging to balance work, life, and the pursuit of a dream. I really wish I had the luxury of writing for 4-6 hours a day, but I simply don't at this juncture. Work gets in the way 3 days a week, and the rest is filled with taking family walks, enjoying every cup of coffee and making sure the numbers on the scale go down instead of up... things that in the grand scheme are more important.
That doesn't mean that I don't desire to hole up and lose myself in exploring the craft. I had a really amazing... no, surreal, experience on nitrous during a root canal several weeks ago. I have wanted to write about the experience since it happened, but got sidetracked, which, for me, means the idea dies. I have never found a good way to jot ideas down as they come to me. Note pads never seem to be in the right place, or I'm too busy to stop what I'm doing to write ideas down. Palm pilots seem like a good solution, but really, that's just an expensive note pad. All the same shortcomings apply.
For me, persistence is helpful. Having deadlines even more so. So, in celebration of October and my love for word play, I came up with the idea for blOgtoberfest... a month long celebration of my blog and my writing and any noteworthy random thought that might enter my head, and sharing the results with all of you, my most coveted critics and loyal fans.
I am really excited about taking the month-long journey of daily writing. I fear, as any writer does, that I will come up dry for ideas, and may need your help. If there's anything you're interested in and would like to start a formal discussion on, shoot me an email or respond in the form of a comment to the blog, and I guarantee we'll squeeze them all in. Let's have nothing be off limits.
By the way, for those of you with birthdays in October, consider my blog on your birthday my own personal tribute to you. I don't want to leave anybody out, so if your birthday is anything but October 4th, 12th, or 25th [those are taken, or will need to be amended] let me know and I will make special effort to include your tribute in the fun. The finale will be a special Halloween blog, an original All Hallows Eve tale written by yours truly.
Until tomorrow...
9.23.2007
About This Story...
I subscribe to a weekly newsletter from a website called Writer's Weekly. They hold a quarterly 24 Hour Short Story Contest. It costs $5 to enter, but the winning prize is $300, so I enter it sometimes for fun. They basically provide you with a topic, and you have 24 hours to write your story. Well, the contest was yesterday, and the following story is my submission.
I'm kind of proud of it, actually. It's an amalgamation of sorts for me. There are several little elements woven through it that are personal to me. I already posted the story, so it would probably make more sense for you to read it first, then come back to this paragraph. Apologies for my poor planning.
My grandfather's name was Arthur, as is my middle name after him. Most folks called him "Art," but we all called him "Gramps." I have taken a liking to saying, "My middle name is 'ART'," because of that. Anyway, he died in December of 1987 when I was 19. The last time I saw him was at Thanksgiving at my Uncle Larry and Aunt De's (Diana) house that year. He was not an artist, but a mechanic. The man could fix anything, and we all had running cars to prove it. I also named the main character after my cousin (it's good to be the favorite) Jennifer. Whenever I think of Gramps, I think of that last Thanksgiving. Making his final painting about playing hide and seek with one of us kids is a tribute to that.
I also tucked part of a lyric of a Dave Matthews song in there. Jessica, you may be the only one who finds it.
And finally, the title, "Snowflakes Without Agenda" was a phrase I came up with several years ago when my mom and I took a trip antiquing around the Murphys, Jackson, Yosemite area of California. On the way home, it began to snow to biggest snowflakes I've ever seen. They were easily silver-dollar sized and falling straight down because there was no wind [without agenda]. I liked the phrase so much, I've been dying to use it. This was my chance. I'm sure you'll see it resurface in the future.
Anyway, the trees in front of our house are beginning to drop leaves faster than we can pick them up. Ordinarily, this is a chore of fall that I dread, but this year, it has me extremely nostalgic for the past and hopeful for the future as my own family is starting to pass through its own set of seasons.
I would like to take this opportunity to let you know how much I apppreciate each and every one of you. If you are on the mailing list for my blog, you are one of the people I truly cherish and appreciate. Knowing you is something I treasure and you have enriched my life in ways you may never fully know. I hold these thoughts sacred.
Thank you for being you and sharing part of your life with me.
C
I'm kind of proud of it, actually. It's an amalgamation of sorts for me. There are several little elements woven through it that are personal to me. I already posted the story, so it would probably make more sense for you to read it first, then come back to this paragraph. Apologies for my poor planning.
My grandfather's name was Arthur, as is my middle name after him. Most folks called him "Art," but we all called him "Gramps." I have taken a liking to saying, "My middle name is 'ART'," because of that. Anyway, he died in December of 1987 when I was 19. The last time I saw him was at Thanksgiving at my Uncle Larry and Aunt De's (Diana) house that year. He was not an artist, but a mechanic. The man could fix anything, and we all had running cars to prove it. I also named the main character after my cousin (it's good to be the favorite) Jennifer. Whenever I think of Gramps, I think of that last Thanksgiving. Making his final painting about playing hide and seek with one of us kids is a tribute to that.
I also tucked part of a lyric of a Dave Matthews song in there. Jessica, you may be the only one who finds it.
And finally, the title, "Snowflakes Without Agenda" was a phrase I came up with several years ago when my mom and I took a trip antiquing around the Murphys, Jackson, Yosemite area of California. On the way home, it began to snow to biggest snowflakes I've ever seen. They were easily silver-dollar sized and falling straight down because there was no wind [without agenda]. I liked the phrase so much, I've been dying to use it. This was my chance. I'm sure you'll see it resurface in the future.
Anyway, the trees in front of our house are beginning to drop leaves faster than we can pick them up. Ordinarily, this is a chore of fall that I dread, but this year, it has me extremely nostalgic for the past and hopeful for the future as my own family is starting to pass through its own set of seasons.
I would like to take this opportunity to let you know how much I apppreciate each and every one of you. If you are on the mailing list for my blog, you are one of the people I truly cherish and appreciate. Knowing you is something I treasure and you have enriched my life in ways you may never fully know. I hold these thoughts sacred.
Thank you for being you and sharing part of your life with me.
C
SNOWFLAKES WITHOUT AGENDA
The vivid hues of the foliage seemed to bring the painting to life. Intrigued, she leaned closer, desperately wishing to be there, in that place so far away, and so long ago. Her senses seemed to respond to her subconscious desires when she suddenly inhaled the scent of wood smoke, felt a cold wind stirring her hair, and saw a movement in the distance...
“Grandpa, is that you?” Jennifer called ahead.
Silence answered back.
“Grandpa, where are you?” she called again, a little worried.
Still silence.
“Ollie, Ollie, Oxen Free!” she shouted.
From behind, Grandpa’s massive hands squeezed and tickled her, hoisting her high into the late autumn sky. His outstretched arms seemed miles long as she looked down at him, squealing first from fear, then laughter. The crows dispersed from the branches above as the clouds took the last of the sunlight away. Her laughter filled the air and echoed back from the distance with the sound of happiness.
“Where were you hiding?” she asked. “I couldn’t find you anywhere.”
“I was just over there,” he said, “behind that big rock between those Aspen trees and that tall Cedar. You almost got me when you climbed up on that rock, but I saw you coming, so I buried myself in a pile of leaves. You were so close I had to hold my breath so you wouldn’t hear me. I almost passed out.”
Jennifer smiled and said, “Should we head back?”
“You think they miss us?” Grandpa replied.
“I’m not sure,” Jennifer said, “but I’m getting cold.”
“Alright then,” he replied, as they began to saunter back down the trail.
Blowing rapidly down the cobblestone road, the yellow leaves danced gold, the red ones burned maroon. More beautiful than reality, the dark orange leaves faded around the edges, as if they couldn't decide which color to be. Large, flat snowflakes began to fall, without agenda, as the crisp air turned cold. As the two returned down the path to Grandma and Grandpa’s stone cabin, the cobblestones had transitioned from gray to white. Smoke billowed out of the chimney, and flickered as it became one with the sky, smelling faintly of walnut.
“There’s no place as beautiful as Vermont in the fall,” her Grandpa would say every time they returned from playing Hide and Seek.
“Did the squirrels chase you off?” Grandma asked as the two passed through the door. “Dinner is almost ready. You two should go wash up.”
“Can you show me your studio again before dinner, Grandpa?” Jennifer asked, nearly pleading.
“Sure, Love Bug,” he said, and took her by the hand.
The two climbed the hardwood staircase to Grandpa’s loft studio.
“The lighting is much better up here,” Grandpa would always say as they entered the studio. Rolls of canvas stood at attention in the corner while row upon row of his old oil paintings lined the perimeter like soldiers ready for battle. He had started painting as a means of relaxation following a war injury. As his body got better, so did his paintings. Nobody ever counted, but there must have been a battalions worth of them. A hint of turpentine and linseed oil filled her nostrils when Jennifer noticed Grandpa was starting a new painting.
“What’s it going to be, Grandpa?” she asked.
“Something special,” he replied. “I’m not sure exactly how it’s going to turn out yet. You’ll just have to see it when I’m finished.”
“Could you paint something for me, Grandpa?” she asked.
“I’ll see what I can do, Love Bug. We better get back downstairs. Your Grandma’s sweet potato pie is waiting for us. I’m starving after hiding from you for so long,” he said, and smiled.
Grandpa took a seat in his favorite old, dusty chair. The hum of activity in the kitchen was palpable. Jennifer helped set the table. Diana, her mother, made homemade stuffing and cranberry sauce. Aunts and uncles and cousins sat around the table playing a game of cards while hints of thyme and rosemary saturated their noses and tickled their taste buds. Every year, without fail, they all knew dinner was ready when Grandma would call out, “Art, it’s time to come carve the bird,” which he would do, and everybody would eat and drink and laugh… telling the same stories, year after year, until everybody had enough to eat.
With her belly full of turkey, Jennifer’s head began to bob, as the tryptophan kicked in. Sleep began to take over her body. Her mother said, “Honey, why don’t you run off to bed. You look so tired.”
Jennifer pulled herself up on the sofa and said her goodnights to the room full of people, playing cards again and laughing. She walked over to Grandpa in his dusty chair, kissed him lightly on the cheek and said, “I love you Grandpa.”
“You too, Love Bug. Great Day,” he whispered back.
“See you in the morning, Grandpa,” she said.
“OK, sweet heart. Good night,” he said.
Jennifer ran off to bed, and slept hard underneath the flannel sheets and the thick down comforter, thinking of her Hide and Seek game as she drifted off.
“Honey, wake up,” said Diana, Jennifer’s mother. “Dinner is ready.”
“Give me a minute,” Jennifer said, “I’ll be right there.”
After freshening up, Jennifer sauntered downstairs and was greeted by 28 smiling eyes. With the traditional Thanksgiving feast spread out before them, Grandpa’s painting watched over the entire family as they ate and drank and laughed. In that moment, the air smelled of his cologne and sweet potatoes. It felt as if he was in the next room, so alive, sitting in his dusty chair, waiting for Grandma to call out, “Art, it’s time to come carve the bird!”
The painting on the wall had been the last he ever painted. It depicted the Vermont forest in late fall, leaves swirling around along a cobblestone path. Grandma and Grandpa’s stone cabin off in the distance. A solitary figure, holding a little girl’s hand as they walked toward the cabin and the snow began to fall. Being his last painting, everybody in the family secretly hoped to inherit it after Grandpa died last Christmas, but in his will, he had left it to Jennifer, as everybody knew he would.
“Who’s going to carve the bird this year?” Grandma asked.
Jennifer took the knife with a tear in her eye, a smile on her face, and the snowflakes fell outside without agenda.
“Grandpa, is that you?” Jennifer called ahead.
Silence answered back.
“Grandpa, where are you?” she called again, a little worried.
Still silence.
“Ollie, Ollie, Oxen Free!” she shouted.
From behind, Grandpa’s massive hands squeezed and tickled her, hoisting her high into the late autumn sky. His outstretched arms seemed miles long as she looked down at him, squealing first from fear, then laughter. The crows dispersed from the branches above as the clouds took the last of the sunlight away. Her laughter filled the air and echoed back from the distance with the sound of happiness.
“Where were you hiding?” she asked. “I couldn’t find you anywhere.”
“I was just over there,” he said, “behind that big rock between those Aspen trees and that tall Cedar. You almost got me when you climbed up on that rock, but I saw you coming, so I buried myself in a pile of leaves. You were so close I had to hold my breath so you wouldn’t hear me. I almost passed out.”
Jennifer smiled and said, “Should we head back?”
“You think they miss us?” Grandpa replied.
“I’m not sure,” Jennifer said, “but I’m getting cold.”
“Alright then,” he replied, as they began to saunter back down the trail.
Blowing rapidly down the cobblestone road, the yellow leaves danced gold, the red ones burned maroon. More beautiful than reality, the dark orange leaves faded around the edges, as if they couldn't decide which color to be. Large, flat snowflakes began to fall, without agenda, as the crisp air turned cold. As the two returned down the path to Grandma and Grandpa’s stone cabin, the cobblestones had transitioned from gray to white. Smoke billowed out of the chimney, and flickered as it became one with the sky, smelling faintly of walnut.
“There’s no place as beautiful as Vermont in the fall,” her Grandpa would say every time they returned from playing Hide and Seek.
“Did the squirrels chase you off?” Grandma asked as the two passed through the door. “Dinner is almost ready. You two should go wash up.”
“Can you show me your studio again before dinner, Grandpa?” Jennifer asked, nearly pleading.
“Sure, Love Bug,” he said, and took her by the hand.
The two climbed the hardwood staircase to Grandpa’s loft studio.
“The lighting is much better up here,” Grandpa would always say as they entered the studio. Rolls of canvas stood at attention in the corner while row upon row of his old oil paintings lined the perimeter like soldiers ready for battle. He had started painting as a means of relaxation following a war injury. As his body got better, so did his paintings. Nobody ever counted, but there must have been a battalions worth of them. A hint of turpentine and linseed oil filled her nostrils when Jennifer noticed Grandpa was starting a new painting.
“What’s it going to be, Grandpa?” she asked.
“Something special,” he replied. “I’m not sure exactly how it’s going to turn out yet. You’ll just have to see it when I’m finished.”
“Could you paint something for me, Grandpa?” she asked.
“I’ll see what I can do, Love Bug. We better get back downstairs. Your Grandma’s sweet potato pie is waiting for us. I’m starving after hiding from you for so long,” he said, and smiled.
Grandpa took a seat in his favorite old, dusty chair. The hum of activity in the kitchen was palpable. Jennifer helped set the table. Diana, her mother, made homemade stuffing and cranberry sauce. Aunts and uncles and cousins sat around the table playing a game of cards while hints of thyme and rosemary saturated their noses and tickled their taste buds. Every year, without fail, they all knew dinner was ready when Grandma would call out, “Art, it’s time to come carve the bird,” which he would do, and everybody would eat and drink and laugh… telling the same stories, year after year, until everybody had enough to eat.
With her belly full of turkey, Jennifer’s head began to bob, as the tryptophan kicked in. Sleep began to take over her body. Her mother said, “Honey, why don’t you run off to bed. You look so tired.”
Jennifer pulled herself up on the sofa and said her goodnights to the room full of people, playing cards again and laughing. She walked over to Grandpa in his dusty chair, kissed him lightly on the cheek and said, “I love you Grandpa.”
“You too, Love Bug. Great Day,” he whispered back.
“See you in the morning, Grandpa,” she said.
“OK, sweet heart. Good night,” he said.
Jennifer ran off to bed, and slept hard underneath the flannel sheets and the thick down comforter, thinking of her Hide and Seek game as she drifted off.
“Honey, wake up,” said Diana, Jennifer’s mother. “Dinner is ready.”
“Give me a minute,” Jennifer said, “I’ll be right there.”
After freshening up, Jennifer sauntered downstairs and was greeted by 28 smiling eyes. With the traditional Thanksgiving feast spread out before them, Grandpa’s painting watched over the entire family as they ate and drank and laughed. In that moment, the air smelled of his cologne and sweet potatoes. It felt as if he was in the next room, so alive, sitting in his dusty chair, waiting for Grandma to call out, “Art, it’s time to come carve the bird!”
The painting on the wall had been the last he ever painted. It depicted the Vermont forest in late fall, leaves swirling around along a cobblestone path. Grandma and Grandpa’s stone cabin off in the distance. A solitary figure, holding a little girl’s hand as they walked toward the cabin and the snow began to fall. Being his last painting, everybody in the family secretly hoped to inherit it after Grandpa died last Christmas, but in his will, he had left it to Jennifer, as everybody knew he would.
“Who’s going to carve the bird this year?” Grandma asked.
Jennifer took the knife with a tear in her eye, a smile on her face, and the snowflakes fell outside without agenda.
9.17.2007
Put Your Box in a Box
Thanks this morning goes out to Kristin for sending me a link to this video. It is freakin' HYSTerical! I've been waiting at least 6 months to run across something this funny on YouTube.
Apparently, it's a spoof on a Saturday Night Live skit called "Dick in a Box" that included (I think) Justin Timberlake. Since Elliott was born, we haven't seen too much late night TV, so I'll trust the info I got on the web.
Anyway, here's to celebrating the BOX. Click the thumbnail or follow this link to check it out: [My Box in a Box Video]
Ha Ha Ha (Still laughing)
C
Apparently, it's a spoof on a Saturday Night Live skit called "Dick in a Box" that included (I think) Justin Timberlake. Since Elliott was born, we haven't seen too much late night TV, so I'll trust the info I got on the web.
Anyway, here's to celebrating the BOX. Click the thumbnail or follow this link to check it out: [My Box in a Box Video]
Ha Ha Ha (Still laughing)
C
9.11.2007
Moment of Silence
I just realized as I sat down to write today that it is September 11th. I hadn't given it a thought prior to now.
...taking a moment of silence to put life in perspective
...how easily we forget.
Cory
...taking a moment of silence to put life in perspective
...how easily we forget.
Cory
9.08.2007
Just Have to Bitch
I really can't believe this!
I've been thinking about this for some time, at least since I decided to go back to school and start writing again... I have been thinking I should register my name as a domain [ie www.coryfreeman.com]. Every time I have ever checked, it has been available, so just moments ago, I logged on to GoDaddy.com only to find out it has been taken! TWO F*&^%#$ days ago! It's not like my name is Jack Johnson. What a horribly sad day in Coryville. Now I have to pray, wait a year, and be ready to pounce. AAAARRRRGGGH!
Please send me condolences (That's 'D' as in 'dead'). I am dying here... at least kicking myself. What an idiot.
C
I've been thinking about this for some time, at least since I decided to go back to school and start writing again... I have been thinking I should register my name as a domain [ie www.coryfreeman.com]. Every time I have ever checked, it has been available, so just moments ago, I logged on to GoDaddy.com only to find out it has been taken! TWO F*&^%#$ days ago! It's not like my name is Jack Johnson. What a horribly sad day in Coryville. Now I have to pray, wait a year, and be ready to pounce. AAAARRRRGGGH!
Please send me condolences (That's 'D' as in 'dead'). I am dying here... at least kicking myself. What an idiot.
C
9.03.2007
A Tribute to Common Courtesy...
This has been bugging me for some time. The more I think about it, the more bothered I get.
It started at work. In the middle of a small emergency at the hospital, my bedside cart was void of some simple essentials: saline flushes, extra needles, that kind of thing. My job is hard enough. It is both physically and mentally taxing, and it can be scary when things go bad. When I sit and think about the things I am responsible for (fragile human lives, medications, making sure other people don't kill my patients) it doesn't seem worth the money I make for the risk I take (risk of physical injury, exposure to blood and body fluids, disease exposure). The last thing I should have to worry about is whether or not I have the right supplies to do my job, especially on days when I hit the ground running, and don't have time to even pee.
I don't know how many of you know this, but a few summers ago, I backpacked the bulk of the Tahoe Rim Trail (130 miles in July 2004 and 35 miles on 2 pick up sections in August 2005). It took about 12 days total, and was one of the most amazing experiences of my life, second only probably to getting married and the birth of Elliott. One of the things that made the experience so amazing was how pristine the trail and the lake have managed to remain despite years of use by so many people. The only way this is possible is through the efforts of every single person who uses the trails.
Most backpackers live by the mantra "Pack it in. Pack it out." Many other outdoor enthusiasts live by the principles of the "Leave No Trace" philosophy as well. Even the attendees of Burning Man (psychedelic living arts festival where over 25,000 participants build an entire city in the Nevada desert every summer during the week of Labor Day) manage to leave the Playa with nothing more than footprints of their existence.
So why is it that you can't go to Starbucks without having to wipe a spill left behind from the person before you, or to a gas station bathroom without practically having to do the splits to avoid the puddle, or to a concert without having to traipse around in trash and beer cans to get back to your car?
It's because Common Courtesy is dead!
None of us should have to leave notes to co-workers reminding them to put the lid down or use a toilet brush. You should not have to bust out a Clorox wipe just to feel comfortable sitting on a bus. And you shouldn't have to worry about getting Hepatitis A or E. Coli from going to a restaurant. Don't even get me started on sanitary (napkin) receptacles in coed restrooms.
I try really hard to live by the Leave No Trace philosophy. I don't litter. I clean up after myself at the sugar counter at the cafe, I pick up random pieces of trash. I drive my wife crazy with conversations of bread crumbs on the counter. Maybe I'm obsessive-compulsive in the making, but I just feel strongly that you should not have to clean up other people's messes in order to comfortably live your life.
Stephanie and I went to an art exhibit recently where her grandma was showing some paintings. It was very nice, hosted in a private home, very well-done. I went to use the bathroom (#1), and when I flushed the toilet, it began to overflow. The person who used it before me had clogged it up with who knows what. Luckily, there was a plunger nearby and I was able to spare the next person from a nuclear spill (and thinking it was me who clogged the damn thing). Who does that?
Don't get me wrong. I know in other parts of the world, people live in conditions much more deplorable than I can imagine. I am grateful I don't have to sleep on a dirt floor or try to cook my cup of rice with water that came from the same place the rest of the village squats to pee.
I have the issue in perspective.
But that's sort of exactly my point. If we all did our part, and did things "just because we should" the world would be a much better place, possibly even for those I just mentioned. There might not be world hunger. There might not be WAR. There might not be third-world nations. Maybe this is an oversimplification on the problems of the world, but I think if we simply did things just because we should, the world would be a better place-- for everybody.
There. That's my rant. Remember to wash your hands.
RELATED LINKS you might find fun:
Leave No Trace
Tahoe Rim Trail
Burning Man
It started at work. In the middle of a small emergency at the hospital, my bedside cart was void of some simple essentials: saline flushes, extra needles, that kind of thing. My job is hard enough. It is both physically and mentally taxing, and it can be scary when things go bad. When I sit and think about the things I am responsible for (fragile human lives, medications, making sure other people don't kill my patients) it doesn't seem worth the money I make for the risk I take (risk of physical injury, exposure to blood and body fluids, disease exposure). The last thing I should have to worry about is whether or not I have the right supplies to do my job, especially on days when I hit the ground running, and don't have time to even pee.
I don't know how many of you know this, but a few summers ago, I backpacked the bulk of the Tahoe Rim Trail (130 miles in July 2004 and 35 miles on 2 pick up sections in August 2005). It took about 12 days total, and was one of the most amazing experiences of my life, second only probably to getting married and the birth of Elliott. One of the things that made the experience so amazing was how pristine the trail and the lake have managed to remain despite years of use by so many people. The only way this is possible is through the efforts of every single person who uses the trails.
Most backpackers live by the mantra "Pack it in. Pack it out." Many other outdoor enthusiasts live by the principles of the "Leave No Trace" philosophy as well. Even the attendees of Burning Man (psychedelic living arts festival where over 25,000 participants build an entire city in the Nevada desert every summer during the week of Labor Day) manage to leave the Playa with nothing more than footprints of their existence.
So why is it that you can't go to Starbucks without having to wipe a spill left behind from the person before you, or to a gas station bathroom without practically having to do the splits to avoid the puddle, or to a concert without having to traipse around in trash and beer cans to get back to your car?
It's because Common Courtesy is dead!
None of us should have to leave notes to co-workers reminding them to put the lid down or use a toilet brush. You should not have to bust out a Clorox wipe just to feel comfortable sitting on a bus. And you shouldn't have to worry about getting Hepatitis A or E. Coli from going to a restaurant. Don't even get me started on sanitary (napkin) receptacles in coed restrooms.
I try really hard to live by the Leave No Trace philosophy. I don't litter. I clean up after myself at the sugar counter at the cafe, I pick up random pieces of trash. I drive my wife crazy with conversations of bread crumbs on the counter. Maybe I'm obsessive-compulsive in the making, but I just feel strongly that you should not have to clean up other people's messes in order to comfortably live your life.
Stephanie and I went to an art exhibit recently where her grandma was showing some paintings. It was very nice, hosted in a private home, very well-done. I went to use the bathroom (#1), and when I flushed the toilet, it began to overflow. The person who used it before me had clogged it up with who knows what. Luckily, there was a plunger nearby and I was able to spare the next person from a nuclear spill (and thinking it was me who clogged the damn thing). Who does that?
Don't get me wrong. I know in other parts of the world, people live in conditions much more deplorable than I can imagine. I am grateful I don't have to sleep on a dirt floor or try to cook my cup of rice with water that came from the same place the rest of the village squats to pee.
I have the issue in perspective.
But that's sort of exactly my point. If we all did our part, and did things "just because we should" the world would be a much better place, possibly even for those I just mentioned. There might not be world hunger. There might not be WAR. There might not be third-world nations. Maybe this is an oversimplification on the problems of the world, but I think if we simply did things just because we should, the world would be a better place-- for everybody.
There. That's my rant. Remember to wash your hands.
RELATED LINKS you might find fun:
Leave No Trace
Tahoe Rim Trail
Burning Man
9.01.2007
Dog Days of Summer
I don't know why I waited so long to do this, but I promised my friend Donna I would post this info on the blog in May, and I'm just getting around to it... undoubtedly because we had our hands full with the newborn bundle of love. Anyway, I am trying to clear out my inbox and found the information. Also, if you are looking for a pet and can't find one you are looking for, consider a greyound if you have a fenced yard. They make great pets and there are tons of rescue groups.
Here's the info I promised to post:
Ginger’s Pet Rescue is a grass roots movement to save wonderful loving dogs who have been surrendered to high kill shelters. If interested in adopting a dog, fostering a dog or just getting the word out please contact Ginger’s Pet Rescue. In one year’s time Ginger’s Pet Rescue has saved over 300 dogs from being euthanized. If this link does not work, please Google Ginger’s Pet Rescue
http://www.gingerspetrescue.org/
Call Sara Schwarz
E-mail Address(es):
visionsdog@yahoo.com
Personal Information:
Phone: 253 439-0973 cell
Business Information:
Phone: 253 851-9362 wk
Here's the info I promised to post:
Ginger’s Pet Rescue is a grass roots movement to save wonderful loving dogs who have been surrendered to high kill shelters. If interested in adopting a dog, fostering a dog or just getting the word out please contact Ginger’s Pet Rescue. In one year’s time Ginger’s Pet Rescue has saved over 300 dogs from being euthanized. If this link does not work, please Google Ginger’s Pet Rescue
http://www.gingerspetrescue.org/
Call Sara Schwarz
E-mail Address(es):
visionsdog@yahoo.com
Personal Information:
Phone: 253 439-0973 cell
Business Information:
Phone: 253 851-9362 wk
8.26.2007
Hot August Nightmares
My inbox has been overflowing with emails from people wondering what has been happening with me and why I haven't been blogging. Here's the down & dirty version.
In late July/early August, Stephanie and I took a trip to the Bay Area for a week. This was a planned trip. Stephanie wanted to finish up the last of like 20 week-long classes to receive her full Montessori credential. The plan was for me to take care of Elliott while Stephanie was in class. It was an added bonus that we got to spend time with Auntie Nicole and her family. This was first time Elliott met cousin Eric and the second time he met cousin Sarah (she was 4 months old and present at his birth).
A few days before the trip, I started experiencing a funny pain in my right ankle. I thought I had banged it on the footboard of our bed as this has happened numerous times. It felt a little bruised, but no big deal. Each day before the trip, the discomfort got a little worse, but I was able to walk it off during the course of the day, plus I worked the 2 days before we left and there wasn't anything I could do about it if I wanted to.
We drove down on Saturday in the new Prius [We love this car, by the way. The whole trip cost us about $100 in gas-- not bad for putting over 2000 miles on it] By the time we arrived in Foster City on Saturday afternoon, my right ankle was swollen and tender and painful to walk on. Over the course of the next few days it kept getting worse. By Tuesday when I woke up crying in pain [and asked Stephanie to drive me to the Kaiser E.R. in Redwood City [Coincidentally the same hospital Stephanie was born in. The point being, you know it was bad if I was willing to go to a Kaiser E.R.] it was so painful I couldn't walk on it, and it also started to swell and discolor. Making matters worse, the same thing started happening in my left foot as well.
I was seen by a Dr. Bhopale. Nice guy. Did the usuals. Blood work, X-ray. The X-ray was negative for a fracture. He also tapped my ankle joint but was not able to aspirate very much fluid. Good thing, I guess, because this meant there was no infection. At first he thought I might have gout. They drew some blood for lab work. My uric acid level was normal. My sed rate was elevated at 45. After 4 hours of testing, he basically told me he didn't really know what was going on and that a "wait and see" approach was the best he could offer me. I thought, "Wait and see? Until what? My feet fall off?" Anyway, he sent me on my way with a pair of crutches, a brace, and a prescription for Indocin (anti-inflammatory) and Vicodin for pain. I took both religiously for the next 6 days until we arrived back in Portland. The Indocin did nothing for the inflammation, but the Vicodin helped with the pain to a large degree. At the end, I had taken it every 4 hours for nearly a week.
We got back to Portland on the 5th of August. On the 6th I had scheduled an appointment with a rheumatologist. I ended up seeing a doctor named Anita Goel. Fantastic doctor. After examining me, within 5 minutes, she said, "I think you may have sarcoidosis." She pointed out a red, puffy nodule just below my right knee that she explained was erythema nodosum, a defining characteristic in people with sarcoidosis. She confirmed her suspicions with a chest X-ray.
Sarcoidosis is basically an auto-immune disorder that starts in the lungs, but can affect any organ in the body. It involves the lymph nodes [which, in my X-ray, look like a nice sparkly constellation around my heart] and can cause inflammatory responses in other parts of the body, in my case, the feet. Something triggers the condition and sets off a chain of events whereby the immune system recognizes the body's own cells as foreign and attacks them. The cause of sarcoidosis is unknown. It can be severe enough to cause death, but can also be self-limiting and go away in as few as three years. [All this information is, of course, paraphrasing all the internet research I have been conducting, and probably a little less than completely accurate]. Dr. Goel prescribed steroids for me, which worked extremely well within 24-48 hours. By the time I had my follow up appointment a week later, my feet were pretty much back to normal and I was able to return to work. And, aside from a few nights of sleeplessness from the steroids and feeling generally run down, I am feeling much better.
I was obsessed with figuring out how this happened to me. I can live with the fact that the cause is unknown. I may have had sarcoidosis for some time and just not known it. What I couldn't understand was what triggered it. Finally, all I could come up with was the Hepatitis B vaccine I had received for my job just 24 hours before the pain in my ankle started. I got a copy of the insert from the employee health nurse. Interestingly enough, common side effects include arthritis and erythema nodosum (which is what helped Dr. Goel diagnose me). I asked Dr. Goel about this on my follow up visit. She said she didn't think the Hep B vaccine is what triggered it, but she also couldn't say definitely that it wasn't, either. Considering that I had never experienced any prior symptoms, and the pain started 24 hours after receiving the vaccine, I can't think of anything else it could be.
Anyway, the long and the short of it is, that is why I have not been blogging, emailing or returning phone calls. In the midst of all this happening, Stephanie and Elliott have been sick as well. We had our first fever scare with Elliott. He had a fever of 105.6 a couple of weeks ago. He's doing fine now, but had us nervous for a while to say the least. I think we're all finally on the mend.
Also, I have been spending my blogging time simply gathering all the stuff I needed to apply to the Writing Program at Portland State. I just sent off the packet yesterday. I'll let you all know when I find out. Thanks again to Valerie, Paul and Cari for the recommendation letters. The meant a lot to me. It's nice to know I'm surrounded by such amazing and kind people who are willing to say they like me on paper.
In case this is the only entry for August, I am looking forward to getting back on track in September. I have a couple items burning a hole in my brain I would like to share with all of you.
-C
In late July/early August, Stephanie and I took a trip to the Bay Area for a week. This was a planned trip. Stephanie wanted to finish up the last of like 20 week-long classes to receive her full Montessori credential. The plan was for me to take care of Elliott while Stephanie was in class. It was an added bonus that we got to spend time with Auntie Nicole and her family. This was first time Elliott met cousin Eric and the second time he met cousin Sarah (she was 4 months old and present at his birth).
A few days before the trip, I started experiencing a funny pain in my right ankle. I thought I had banged it on the footboard of our bed as this has happened numerous times. It felt a little bruised, but no big deal. Each day before the trip, the discomfort got a little worse, but I was able to walk it off during the course of the day, plus I worked the 2 days before we left and there wasn't anything I could do about it if I wanted to.
We drove down on Saturday in the new Prius [We love this car, by the way. The whole trip cost us about $100 in gas-- not bad for putting over 2000 miles on it] By the time we arrived in Foster City on Saturday afternoon, my right ankle was swollen and tender and painful to walk on. Over the course of the next few days it kept getting worse. By Tuesday when I woke up crying in pain [and asked Stephanie to drive me to the Kaiser E.R. in Redwood City [Coincidentally the same hospital Stephanie was born in. The point being, you know it was bad if I was willing to go to a Kaiser E.R.] it was so painful I couldn't walk on it, and it also started to swell and discolor. Making matters worse, the same thing started happening in my left foot as well.
I was seen by a Dr. Bhopale. Nice guy. Did the usuals. Blood work, X-ray. The X-ray was negative for a fracture. He also tapped my ankle joint but was not able to aspirate very much fluid. Good thing, I guess, because this meant there was no infection. At first he thought I might have gout. They drew some blood for lab work. My uric acid level was normal. My sed rate was elevated at 45. After 4 hours of testing, he basically told me he didn't really know what was going on and that a "wait and see" approach was the best he could offer me. I thought, "Wait and see? Until what? My feet fall off?" Anyway, he sent me on my way with a pair of crutches, a brace, and a prescription for Indocin (anti-inflammatory) and Vicodin for pain. I took both religiously for the next 6 days until we arrived back in Portland. The Indocin did nothing for the inflammation, but the Vicodin helped with the pain to a large degree. At the end, I had taken it every 4 hours for nearly a week.
We got back to Portland on the 5th of August. On the 6th I had scheduled an appointment with a rheumatologist. I ended up seeing a doctor named Anita Goel. Fantastic doctor. After examining me, within 5 minutes, she said, "I think you may have sarcoidosis." She pointed out a red, puffy nodule just below my right knee that she explained was erythema nodosum, a defining characteristic in people with sarcoidosis. She confirmed her suspicions with a chest X-ray.
Sarcoidosis is basically an auto-immune disorder that starts in the lungs, but can affect any organ in the body. It involves the lymph nodes [which, in my X-ray, look like a nice sparkly constellation around my heart] and can cause inflammatory responses in other parts of the body, in my case, the feet. Something triggers the condition and sets off a chain of events whereby the immune system recognizes the body's own cells as foreign and attacks them. The cause of sarcoidosis is unknown. It can be severe enough to cause death, but can also be self-limiting and go away in as few as three years. [All this information is, of course, paraphrasing all the internet research I have been conducting, and probably a little less than completely accurate]. Dr. Goel prescribed steroids for me, which worked extremely well within 24-48 hours. By the time I had my follow up appointment a week later, my feet were pretty much back to normal and I was able to return to work. And, aside from a few nights of sleeplessness from the steroids and feeling generally run down, I am feeling much better.
I was obsessed with figuring out how this happened to me. I can live with the fact that the cause is unknown. I may have had sarcoidosis for some time and just not known it. What I couldn't understand was what triggered it. Finally, all I could come up with was the Hepatitis B vaccine I had received for my job just 24 hours before the pain in my ankle started. I got a copy of the insert from the employee health nurse. Interestingly enough, common side effects include arthritis and erythema nodosum (which is what helped Dr. Goel diagnose me). I asked Dr. Goel about this on my follow up visit. She said she didn't think the Hep B vaccine is what triggered it, but she also couldn't say definitely that it wasn't, either. Considering that I had never experienced any prior symptoms, and the pain started 24 hours after receiving the vaccine, I can't think of anything else it could be.
Anyway, the long and the short of it is, that is why I have not been blogging, emailing or returning phone calls. In the midst of all this happening, Stephanie and Elliott have been sick as well. We had our first fever scare with Elliott. He had a fever of 105.6 a couple of weeks ago. He's doing fine now, but had us nervous for a while to say the least. I think we're all finally on the mend.
Also, I have been spending my blogging time simply gathering all the stuff I needed to apply to the Writing Program at Portland State. I just sent off the packet yesterday. I'll let you all know when I find out. Thanks again to Valerie, Paul and Cari for the recommendation letters. The meant a lot to me. It's nice to know I'm surrounded by such amazing and kind people who are willing to say they like me on paper.
In case this is the only entry for August, I am looking forward to getting back on track in September. I have a couple items burning a hole in my brain I would like to share with all of you.
-C
7.25.2007
An admission of submission...
Hey Everybody,
I know your inboxes have been void of my banter for a couple weeks. Here's what I have been working on. The application deadline for the Masters Program in Writing at PSU that I am applying for is September 1st. I have been trying to write letters of intent for weeks. I'm basically down to the one just below, but I included an older version just for kicks. The reason I whittled it down was because I felt it had too much superfluous information and was a little on the fluffy side. I decided to go for the shorter version because 1) it meets the criteria ("One-page personal introduction, including background as a writer, statement of goals, and proposed plan of study.") a bit better, and 2) is a little more straight-forward, albeit less creative.
I am interested in hearing your feedback (on either version). I am especially looking for errors or any advice you may have that would make my final version clearer, better, more concise, whatever. I don't typically ask for advice about what I write, but this is really important to me, so I want it to be as perfect as it can be. By that, I mean, I want it to be effective. Any input would be appreciated. Even if it's just a spelling or grammar correction. I fear misplaced commas.
Thanks for your input.
-C
Next week, I want to write about something that has fallen out of the mainstream in our country: Common Courtesy ...good times.
I know your inboxes have been void of my banter for a couple weeks. Here's what I have been working on. The application deadline for the Masters Program in Writing at PSU that I am applying for is September 1st. I have been trying to write letters of intent for weeks. I'm basically down to the one just below, but I included an older version just for kicks. The reason I whittled it down was because I felt it had too much superfluous information and was a little on the fluffy side. I decided to go for the shorter version because 1) it meets the criteria ("One-page personal introduction, including background as a writer, statement of goals, and proposed plan of study.") a bit better, and 2) is a little more straight-forward, albeit less creative.
I am interested in hearing your feedback (on either version). I am especially looking for errors or any advice you may have that would make my final version clearer, better, more concise, whatever. I don't typically ask for advice about what I write, but this is really important to me, so I want it to be as perfect as it can be. By that, I mean, I want it to be effective. Any input would be appreciated. Even if it's just a spelling or grammar correction. I fear misplaced commas.
Thanks for your input.
-C
Next week, I want to write about something that has fallen out of the mainstream in our country: Common Courtesy ...good times.
Masters Program Intro Letter [original]
(A Very) PERSONAL STATEMENT
By Cory Freeman
I have written scores of introductions for this personal statement. Honestly, it feels a lot like a first date. It feels necessary for me to be at the top of my game, putting my best self on the table for consideration. On one hand, I want to divulge enough information so I seem exciting and original, but on the other, I want to withhold enough to remain mysterious and intriguing. It’s a juggling act. I want to convey that I am not afraid to commit, but not so much so that I appear needy and pathetic. The possibilities of “us” swirl around my brain, but I must do what I can to remain grounded in reality. I know from experience that the kiss of death on a first date is appearing to be TOO available. I want to feel just the right “click.” Chemistry is important, but not crucial at this point. Really, my only goal is to get a second date, not to get married… so, first things first.
I’m so nervous. I guess, if I were my own best friend giving myself advice, it would be, “Just be yourself, and only one of two things can happen… either they will like you, or they won’t.” That sounds solid. I think I’ll try it. OK, here I go:
For the past eighteen years, my life’s biggest dream has been sitting on a dusty shelf, growing faded and dull inside my head— it’s integrity weakened by self-doubt, procrastination, and fear. In the spring of 1989, I tucked my dream of being a writer in a neat, airtight box and stashed it carefully in the attic space of my mind. The catalyst for shelving my dream was a simple one. I was living with my father during my first college run at the University of Nevada, Reno. He relocated for a job, and I lost my meal ticket. It was nothing earth shattering or profound, simply my reality. I had to get a job to pay the rent. I promptly found a nursing program, completed it, moved to Seattle, and have been working (mostly) as a registered nurse since 1994. Nursing has been a worthwhile career for me. I have few regrets, but something about the profession has always left me feeling empty and unfulfilled… at least creatively.
I have tried my hand at other ventures. While living in Seattle, I went back to school and earned my B.A. in Psychology at the University of Washington. I had intended to pursue a Ph.D. I thought I wanted to be a therapist or counselor, until one day I realized I didn’t really want to listen to other peoples’ problems all day. I have also owned my own businesses. In Seattle, I ran my own nursing agency. And, last year, in Portland, I had my own contractor/remodeling business. The common denominator, however, in the situations I just described, is that I have not been honest with myself. I have always known I wanted to be a writer and (more recently) publish my own books, but have fooled myself into believing alternative truths. I allowed myself to stray from the path I should have followed years ago. I made myself believe that these other endeavors were my true calling, when deep down, I knew they were not.
I had all but forgotten about my dream box until the summer of 2001. I had recently moved back to Northern Nevada and ran into my old friend, Kristin, at my 15-year high school reunion. She reminded me of a story we had written together for our senior yearbook. We talked about old times. I was reminded of the writing I had done in high school. I had quite a collection of angst-driven poetry about girls I had crushes on, but I had also contributed stories to the school newspaper and also served as the editor for my high school literary magazine, The Verbatim. Our conversations flowed easily about old times. When Kristin asked me what I had done with my writing career, I was able to tell her that I had a weekly column called ‘Cadger’s Corner’ while I majored in journalism at UNR. I was also able to brag about a story I had written being one of 25 chosen from over 200 entries in the UNR publication “New Voices.” Beyond that, though, I sadly admitted my writing career had been shelved. Hers had too, but because she had gotten married and started a family.
During the course of summer in 2001, Kristin and I spent a lot of time together, sharing the contents of our boxes and vowing to never lose sight of our dreams again. On one of our outings, we were having coffee on the sidewalk outside a place called Java Jungle in downtown Reno by the Truckee River, and we noticed this man who kept circling the block on his Indian motorcycle. At first, we thought he might be looking for a parking space. Then, we thought he might be lost. By the 7th time around the block, we had made up an entirely fictional life story for him. He eventually found a parking space directly in front of us, so I had to ask. As it turned out, he was attorney who had ridden up from San Francisco for the day to meet a woman he hadn't seen in over 20 years, and was not hooligan we had made him out to be. As we I talked, I got the idea of writing a collection of short stories that were completely fictional with the exception of some factual element. The project ultimately came to be known as ‘Sidewalk Stories.’ The opening line would be a snippet from an overheard conversation or actual event, like the one there on the sidewalk outside Java Jungle, and we would publish a book of the best stories. Over time, however, Kristin’s interest waned, and discussions tapered off, so I put Sidewalk Stories back in the dream box and re-shelved it. But, at least I dusted it.
Sidewalk Stories was initially destined to be a "He Said/She Said" collection of short stories, but since I lost my writing partner, I have been able to develop the idea further, into something much more meaningful and powerful, something that could actually change the world in my eyes. It continues to percolate inside me, and I simply cannot ignore it any longer, for I fear it will bubble over and burn me if I do. For the first time, ever, I feel a sense of purpose. Something I have always hoped and searched for, but never found until now.
Long story longer, that is how I discovered the Masters program at P.S.U. I went online looking for an MFA-type program that would help me achieve my goal of launching my own publishing company, Sidewalk Publishing. My Google search revealed P.S.U. as a viable option. It is local, affordable, and a seemingly perfect fit for my needs. I was excited enough to find a Masters level writing program in Portland. I am a writer at heart, after all. But, when I discovered there is also Book Publishing track, I was sold. Ooligan Press seems like the perfect place to get my feet wet in publishing.
Sidewalk Stories, as I now envision, will remain a collection of short stories. The new twist is that they will eventually be an annual publication, much like the “Best American Short Stories” series published by Houghton Mifflin. My dream for Sidewalk Stories is to serve as a platform to showcase the talent of new voices in American literature, and perhaps sign these authors for other publications. I envision early editions of Sidewalk Stories being contest driven with a different theme from year to year. The next step in the evolution of Sidewalk Publishing will be more philanthropic. I love alliteration, and have since come up with similar concepts for Sandbox Stories and Playground Poetry—again, contest driven publications, but this time with scholarships being awarded to talented young writers.
I sincerely believe that P.S.U. is the perfect fit for me at this time. I urge you to consider me a serious and dedicated applicant. In return, I will promise you the best of I have to offer in anything and everything I do at P.S.U., and Ooligan Press as well.
I look forward to hearing from you. Perhaps, a second date?
Sincerely,
Cory Freeman
By Cory Freeman
I have written scores of introductions for this personal statement. Honestly, it feels a lot like a first date. It feels necessary for me to be at the top of my game, putting my best self on the table for consideration. On one hand, I want to divulge enough information so I seem exciting and original, but on the other, I want to withhold enough to remain mysterious and intriguing. It’s a juggling act. I want to convey that I am not afraid to commit, but not so much so that I appear needy and pathetic. The possibilities of “us” swirl around my brain, but I must do what I can to remain grounded in reality. I know from experience that the kiss of death on a first date is appearing to be TOO available. I want to feel just the right “click.” Chemistry is important, but not crucial at this point. Really, my only goal is to get a second date, not to get married… so, first things first.
I’m so nervous. I guess, if I were my own best friend giving myself advice, it would be, “Just be yourself, and only one of two things can happen… either they will like you, or they won’t.” That sounds solid. I think I’ll try it. OK, here I go:
For the past eighteen years, my life’s biggest dream has been sitting on a dusty shelf, growing faded and dull inside my head— it’s integrity weakened by self-doubt, procrastination, and fear. In the spring of 1989, I tucked my dream of being a writer in a neat, airtight box and stashed it carefully in the attic space of my mind. The catalyst for shelving my dream was a simple one. I was living with my father during my first college run at the University of Nevada, Reno. He relocated for a job, and I lost my meal ticket. It was nothing earth shattering or profound, simply my reality. I had to get a job to pay the rent. I promptly found a nursing program, completed it, moved to Seattle, and have been working (mostly) as a registered nurse since 1994. Nursing has been a worthwhile career for me. I have few regrets, but something about the profession has always left me feeling empty and unfulfilled… at least creatively.
I have tried my hand at other ventures. While living in Seattle, I went back to school and earned my B.A. in Psychology at the University of Washington. I had intended to pursue a Ph.D. I thought I wanted to be a therapist or counselor, until one day I realized I didn’t really want to listen to other peoples’ problems all day. I have also owned my own businesses. In Seattle, I ran my own nursing agency. And, last year, in Portland, I had my own contractor/remodeling business. The common denominator, however, in the situations I just described, is that I have not been honest with myself. I have always known I wanted to be a writer and (more recently) publish my own books, but have fooled myself into believing alternative truths. I allowed myself to stray from the path I should have followed years ago. I made myself believe that these other endeavors were my true calling, when deep down, I knew they were not.
I had all but forgotten about my dream box until the summer of 2001. I had recently moved back to Northern Nevada and ran into my old friend, Kristin, at my 15-year high school reunion. She reminded me of a story we had written together for our senior yearbook. We talked about old times. I was reminded of the writing I had done in high school. I had quite a collection of angst-driven poetry about girls I had crushes on, but I had also contributed stories to the school newspaper and also served as the editor for my high school literary magazine, The Verbatim. Our conversations flowed easily about old times. When Kristin asked me what I had done with my writing career, I was able to tell her that I had a weekly column called ‘Cadger’s Corner’ while I majored in journalism at UNR. I was also able to brag about a story I had written being one of 25 chosen from over 200 entries in the UNR publication “New Voices.” Beyond that, though, I sadly admitted my writing career had been shelved. Hers had too, but because she had gotten married and started a family.
During the course of summer in 2001, Kristin and I spent a lot of time together, sharing the contents of our boxes and vowing to never lose sight of our dreams again. On one of our outings, we were having coffee on the sidewalk outside a place called Java Jungle in downtown Reno by the Truckee River, and we noticed this man who kept circling the block on his Indian motorcycle. At first, we thought he might be looking for a parking space. Then, we thought he might be lost. By the 7th time around the block, we had made up an entirely fictional life story for him. He eventually found a parking space directly in front of us, so I had to ask. As it turned out, he was attorney who had ridden up from San Francisco for the day to meet a woman he hadn't seen in over 20 years, and was not hooligan we had made him out to be. As we I talked, I got the idea of writing a collection of short stories that were completely fictional with the exception of some factual element. The project ultimately came to be known as ‘Sidewalk Stories.’ The opening line would be a snippet from an overheard conversation or actual event, like the one there on the sidewalk outside Java Jungle, and we would publish a book of the best stories. Over time, however, Kristin’s interest waned, and discussions tapered off, so I put Sidewalk Stories back in the dream box and re-shelved it. But, at least I dusted it.
Sidewalk Stories was initially destined to be a "He Said/She Said" collection of short stories, but since I lost my writing partner, I have been able to develop the idea further, into something much more meaningful and powerful, something that could actually change the world in my eyes. It continues to percolate inside me, and I simply cannot ignore it any longer, for I fear it will bubble over and burn me if I do. For the first time, ever, I feel a sense of purpose. Something I have always hoped and searched for, but never found until now.
Long story longer, that is how I discovered the Masters program at P.S.U. I went online looking for an MFA-type program that would help me achieve my goal of launching my own publishing company, Sidewalk Publishing. My Google search revealed P.S.U. as a viable option. It is local, affordable, and a seemingly perfect fit for my needs. I was excited enough to find a Masters level writing program in Portland. I am a writer at heart, after all. But, when I discovered there is also Book Publishing track, I was sold. Ooligan Press seems like the perfect place to get my feet wet in publishing.
Sidewalk Stories, as I now envision, will remain a collection of short stories. The new twist is that they will eventually be an annual publication, much like the “Best American Short Stories” series published by Houghton Mifflin. My dream for Sidewalk Stories is to serve as a platform to showcase the talent of new voices in American literature, and perhaps sign these authors for other publications. I envision early editions of Sidewalk Stories being contest driven with a different theme from year to year. The next step in the evolution of Sidewalk Publishing will be more philanthropic. I love alliteration, and have since come up with similar concepts for Sandbox Stories and Playground Poetry—again, contest driven publications, but this time with scholarships being awarded to talented young writers.
I sincerely believe that P.S.U. is the perfect fit for me at this time. I urge you to consider me a serious and dedicated applicant. In return, I will promise you the best of I have to offer in anything and everything I do at P.S.U., and Ooligan Press as well.
I look forward to hearing from you. Perhaps, a second date?
Sincerely,
Cory Freeman
Masters Program Intro Letter [version 2.0]
Personal Introduction-- By Cory Freeman
I have always thought I wanted to be a writer. In high school, I was highly involved in my journalism class as assistant editor on the school newspaper. For extracurricular fun, I was also involved with the yearbook and served as the editor for my school’s annual literary publication, The Verbatim. When I started college at the University of Nevada, Reno, I majored in journalism, had my own weekly column in the campus newspaper, The Sagebrush, and had one of my short stories published in the English Department’s annual ‘New Voices’ publication.
That was 1989. That was the year I shelved the dream of being a writer and opted for a more practical career (by that, I mean one that paid the bills). So, in 1994, I graduated from nursing school and have been working as a registered nurse (mostly) since then. Along the way, in 2001, I earned by BA in Psychology from the University of Washington. I had planned to pursue a PhD in Psychology and become a psychologist, but discovered I didn’t really want to listen to people’s problems all the time and was disinterested in conducting extensive research as well. So, I went back to nursing.
Nursing has been a good profession for me. I enjoy working with people, helping others, and being part of a strong team. It pays pretty well, is more or less portable, and offers a flexible schedule. I currently work in the ICU at Good Samaritan Hospital in Portland. The problem with nursing, as it pertains to me, is that at nearly 40 years of age, I find it monotonous, somewhat unfulfilling, and void of creativity—which I long for. I have been working as a nurse for over 13 years and I am finally ready for a real change.
That’s where my application to P.S.U. comes in. I recently searched online for writing programs in the Pacific Northwest and came across the program at P.S.U. I just moved to Portland two years ago, and plan to stay. I must admit, I was happy to find a program in Portland, but I became nearly giddy when I came across the Book Publishing track of the program. I have always been interested in publishing, and have dreamed of being one of the great self-published American authors like Mark Twain or Walt Whitman. When I researched further and discovered Ooligan Press, I decided, without a doubt, that the program was a good fit for me.
In 2001, I developed a concept I call Sidewalk Stories after running into an old friend (who I used to write with) at my 15-year high school reunion. We spent a lot of time together that summer talking about writing, publishing and the business of both. Sidewalk Stories was borne from one of those conversations. Initially, I envisioned Sidewalk Stories being a compilation of self-written short fiction in which the first line of every story would be a quote from an overheard conversation at a café, bar, or simply on the sidewalk (where I got the idea). Since then, Sidewalk Stories has evolved into an idea that is much larger than I ever imagined it could be. It is now my goal to start my own publishing company, Sidewalk Publishing—Extraordinary Stories for Every Day People. I envision Sidewalk Stories as an annual publication showcasing undiscovered writing talent. Some day, I see the series being as popular as the “Best American Short Stories…” books published by Houghton Mifflin. Sidewalk Stories will be contest driven and the best entries will be published. I have also developed ideas for similar publications for young writers called Sandbox Stories and Playground Poetry that will also be contest driven, but the winners will be awarded scholarships instead of prizes. Then, as Sidewalk Publishing grows, perhaps we will be able to enter into contracts with some of these newly discovered authors. And, although not developed at this time, I foresee Sidewalk Media eventually producing movies from our library of material. But, I’m getting ahead of myself.
I just want to say that I think the writing program at P.S.U. along with the hands-on, collaborative experiences offered at Ooligan Press seem like the perfect fit for me. I have an entrepreneurial spirit. I am ready to head down this path, and I promise to bring my passion and enthusiasm with me on the journey. I am dedicated to the process of learning, writing, and now publishing. Ooligan seems like the kind of place where the reward for my hard work and dedication will be a solid foundation in the practical and business sides of publishing industry.
I am excited beyond words, and I want to be a part of the program in every facet.
Thank you,
Cory Freeman
I have always thought I wanted to be a writer. In high school, I was highly involved in my journalism class as assistant editor on the school newspaper. For extracurricular fun, I was also involved with the yearbook and served as the editor for my school’s annual literary publication, The Verbatim. When I started college at the University of Nevada, Reno, I majored in journalism, had my own weekly column in the campus newspaper, The Sagebrush, and had one of my short stories published in the English Department’s annual ‘New Voices’ publication.
That was 1989. That was the year I shelved the dream of being a writer and opted for a more practical career (by that, I mean one that paid the bills). So, in 1994, I graduated from nursing school and have been working as a registered nurse (mostly) since then. Along the way, in 2001, I earned by BA in Psychology from the University of Washington. I had planned to pursue a PhD in Psychology and become a psychologist, but discovered I didn’t really want to listen to people’s problems all the time and was disinterested in conducting extensive research as well. So, I went back to nursing.
Nursing has been a good profession for me. I enjoy working with people, helping others, and being part of a strong team. It pays pretty well, is more or less portable, and offers a flexible schedule. I currently work in the ICU at Good Samaritan Hospital in Portland. The problem with nursing, as it pertains to me, is that at nearly 40 years of age, I find it monotonous, somewhat unfulfilling, and void of creativity—which I long for. I have been working as a nurse for over 13 years and I am finally ready for a real change.
That’s where my application to P.S.U. comes in. I recently searched online for writing programs in the Pacific Northwest and came across the program at P.S.U. I just moved to Portland two years ago, and plan to stay. I must admit, I was happy to find a program in Portland, but I became nearly giddy when I came across the Book Publishing track of the program. I have always been interested in publishing, and have dreamed of being one of the great self-published American authors like Mark Twain or Walt Whitman. When I researched further and discovered Ooligan Press, I decided, without a doubt, that the program was a good fit for me.
In 2001, I developed a concept I call Sidewalk Stories after running into an old friend (who I used to write with) at my 15-year high school reunion. We spent a lot of time together that summer talking about writing, publishing and the business of both. Sidewalk Stories was borne from one of those conversations. Initially, I envisioned Sidewalk Stories being a compilation of self-written short fiction in which the first line of every story would be a quote from an overheard conversation at a café, bar, or simply on the sidewalk (where I got the idea). Since then, Sidewalk Stories has evolved into an idea that is much larger than I ever imagined it could be. It is now my goal to start my own publishing company, Sidewalk Publishing—Extraordinary Stories for Every Day People. I envision Sidewalk Stories as an annual publication showcasing undiscovered writing talent. Some day, I see the series being as popular as the “Best American Short Stories…” books published by Houghton Mifflin. Sidewalk Stories will be contest driven and the best entries will be published. I have also developed ideas for similar publications for young writers called Sandbox Stories and Playground Poetry that will also be contest driven, but the winners will be awarded scholarships instead of prizes. Then, as Sidewalk Publishing grows, perhaps we will be able to enter into contracts with some of these newly discovered authors. And, although not developed at this time, I foresee Sidewalk Media eventually producing movies from our library of material. But, I’m getting ahead of myself.
I just want to say that I think the writing program at P.S.U. along with the hands-on, collaborative experiences offered at Ooligan Press seem like the perfect fit for me. I have an entrepreneurial spirit. I am ready to head down this path, and I promise to bring my passion and enthusiasm with me on the journey. I am dedicated to the process of learning, writing, and now publishing. Ooligan seems like the kind of place where the reward for my hard work and dedication will be a solid foundation in the practical and business sides of publishing industry.
I am excited beyond words, and I want to be a part of the program in every facet.
Thank you,
Cory Freeman
6.30.2007
Hello... Anybody Intelligent Out There?
After my Apple experience this week, I saw this video clip and thought it was hilarious. Either Meredith Viera (sp?) is an idiot, or the iPhone took a big old digger on national television. I like to think that's what happened.
Read On...
Read On...
Bite the Poison Apple
I know I promised another installment of the My Nevada series this week, but I'm so pissed off about something else, I can't even see straight.
BACK STORY:
For those of you who haven't heard me bitch endlessly about my iPod, here's the edited version. In late 2004, I finally joined the age of iPod. I was a holdout until the marketing blitz of the U2 Special Edition iPod sucked me in. I had a near religious experience at a U2 concert in Seattle's King Dome in 1997 (the year before the King Dome was imploded to make way for the new Seahawks Stadium). I was a late U2 bloomer. The Joshua Tree was really the first album of theirs I actually purchased, and over the years, I only listened to them passively. That is, until that concert I mentioned. After that, I was like a born-again Bible Thumper. I went out and bought all the old CDs and listened to them incessently. In 2001, I shelled out over $1,000 to see them at the Tacoma Dome [$530 for the tix as a going away present for myself and 3 friends when I moved away from Seattle (this is a story in itself-- remind me to tell it some time); $85 for the limo from the Marriott when the radiator in the Saab blew up; $400+ for the new radiator, but I throw it into the tally because it makes a great story]. Anyway, when the Special Edition iPod came out, I bought one without hesitation. And, as a purchaser of the U2 iPod, Apple was offering a discount on the download of the entire U2 collection, which I purchased at a reduced rate of $149. So, from jump street, I basically spent $500 for my iPod with this additional download purchase.
The damn thing hasn't worked properly since I got it. It has a really sensitive head phone jack that cuts out and re-starts songs if you so much as breathe on it the wrong way. It frequently freezes and does nothing. Sometimes, the battery holds a charge, sometimes it doesn't. It skips in the middle of songs. When updating songs to the unit, it encounters other difficulties such as incomplete downloads or telling me I need to restore the iPod to factory settings (which, for those of you that don't have one, means starting over). Sometimes, when I plug my iPod into my computer, I get an error message that says "Windows does not recognize USB device". I'm probably leaving a few off the list, but clearly, my experience has been tenuous and complicated. I've told a few people (who own their own iPods) about the problems I've had with my iPod and they have been astounded, not having experienced similar problems. I have spent more hours on the phone with Apple Tech Support than I have listening to my iPod. That's how bad it has been.
Toward the end of the first year, as the warranty was about to expire, I purchased an extended warranty because I was confident the unit would fail. And, toward the end of the extended warranty, it did. I sent the iPod in to be serviced with the following letter, hoping it would help the Uber Goobers at Apple diagnose and fix my iPod. The letter, in it's entirety is shown below:
Hi,
I think my ipod needs to be replaced. It has never worked correctly since I got it. I am finally getting around to sending it in because I have lost all patience with it. My only other alternative would be to smash it, but I paid good money for it, so I thought I’d give you a chance to correct the problems before I do that.
Here are the problems I am having with my iPod. Each of these problems has happened repeatedly since I purchased the unit, and sometimes I have more than one problem at a time. Here goes:
1) The unit has a very sensitive headset jack. I bought the iPod to take snowboarding with me, but have never been able to because the unit barely performs while resting on a bed, let alone swooshing down the slopes. Sometimes all I have to do is breathe on the headset jack and the unit will either freeze, stop a song or skip a song
2) The unit frequently stops working for no good reason… It stops in the middle of songs, skips songs or freezes.
3) The unit frequently prompts me to restore it to factory settings… which always takes me hours because either the updater doesn’t work correctly, or the unit doesn’t download songs correctly or completely after updater is used, or stays in a perpetual state of worthlessness by saying “do not disconnect”—yet nothing happens.
4) The most recent problem is that when I plug the iPod into my computer, I get an error message that says “Windows does not recognize USB device”.
5) The unit will currently not shut off and is completely frozen.
I would not be opposed to receiving a new unit if this one cannot be fixed. It has not worked correctly since I have gotten it. Other friends of mine who have iPods tell me they have never had any problems like the ones I have described.
I have spent countless hours trying to restore/fix/download with this thing. I think it finally gave up and died. Please do what you can to revive it. I was really hoping to have a positive experience with an Apple product, but to date, cannot say I’m at all satisfied with my iPod.
Thank you,
Cory Freeman
Apple has a repair policy that basically will replace your iPod if there are any difficulties. That's why I paid for the extended warranty. The agent who sold it to me assured me there would be no problem in replacing my unit if I had any problems. Well, Apple sent my iPod back to me with a letter that stated my iPod had suffered damage to the case and could not be repaired or replaced. Basically, they said I was screwed. Keep in mind, I had so many problems with the iPod to begin with, that it spent most of its days either in a drawer of a desk or in the back pocket of my backpack. When I got the iPod back, I could not find any damage to the case. There was a tiny little dimple on the back that might have been caused by resting against a key or a AAA battery, but nothing major.
One of the other problems with my iPod, is that sometimes it actually works. This happens often enough that I had become complacent and didn't pursue remedies to fix it in the most expedient manner possible. Also, in the past 2 years, I have sold a home, moved out of state, started essentially 2 new jobs and tried to start my own business, met the woman of my dreams, moved her to Portland, got her pregnant, endured the most grueling of pregnancies with her, and had a baby... just a little too busy to make returning an iPod my top priority.
Well, for Father's Day, Stephanie and Elliott bought me the Bose speaker unit that you hook an iPod into. It's sleek, compact and discreet. It sits on the mantel and you barely notice it is there until the harmonic sounds bellow around you. The day I got the new Bose, I dug my iPod out of the coffee table drawer and plugged it into the Bose. It charged and worked perfectly. For two days, I thought all my problems were over. I thought it was great. I wouldn't have to baby my iPod any longer. It could just sit on the mantel in it's protective Bose cradle, and I wouldn't have to worry about not being able to take it snowboarding again.
But on the 3rd day, it died again.
Feeling pissed of and indignant, I decided to take it to the top. No more middle men. No more tech support. No more pnone calls. I sent my iPod and the following letter to Steve Jobs, CEO of Apple:
To: Steve Jobs, CEO
1 Infinite Loop
Cupertino, CA 95014
Dear Mr. Jobs,
I am writing to you because I have been unsuccessful at solving my problem using other outlets within your organization, and feel like writing you is my last resort.
I am an extremely dissatisfied customer.
In 2004, I got very excited about Apple products, namely the iPod. When your company came out with the U2 special edition of the iPod, I purchased one immediately after seeing the commercial for it. My friends had raved for some time about how great iPod was, and I finally decided it was time to jump on board with the iPod revolution.
From the time my iPod arrived, however, I have had problems with the unit. I spent countless hours on the phone with your tech support team trying to fix the problems I was having. The short version of the story is that my iPod has never worked properly, yet worked often enough that I never got serious about sending it in for repair. At some point, I purchased an extended warranty because I knew eventually the unit would fail… and it DID.
This past fall, I sent my iPod in for repair under the extended warranty I purchased, only to have it sent back to me with a letter saying it was not covered under the warranty and could not be repaired. The letter that accompanied my iPod when your company returned it, stated it could not be repaired due to damage sustained by the case. After receiving my iPod back, I called to dispute this claim because since I purchased my iPod, it has either been in a desk or a backpack due to its poor performance and has sustained no such damage. I was told at the time, that there was nothing that could be done, or at least nothing Apple could or would do to help me fix my problem. My friends, who also own iPod products, have not experienced the type of problems I have had with my iPod. The have all been shocked not only with the stories I have told them about my difficulties, but also the level of apathy on the part of Apple in helping me.
To add insult to injury, for my first Father’s Day (I have a 4-month old newborn, or I would have written sooner), my wife just purchased a Bose SoundDock to accompany my iPod, but I cannot use it because my iPod does not work properly.
I feel extremely ripped off by your company. In the 2½ years since I bought my iPod, I have only been able to listen to it, without malfunctions, for a total of about 20 hours. I have spent more time on the phone with tech support and customer service than listening to my music. I also feel like I was lulled into a false sense of security when I was sold an extended warranty that turned out to be worthless. I basically feel like I own the world’s most expensive paper weight-- $350 for the iPod, $150 for the entire U2 library I downloaded, the $60 I spent on an extended warranty, and now the $300 my wife just spent on a fantastic sound system that I cannot use because my iPod is dead.
Worse than anything, however, is feeling like I don’t matter to your company as a consumer of its products. I am an extremely loyal customer when I like a company’s products I will return over and over and over to buy them. For example, I am driving my 3rd Saab. I love them so much, I can’t imagine driving anything else, and I am looking forward to my 4th. I am a big fan of the Bose Corporation. I love my music and I love hearing it out of top quality speakers. I once had a set of $300 Bose headphones that broke. Bose sent me a replacement set within week—completely free. I go to Starbucks at least 3 times a week. Starbucks goes above and beyond to keep its customers happy and will make you a new drink on the spot if they make a mistake, heck, sometimes they will even give you a voucher for a free drink in the future if you’re really unhappy.
I am writing you this letter on a Fujitsu Lifebook computer. I have been very happy with my Fujitsu as well. They treat their customers like they matter. The funny thing is, when I was shopping for a new computer, I considered buying a new PowerBook or G5.At the time, however, I didn’t buy either because of the problems I have had with my iPod.
Apple’s new iPhone looks REALLY great, but I think I’ll be sticking with my Treo because of the problems I have had with my iPod as well.
I want desperately to believe in the Apple Corporation, but so far, your company has been rotten to the core. Perhaps you should change the name to the Lemon Corporation. I think that would be much more suitable.
Your company does quite well. I wonder how well it could do if you took better care of your customers.
Sincerely,
Cory Freeman
[address omitted]
P.S. I have included my iPod along with the letter I sent with the unit when I tried to have it fixed. I don’t know how else to rectify my situation. If you can’t help me by getting my iPod satisfactorily fixed or replaced as promised to me by the person who sold me the extended warranty, then you can keep it on your desktop as a reminder of how NOT to treat your customers in the future. If this letter prevents one other customer from feeling how I feel, that will be good enough for me.
About a week later (this past Tuesday) I got a phone call from a representative from the Apple Executive offices. He told me that they had received my letter, but regretted to inform me that it was Apple's position that my iPod was damaged and there was nothing further that Apple could do for me. After about 10 minutes of shouting obscenities at him, he agreed to look further into my service record and call me back.
That afternoon, just before the end of the business day, he called me back and basically stated the same thing to me, that Apple could not do anything to help me. I'll spare you most of the details, but I spent an hour on the phone with this pimple-faced bastard who was so condescending and rude to me that if I had met him in person, I might have acted on my impulse to rip his face off. After forcing him to stop interrupting me and actually listen to me plead my case, he stood firm and said he "represented the executives at Apple" and "Apple's stand" on the situation was that there was nothing they could do for me. I explained to him that I was not looking to scam Apple. I wasn't looking for freebies. I wasn't looking for a new iPod. I simply wanted the one I purchased to work properly. I also explained that I had other priorities in my life and therefore was not as expedient in pursuing the matter quickly. He basically criticized me and that it "wasn't Apple's fault" that my life was so busy and that it "wasn't Apple's responsibility" to repair a unit that was so clearly defective. I should have "sent it in sooner". Needless to say, this got me fired up. I insisted he connect me to his supbervisor... not only did he refuse, he told me that he "spoke on behalf of the executives at Apple" and there was nobody higher up the food chain that I could talk to. He refused to give me the name of his supervisor or manager, and reluctantly gave me his name. I further tried to explain to him that I wanted to believe in the Apple Corporation, and that they had a wonderful opportunity here to provide excellent customer service and perhaps one day I would buy a new PowerBook or iPhone.
He held firm, and basically I got nowhere.
Here's the rub. My wife spent $270 on a nice little Bose sound system that I am really happy with and want to use, but I can't use it without an iPod.
So, I bought another one, through Amazon.com this time, hoping that if I have problems with it, they will do something with it. My confidence in Apple at this point is ZERO.
I intend to keep sending the dead iPod and complaint letters to Apple until they cave and decide to do something about it. Then, I'll unload it on ebay or craigslist. And, if I continue to get nowhere, I'm going to send it to U2. Bono is enough of an activist, he may do something about it.
I know that Steve Jobs and the members of U2 are busy folks, and I'll probably get nowhere. But it's kind of fun trying. Who knows, maybe somebody will actually reach out and help the little guy.
At any rate, if you don't have to buy Apple products, don't... at least not if you expect any back end customer service.
BACK STORY:
For those of you who haven't heard me bitch endlessly about my iPod, here's the edited version. In late 2004, I finally joined the age of iPod. I was a holdout until the marketing blitz of the U2 Special Edition iPod sucked me in. I had a near religious experience at a U2 concert in Seattle's King Dome in 1997 (the year before the King Dome was imploded to make way for the new Seahawks Stadium). I was a late U2 bloomer. The Joshua Tree was really the first album of theirs I actually purchased, and over the years, I only listened to them passively. That is, until that concert I mentioned. After that, I was like a born-again Bible Thumper. I went out and bought all the old CDs and listened to them incessently. In 2001, I shelled out over $1,000 to see them at the Tacoma Dome [$530 for the tix as a going away present for myself and 3 friends when I moved away from Seattle (this is a story in itself-- remind me to tell it some time); $85 for the limo from the Marriott when the radiator in the Saab blew up; $400+ for the new radiator, but I throw it into the tally because it makes a great story]. Anyway, when the Special Edition iPod came out, I bought one without hesitation. And, as a purchaser of the U2 iPod, Apple was offering a discount on the download of the entire U2 collection, which I purchased at a reduced rate of $149. So, from jump street, I basically spent $500 for my iPod with this additional download purchase.
The damn thing hasn't worked properly since I got it. It has a really sensitive head phone jack that cuts out and re-starts songs if you so much as breathe on it the wrong way. It frequently freezes and does nothing. Sometimes, the battery holds a charge, sometimes it doesn't. It skips in the middle of songs. When updating songs to the unit, it encounters other difficulties such as incomplete downloads or telling me I need to restore the iPod to factory settings (which, for those of you that don't have one, means starting over). Sometimes, when I plug my iPod into my computer, I get an error message that says "Windows does not recognize USB device". I'm probably leaving a few off the list, but clearly, my experience has been tenuous and complicated. I've told a few people (who own their own iPods) about the problems I've had with my iPod and they have been astounded, not having experienced similar problems. I have spent more hours on the phone with Apple Tech Support than I have listening to my iPod. That's how bad it has been.
Toward the end of the first year, as the warranty was about to expire, I purchased an extended warranty because I was confident the unit would fail. And, toward the end of the extended warranty, it did. I sent the iPod in to be serviced with the following letter, hoping it would help the Uber Goobers at Apple diagnose and fix my iPod. The letter, in it's entirety is shown below:
Hi,
I think my ipod needs to be replaced. It has never worked correctly since I got it. I am finally getting around to sending it in because I have lost all patience with it. My only other alternative would be to smash it, but I paid good money for it, so I thought I’d give you a chance to correct the problems before I do that.
Here are the problems I am having with my iPod. Each of these problems has happened repeatedly since I purchased the unit, and sometimes I have more than one problem at a time. Here goes:
1) The unit has a very sensitive headset jack. I bought the iPod to take snowboarding with me, but have never been able to because the unit barely performs while resting on a bed, let alone swooshing down the slopes. Sometimes all I have to do is breathe on the headset jack and the unit will either freeze, stop a song or skip a song
2) The unit frequently stops working for no good reason… It stops in the middle of songs, skips songs or freezes.
3) The unit frequently prompts me to restore it to factory settings… which always takes me hours because either the updater doesn’t work correctly, or the unit doesn’t download songs correctly or completely after updater is used, or stays in a perpetual state of worthlessness by saying “do not disconnect”—yet nothing happens.
4) The most recent problem is that when I plug the iPod into my computer, I get an error message that says “Windows does not recognize USB device”.
5) The unit will currently not shut off and is completely frozen.
I would not be opposed to receiving a new unit if this one cannot be fixed. It has not worked correctly since I have gotten it. Other friends of mine who have iPods tell me they have never had any problems like the ones I have described.
I have spent countless hours trying to restore/fix/download with this thing. I think it finally gave up and died. Please do what you can to revive it. I was really hoping to have a positive experience with an Apple product, but to date, cannot say I’m at all satisfied with my iPod.
Thank you,
Cory Freeman
Apple has a repair policy that basically will replace your iPod if there are any difficulties. That's why I paid for the extended warranty. The agent who sold it to me assured me there would be no problem in replacing my unit if I had any problems. Well, Apple sent my iPod back to me with a letter that stated my iPod had suffered damage to the case and could not be repaired or replaced. Basically, they said I was screwed. Keep in mind, I had so many problems with the iPod to begin with, that it spent most of its days either in a drawer of a desk or in the back pocket of my backpack. When I got the iPod back, I could not find any damage to the case. There was a tiny little dimple on the back that might have been caused by resting against a key or a AAA battery, but nothing major.
One of the other problems with my iPod, is that sometimes it actually works. This happens often enough that I had become complacent and didn't pursue remedies to fix it in the most expedient manner possible. Also, in the past 2 years, I have sold a home, moved out of state, started essentially 2 new jobs and tried to start my own business, met the woman of my dreams, moved her to Portland, got her pregnant, endured the most grueling of pregnancies with her, and had a baby... just a little too busy to make returning an iPod my top priority.
Well, for Father's Day, Stephanie and Elliott bought me the Bose speaker unit that you hook an iPod into. It's sleek, compact and discreet. It sits on the mantel and you barely notice it is there until the harmonic sounds bellow around you. The day I got the new Bose, I dug my iPod out of the coffee table drawer and plugged it into the Bose. It charged and worked perfectly. For two days, I thought all my problems were over. I thought it was great. I wouldn't have to baby my iPod any longer. It could just sit on the mantel in it's protective Bose cradle, and I wouldn't have to worry about not being able to take it snowboarding again.
But on the 3rd day, it died again.
Feeling pissed of and indignant, I decided to take it to the top. No more middle men. No more tech support. No more pnone calls. I sent my iPod and the following letter to Steve Jobs, CEO of Apple:
To: Steve Jobs, CEO
1 Infinite Loop
Cupertino, CA 95014
Dear Mr. Jobs,
I am writing to you because I have been unsuccessful at solving my problem using other outlets within your organization, and feel like writing you is my last resort.
I am an extremely dissatisfied customer.
In 2004, I got very excited about Apple products, namely the iPod. When your company came out with the U2 special edition of the iPod, I purchased one immediately after seeing the commercial for it. My friends had raved for some time about how great iPod was, and I finally decided it was time to jump on board with the iPod revolution.
From the time my iPod arrived, however, I have had problems with the unit. I spent countless hours on the phone with your tech support team trying to fix the problems I was having. The short version of the story is that my iPod has never worked properly, yet worked often enough that I never got serious about sending it in for repair. At some point, I purchased an extended warranty because I knew eventually the unit would fail… and it DID.
This past fall, I sent my iPod in for repair under the extended warranty I purchased, only to have it sent back to me with a letter saying it was not covered under the warranty and could not be repaired. The letter that accompanied my iPod when your company returned it, stated it could not be repaired due to damage sustained by the case. After receiving my iPod back, I called to dispute this claim because since I purchased my iPod, it has either been in a desk or a backpack due to its poor performance and has sustained no such damage. I was told at the time, that there was nothing that could be done, or at least nothing Apple could or would do to help me fix my problem. My friends, who also own iPod products, have not experienced the type of problems I have had with my iPod. The have all been shocked not only with the stories I have told them about my difficulties, but also the level of apathy on the part of Apple in helping me.
To add insult to injury, for my first Father’s Day (I have a 4-month old newborn, or I would have written sooner), my wife just purchased a Bose SoundDock to accompany my iPod, but I cannot use it because my iPod does not work properly.
I feel extremely ripped off by your company. In the 2½ years since I bought my iPod, I have only been able to listen to it, without malfunctions, for a total of about 20 hours. I have spent more time on the phone with tech support and customer service than listening to my music. I also feel like I was lulled into a false sense of security when I was sold an extended warranty that turned out to be worthless. I basically feel like I own the world’s most expensive paper weight-- $350 for the iPod, $150 for the entire U2 library I downloaded, the $60 I spent on an extended warranty, and now the $300 my wife just spent on a fantastic sound system that I cannot use because my iPod is dead.
Worse than anything, however, is feeling like I don’t matter to your company as a consumer of its products. I am an extremely loyal customer when I like a company’s products I will return over and over and over to buy them. For example, I am driving my 3rd Saab. I love them so much, I can’t imagine driving anything else, and I am looking forward to my 4th. I am a big fan of the Bose Corporation. I love my music and I love hearing it out of top quality speakers. I once had a set of $300 Bose headphones that broke. Bose sent me a replacement set within week—completely free. I go to Starbucks at least 3 times a week. Starbucks goes above and beyond to keep its customers happy and will make you a new drink on the spot if they make a mistake, heck, sometimes they will even give you a voucher for a free drink in the future if you’re really unhappy.
I am writing you this letter on a Fujitsu Lifebook computer. I have been very happy with my Fujitsu as well. They treat their customers like they matter. The funny thing is, when I was shopping for a new computer, I considered buying a new PowerBook or G5.At the time, however, I didn’t buy either because of the problems I have had with my iPod.
Apple’s new iPhone looks REALLY great, but I think I’ll be sticking with my Treo because of the problems I have had with my iPod as well.
I want desperately to believe in the Apple Corporation, but so far, your company has been rotten to the core. Perhaps you should change the name to the Lemon Corporation. I think that would be much more suitable.
Your company does quite well. I wonder how well it could do if you took better care of your customers.
Sincerely,
Cory Freeman
[address omitted]
P.S. I have included my iPod along with the letter I sent with the unit when I tried to have it fixed. I don’t know how else to rectify my situation. If you can’t help me by getting my iPod satisfactorily fixed or replaced as promised to me by the person who sold me the extended warranty, then you can keep it on your desktop as a reminder of how NOT to treat your customers in the future. If this letter prevents one other customer from feeling how I feel, that will be good enough for me.
About a week later (this past Tuesday) I got a phone call from a representative from the Apple Executive offices. He told me that they had received my letter, but regretted to inform me that it was Apple's position that my iPod was damaged and there was nothing further that Apple could do for me. After about 10 minutes of shouting obscenities at him, he agreed to look further into my service record and call me back.
That afternoon, just before the end of the business day, he called me back and basically stated the same thing to me, that Apple could not do anything to help me. I'll spare you most of the details, but I spent an hour on the phone with this pimple-faced bastard who was so condescending and rude to me that if I had met him in person, I might have acted on my impulse to rip his face off. After forcing him to stop interrupting me and actually listen to me plead my case, he stood firm and said he "represented the executives at Apple" and "Apple's stand" on the situation was that there was nothing they could do for me. I explained to him that I was not looking to scam Apple. I wasn't looking for freebies. I wasn't looking for a new iPod. I simply wanted the one I purchased to work properly. I also explained that I had other priorities in my life and therefore was not as expedient in pursuing the matter quickly. He basically criticized me and that it "wasn't Apple's fault" that my life was so busy and that it "wasn't Apple's responsibility" to repair a unit that was so clearly defective. I should have "sent it in sooner". Needless to say, this got me fired up. I insisted he connect me to his supbervisor... not only did he refuse, he told me that he "spoke on behalf of the executives at Apple" and there was nobody higher up the food chain that I could talk to. He refused to give me the name of his supervisor or manager, and reluctantly gave me his name. I further tried to explain to him that I wanted to believe in the Apple Corporation, and that they had a wonderful opportunity here to provide excellent customer service and perhaps one day I would buy a new PowerBook or iPhone.
He held firm, and basically I got nowhere.
Here's the rub. My wife spent $270 on a nice little Bose sound system that I am really happy with and want to use, but I can't use it without an iPod.
So, I bought another one, through Amazon.com this time, hoping that if I have problems with it, they will do something with it. My confidence in Apple at this point is ZERO.
I intend to keep sending the dead iPod and complaint letters to Apple until they cave and decide to do something about it. Then, I'll unload it on ebay or craigslist. And, if I continue to get nowhere, I'm going to send it to U2. Bono is enough of an activist, he may do something about it.
I know that Steve Jobs and the members of U2 are busy folks, and I'll probably get nowhere. But it's kind of fun trying. Who knows, maybe somebody will actually reach out and help the little guy.
At any rate, if you don't have to buy Apple products, don't... at least not if you expect any back end customer service.
6.10.2007
Super Elastic Bubble Plastic
I got the idea for this week’s blog while writing last week.
As I was getting all gooey and sentimental about my wife last week [she loved it], I started thinking about all the possibilities that lie ahead for my son, Elliott. Other parents have told me that I would start living vicariously through my son. Although I hope that’s not completely true for me, it has begun to some degree. What got me thinking this week is the idea of first memories.
As Elliott grows, I wonder what his first memories will be. That got me to thinking of my own childhood and my first memories.
I cannot say I have a memory that stands out above all others as THE FIRST, but there are surprisingly many. I remember living in Hawthorne, California. Our house was tiny, just 2 bedrooms, but I remember the layout perfectly. I also remember the concrete wall out front and my aunt and uncles house that was just up the street. I remember running naked to the local liquor store [apparently I called it the “Yicker Tore”] to get candy. I also remember my grandparents house was only a few blocks away. They had a school and a playground down the street from them that I remember spending a lot of time in because the slide was shaped like a rocket ship that you had to climb into to slide down. The openings were kid-sized so parents couldn’t chase you inside. I would sit in there for hours (at least minutes) at a time until my mom or whoever was watching us would shout up into the opening from below to make sure I was OK before sliding down. There was also a wading pool at the playground that was maybe 18 inches deep in the center. It was a perfect circle. In the summer time, before the park volunteers would let us play in the pool, they would first pour in chlorine or some other chemical and make us walk around in circles (both directions) for 5-10 minutes before they would let us swim. I wonder how many of us will get cancer.
The list goes on and on. I’m sure I’ll include them here at some point, or at least in my autobiography, but for now I want to stay focused on every kid’s favorite things: TOYS. Looking back, I have picked my Top 10 favorite toys of all time [at least until the age of 12]. And I’m not talkin’ Frisbees, Hula Hoops, or marbles. I’m talking about toys I salivated over, toys I would have done chores for, toys I simply had to own and absolutely would have begged my parents for until they relented just so I would shut up.
As I wonder what Elliott’s favorite toys would be, these were mine [listed in more-or-less chronological order]:
SUPER ELASTIC BUBBLE PLASTIC— This is the memory that got this whole ball rolling. Now, this isn’t exactly a toy that I would have begged my parents for, but it was something I got my hands on as a little kid (I’m sure I stole it from the Yicker Tore) and thought it was the coolest stuff ever… probably because I couldn’t read the warnings that it should not be used by children under 8. Super Elastic Bubble Plastic [check out description of it here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Super_Elastic_Bubble_Plastic ] was this psychedelic plastic goo that you wadded up into little balls on the end of a straw and blew bubbles—not ordinary bubbles, but industrial size & strength multi-colored bubbles. The size of the bubble depended on how much goo you put on the end of the straw. This stuff was amazing. If blowing through the tiny little straw they provided didn’t make you somewhat anoxic, the chemical fumes from the glue were certainly powerful enough to get you high. Come to think of it, I think the first time I got high wasn’t smoking pot behind Mayfair Market in 10th grade with Frank Hobbs and Ron Santos; it was when I was three trying to make bubbles with this crap. I knew, secretly, that messing with this stuff was going to get me into trouble, and it did. After sneaking off with the tube of goo and the straw, I snuck around the corner of a neighbor’s house, loaded the straw and blew away. Long story short, it didn’t go well. I must have loaded the straw incorrectly because I was never able to blow a proper bubble. Well, the goo was tenacious like wet boogers. When I couldn’t wipe it off of my fingers onto my clothes, I used the next best thing—the side of the neighbor’s house, lucky me, at exactly the moment when that neighbor walked around the corner of the house to find me wiping the toxic sludge all over his stucco.
It took me nearly all day with a toothbrush to scrub that stuff off his stucco. I swore off being bad forever—at least until the next day when I let all the air out of the tires of my mom’s car just before she was supposed to leave for work.
[Apparently, there’s a band named Super Elastic Bubble Plastic because when I Googled and YouTubed it, most of the information that popped up first was about the band. Just FYI. I don’t know if they suck or not, I didn’t listen.]
MAGIC 8 BALL— Everybody is familiar with this classic fortune telling device. To this day, I think people believe in the advice of the Magic 8 Ball more than that of Emily Post, Dear Abby or Dr. Phil. If a social dilemma can’t be solved with Rock-Paper-Scissors, it most definitely can be answered by the Eight Ball. I was never actually given a Magic 8 Ball, but I ‘acquired’ one at some point. I don’t even remember how. I used to keep it behind the washer and dryer at that house we rented in Hawthorne, CA. The laundry room of that house could only be accessed via the outside, so I used to sneak in there and lock the door whenever I needed Eight Ball consultation. I would turn out the light for the mystery factor. There was just enough light shining beneath the door that I could read the advice of the Eight Ball as it floated through the Tidy Bowl blue liquid toward the surface of the viewing window. [Apparently, I could read then also. This is a distinct memory, yet I know for a fact I was less than four].
I have no idea what kinds of questions I used to ask the Eight Ball, but I’m sure there were a little like this: Will I grow up to be famous like Elvis? – IT IS DECIDEDLY SO. Will I drive a car as fast as Speed Racer? –BETTER NOT TELL YOU NOW. Will I get a Hippity Hop for my birthday? – OUTLOOK NOT SO GOOD.
That Eight Ball is still probably behind the washer and dryer of that rental house. I have never been able to maintain an Eight Ball in my possession. The always seem to disappear, kind of like Ouija boards.
[For a full description of the Magic 8 Ball, a list of all 20 standard responses, and an impressive list of movie and music references to the Eight Ball, go to http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Magic_8-ball or for a demonstration on how to dissect the Magic 8-Ball go to http://8ball.ofb.net/procedure.html then come back.]
HOT WHEELS CARS— The Holy Grail of boy’s toys. I used to watch the cartoon Speed Racer when I was a little, little kid at my grandma & grandpa’s house. It came on at 2:30 p.m. right after Felix the Cat. I remember it like it was my job. When Speed Racer’s car, the Mach 5, became available years later as a Hot Wheels car (or Matchbox car, the two were rivals, but really they were interchangeable) I was all over it. I think the car itself was in the family budget, but all the Hot Wheels accessories were not, so when I found a set of Hot Wheels track at a garage sale, I’m sure I begged my mom a thousand times for the $2 that I thought was the ultimate deal for a boxful of bright orange track, burgundy tongue-shaped connectors, and accessories. My brother and I used to clamp the tracks at the top of the fireplace mantel and string the tracks in as many combinations we could create: long straight-aways, single loops, double loops. Sometimes, one of us would hold up the end opposite the mantel and we would crash the cars in the center. We spent entire summer days playing with these things. Neighborhood and school kids traded cars like baseball cards. Hot Wheels were serious business.
Our fascination with Hot Wheels came to a screeching halt, however. As it turns out, these tracks are indestructible implements of pain. We got in trouble one time (and who can ever remember what for) and received the spanking of a lifetime with one of the pieces of bright orange track. The red marks on our asses made Linda Blair’s welts in The Exorcist look like a Noxzema commercial.
That day, my brother and I snuck the entire box of Hot Wheels tracks into the trash, and never spoke another word about them to our parents ever again.
SLIP-N-SLIDE— a.k.a White Trash Water Park. Nevada summers can get hot. Not Arizona hot, but hot. Sometimes reaching 100 degrees for long stretches of days. We literally begged and begged and begged for a Slip-N-Slide. The concept was simple: a 25-foot piece of durable vinyl that you would place in the yard, wet with a hose, take a running start and slide for your life. Hours and hours of fun, I tell you. Kids from all around the neighborhood would come to our house to Slip-N-Slide. We were like trailer park royalty. Kids would bring bits of food, drinks, coin, pets, bikes, anything… just to be able to beat the heat with a nice wet down and a laugh.
Ours came with another contraption (although I’m sure it was sold separately) that was like the top half of a person’s head, with Medusa-like hair-hoses that you would hook the garden hose into, and a chaotic fountain of water would squirt and squiggle its way out the end of the hair-hoses spraying water everywhere.
[I’m only including this last paragraph in the hopes somebody remembers the name of this thing. It escapes me and it’s driving me crazy. If any of you know, please email me]
ETCH-A-SKETCH— I think every kid in the world had or has an Etch-A-Sketch. When I was a wee lad, I remember always wanting to know how to draw (instinctively) but didn’t really have the technical skills to do so on my own. When I got my first Etch-A-Sketch, I thought I had been given the tool that would allow me to become the next Picasso. I quickly found out that there was a serious flaw with the Etch-A-Sketch… the rack & pinion mechanisms that drove the stylus through the silver pixie dust were only good for drawing straight lines. To draw anything with curves, you needed manual dexterity that is simply not available in the younger models of Homo sapiens. Drawing simple circles was cumbersome, and they always turned out looking like gruesomely misshapen dodecahedrons. I pretty well mastered Etch-A-Sketching the American flag (sans stars), but anything beyond that required patience I simply did not have. There was a company later on that created a model of the Etch-A-Sketch that utilized a joystick instead of the standard two knobs. I pulled a Veruca Salt on my mom and insisted on getting one. The pixie dust inside was gold instead of silver… must have been some patent issue… anyway, it worked no better, and ended up in the trash by the time I was 10. So much for being the next Picasso.
I guess the flipside of not becoming a graphic artist… this was around the time I started discovering I enjoyed WORDS and could manipulate them in fun and interesting ways. I was in the cub scouts at the time (baby version of the boy scouts). I begrudgingly entered a writing contest, urged by my pack leader. The topic was supposed to be why our mom was the best mom. After dragging my feet, I finally entered… and won. The prize was a crappy white porcelain vase filled with tacky silk flowers that my mom displayed proudly in her master bathroom until well into high school. Since then, pretty much everything I’ve ever written has received some type of recognition. I ended up being the editor of my high school literary ‘magazine’ called “The Verbatim.” In my early college years, I had a weekly column called Cadger’s Corner [which was actually kind like Corybantic Commentary, just a lot more juvenile— it paid $80 per week]. Another short story I wrote was published in one of the UNR young writer type collections. My story was one of 25 selected from over 200— there was an awards dinner and everything. I was practically famous.
I guess what I’m trying to say is, that when I win the Pulitzer, I will have to pay tribute, at least in some small way, to my failure with the Etch-A-Sketch.
[In researching this week, I also found an online Etch-A-Sketch that you can play with yourself (I don’t mean, “play with yourself,” I mean play with an online Etch-A-Sketch) at www.etchy.org ]
STRETCH ARMSTRONG— Around the time I failed Etch-A-Sketch 101, there was another toy on the market that was all the rage in the trailer park, Stretch Armstrong.
[Click on the thumbnail in the upper right hand corner of this page to see the original commercial. It starts off with a commercial for some electric company then leads into the Stretch Armstrong commercial for the last 40 seconds. Disclaimer: It’s really grainy and some of the words are inaudible, but is in fact the exact commercial I remember seeing as a kid that had me drooling for this toy.]
Having a Stretch Armstrong doll was like owning a comic book character (like a Ken doll meets The Blob). The original Stretch Armstrong (there has since been a re-vamp of the original, I’ll explain why later) was about 14 inches tall, and bulky. I bet he weighed 5 pounds. The whole point of the doll was that you could stretch him to unfathomable lengths and his body would recoil back to his original position once you let go of him. My brother, Trevor, and I really tested the limits of this doll. You could, in fact, stretch him from corner to corner of a standard-sized room… let’s just say 12 feet or so. But, like Superman and Kryptonite, Stretch Armstrong also had a downfall that would be the death of him- COLD. I discovered the undoing of Stretch Armstrong completely by accident. For those of you who don’t know the joys of living in a mobile home, the older ones are really freaking cold during winter, especially in the closets. One day, I went to get something out of my closet, and notice my Stretch Armstrong on the floor. I picked him up and discovered he was rock solid in the cold, like a brick. I tried to stretch his arms and legs, but they wouldn’t budge. So, instead of pulling on his arms, I decided to bend one, and it snapped off in my hand like a twig. I’m sure I let out the most horrified squeal, but I don’t think anybody heard me. With his cold, lifeless plastic arm stump in my palm, I noticed his insides were nothing more than a thick, red sludge that at some point had to have been a liquid. Since he was more or less frozen, I left him out in my room to thaw. When I returned several hours later to investigate, I was surprised that the red sludge was flowing like lava from his arm socket onto my desk. On further investigation, the sludge appeared to be some sort of Karo corn syrup type concoction, colored red with Red Dye #40, and tasted freakishly like raspberry [I was a boy. Of course I tasted it]. It was gummy and sweet and stuck to my teeth like cinnamon bears on asphalt. I didn’t eat much, because even then, I was sure it must have been carcinogenic.
And that was the end of Stretch Armstrong. His lifeless, rubber body, complete with amputated Karo syrup arm stump was the next of my toys to hit the garbage after the Joystick style Etch-A-Sketch.
[Coincidentally, it was years later that I discovered they had come out with a new version of the original. I just thought he got recalled and went to toy heaven. The new and improved Stretch Armstrong is much smaller and has much more distinct features—like a facial expression and fingers. Come to think of it, he looks a bit like a professional wrestler, only plastic. Personally, I think the original was much better. If he hadn’t been so easily dismembered, I would probably still have him.]
GREEN MACHINE— The Green Machine was the next step in the evolutionary process of the Big Wheel. What made the Green Machine special was the upgrade in design from its predecessor. The Big Wheel is an important part of any kid’s childhood. It was the first symbol of freedom, a mode of transportation other than walking or running. It turned front yards into things of the past and expanded a child’s universe beyond the sidewalk in front of the house. The Green Machine was like the bad-boy stepbrother to the Big Wheel. It had a larger front wheel, so it could go faster. It had an adjustable seat/rear-axle wheel combo so it could grow with its owner. It had a recumbent seat, so it was more comfortable. But perhaps best feature of all was that it had dual brake levers… one that stopped the right rear tire and one that stopped the left… or if you pulled them at the same time, stopped both. What this meant was (for those of you that sucked at physics) was that you could do SPINOUTS at HIGH SPEED!
My brother and I fought so much over our Green Machine that our parents had to buy us two of them.
We would literally spend all day cruising up and down the block in the middle of the street on our Green Machines. We had contests to see who could do the biggest or the most spinouts (left AND right). We had contests to see who could make the longest skid marks. We had contests to see who could go around the block the fastest. We were even fairly adept at jumping off curbs and homemade jumps. The Green Machine was easily the most captivating and entertaining toy I ever had. If we had ridden them any harder, we were going to need a replacement set of tires, a pit crew, and corporate sponsors just to get through summer.
Like all good things, though, the legacy of The Green Machine had to come to an end at the Freeman house. After about a week, somebody stole both of our Green Machines out of the front yard (no doubt during the middle of a much needed pit stop). We never saw them again. I think they were expensive in 1970s dollars, so we never got replacements either, at least not until we were ready for bicycles.
SIMON—This was my first electronic brain toy. Distinctively shaped like a flying saucer no doubt inspired by the movie “Close Encounters of the Third Kind,” was an electronic memory game. There were four colored buttons (red, yellow, green and blue) that would light up and beep in varying sequences. The point was to remember the sequences and press the buttons accordingly.
There is nothing socially significant about this game except for that I mastered it quickly and could beat anybody I challenged at it, therefore, I liked it. There were other knock-off type games like Merlin and electronic football, but none of those held my interest like Simon. I think I kept it until I was in college. I’d probably still have it if one of the buttons hadn’t started to stick. It was tough to get the sequences right with malfunctioning parts. Some might have considered this an additional challenge of the game. I saw it as a reason to pitch it in the garbage. [Picture of original Simon below]
ATARI (5600)— I never owned the original video game PONG. Even then, I knew PONG was overly simple and soon to be obsolete despite being all the rage. However, when the original Atari video game came out, I moved heaven and earth to get one.
I sold a bicycle to get this (more or less) original home video game system. I had gotten a bicycle for my birthday. It was a Huffy, so I though I was hot stuff. My mom bought it for me from a local store in Carson City called Sprouse Reitz (spelling from memory—this store later became a Long’s Drugs). I knew the bike cost my mom $79.99 because I remember seeing the price tag. I sold it to some kid in the neighborhood that summer for $100. I don’t know how that kid came across a hundred dollar bill, and I never asked. Anyway, I told my parents about it, gave them the C-note (which was the first one I had ever seen), and told them I wanted to put it toward an Atari game system. I told them I would spend the rest of the summer selling lemonade or body parts to come up with the rest of the money.
I remember (NEW) the cost of the unit was $179.99. Within a matter of a few days, our parents gave us the Atari as a present for “being so good.” I guess they had forgotten about the windows we had broken, pet frogs and lizards we had starved, and stuffed toys we had set on fire… and I wasn’t about to remind them.
Now I can’t even remember the name of most of the games we had. I know the one included with the game set allowed two opposing players to shoot at each other with boxy airplanes and square bullets. Eventually we had an entire collection of games from bowling to imitation’s of commercially available games i.e. Pac Man, Asteroids and the one that started it all, Space Invaders.
This definitely falls into the category of “If I had known then what I know now,” but if I had realized video games were going to remain so popular, I’d probably still be a gamer today. I’d be one of those 40-year old losers who became a multi-millionaire when Nintendo, Game Cube, Play Station and X Box took off along with the Internet. I would have made a killing during the Dot-Com boom in the 1990s probably only to lose it all and become a Sales Manager at Best Buy today. Oh well, bygones.
DAISY BB GUN— Some of my fondest memories of being a kid are of spending time with my grandpa. He used to have an old BB gun that we would spend hours playing with. We would line up old aluminum beer cans along the fence and take turns shooting them down. At the end of the day, grandpa’s fence would be embedded with hundreds of shiny BBs that he would eventually pry out with his pocketknife and re-use.
When I got my first (and last) BB gun, I was 12. I think I got it the Christmas before my parents got divorced. There was nothing fancy about the BB gun that I got except that it was a “Daisy” which was supposed to mean something. It was the successor of the “Red Ryder” BB gun that became popular around the 1940s.
[BTW- Rent the movie ‘A Christmas Story.’ All that kid in the movie wanted for Christmas was a Red Ryder BB gun. His mom swore “he’d shoot his eye out” but it didn’t matter to him. It’s a pretty funny movie. You should check it out if you haven’t seen it already. It’s a classic.]
Let me just say, that when you’re 12 and unsupervised, you should not own your own BB gun.
Apparently, BB guns were popular in the neighborhood. I was not the only kid who had one. We used to occasionally team up and have BB gun wars. As far as I know, there were never any fatal injuries, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t dangerous. My brother once got shot in the back at point-blank range with a BB gun that left a bruise the size of a baseball once the swelling went down. Another time, we were having a BB gun war in our yard and I literally almost shot some kid’s eye out when a BB I fired ricocheted off a dog dish and caught him straight between the eyes. His name was Christian. He was one of the tougher kids in the neighborhood, but the shot between the eyes sent him crying to his mom. When his mom called asking for mine, I pretended to be her so I wouldn’t get in trouble. I was 12. My voice hadn’t quite changed, so I got away with it. I pretended to be my mom and assured Christian’s mother that I would punish myself severely when I got home. I must have been convincing because it never came back to haunt me. I’m not even sure my mom knows the story to this day.
One thing is for sure though… it scared the shit out me and I never aimed that BB gun at another person again. To this day, I have never purchased another gun. I inherited an old .22 caliber rifle when my grandfather died, but for the most part, I am not a gun person. I certainly don’t want my son around any firearms. He will not have some of the same stories to tell when he is older that I have.
HONORABLE MENTIONS —That pretty much rounds out the Top 10 list. Here are some of the toys that didn’t quite make the cut for one reason or another:
SILLY PUTTY— I remember being highly impressed by Silly Putty’s ability to “lift” images from newspapers, but beyond that, it was pretty boring stuff. Plus, the image was always backwards.
SLIME— A slimy green boogery substance that I think all little boys found fascinating, especially when the manufacturer added worms and a Mad Scientist Laboratory spin to their advertising, but again, beyond the first five minutes, boring. Plus, it dried out and went bad.
PLAY-DOH— Now this moldable clay came in many colors and was actually lots of fun. I liked it because it allowed me to use my imagination. The drawback to it was that once you mixed any of the colors it basically turned brown and looked like poop. To this day, however, when some substance gets squeezed through something mechanical, it still makes me thing of the Fuzzy Pumper Barber Shop, which was a toy we played with in which Play Doh could be pressed to come out some plastic character’s head in the form of hair.
HIPPITY HOP— A child’s first mode of transportation. Basically, it was a giant rubber ball with a handle on it. There was even a variation where a horse head was substituted for the rubber handle. The problem was, even at 3, I realized the Hippity Hop was slower than walking.
JARTS— Jarts was actually a very cool toy. I remember playing with them every summer at my aunt and uncles house. If we weren’t in the pool, we were playing with Jarts. Essentially, Jarts were a metal-tipped lawn dart. Individuals stood at opposite ends of the yard trying to score points… 3 points for anything inside the circle (included) and one point for anything thrown within a Jart-length of the circle. It was a lot like horseshoes. I think Jarts were ultimately recalled. If you threw them high enough in the sky, they were definitely sharp enough to impale a kid’s head.
SHRINKY DINKS— If I remember correctly, these were little sheets or characters made of plastic that would shrink once you put them in the oven at 375 degrees. I remember thinking they were neat, but lost their appeal due to supply chain issues. Once you were out of the plastic figures, the game was over.
EASY BAKE OVEN— This was definitely a girl toy. I know my cousins Jennifer and Missy had one. It was amazing what kind of stuff you could cook solely with the heat from a light bulb. I remember that thing producing some very tasty cakes. Just like the Shrinky Dinks, though… once the dough was gone, there was nothing left to bake. Its popularity was short lived.
SIT-N-SPIN— A toddler’s version of the Tea Cup ride at Disneyland. You would literally “Sit” and “Spin” around in a circle. This thing really did make you dizzy, nauseous even. No points can be given to a toy that makes you sick.
LITE BRITE— I remember being quite enthralled with Lite Brite. It came with black paper that you placed over a light bulb in a box. Then you poked plastic pegs through the black paper to create a lighted image. You could create anything from a sailboat to Bozo the Clown. I remembered liking this toy a lot, but the pieces were easy to lose, and definitely a choking hazard.
And… just a tribute… some of the best toys we ever had were improvised. Cardboard boxes became secret hideaways. Bath towels became super hero capes. Sofa cushions became forts. Some of the best toys were actually things we came up with on our own.
My wife is crazy about wooden toys. Elliott’s collection of (great) wooden toys is already more extensive than anything I had as a kid. I think she’s secretly hoping he’ll turn out to be a rocket scientist or a doctor. With all the building blocks and Legos he has already accumulated, though, I wouldn’t be surprised or disappointed if he wants to be an architect when he grows up.
[I tried to include pictures of all these great toys, but the internet and or Blogger didn't cooperate or I just got bored trying to figure it out and gave up. I am also really curious to hear what your favorite toys were when you were a kid… especially girl toys. I remember being vaguely cognizant of Barbie dolls and Strawberry Shortcake etc., but really, I knew nothing of what girls liked or were interested in. Girls did have cooties after all.]
As I was getting all gooey and sentimental about my wife last week [she loved it], I started thinking about all the possibilities that lie ahead for my son, Elliott. Other parents have told me that I would start living vicariously through my son. Although I hope that’s not completely true for me, it has begun to some degree. What got me thinking this week is the idea of first memories.
As Elliott grows, I wonder what his first memories will be. That got me to thinking of my own childhood and my first memories.
I cannot say I have a memory that stands out above all others as THE FIRST, but there are surprisingly many. I remember living in Hawthorne, California. Our house was tiny, just 2 bedrooms, but I remember the layout perfectly. I also remember the concrete wall out front and my aunt and uncles house that was just up the street. I remember running naked to the local liquor store [apparently I called it the “Yicker Tore”] to get candy. I also remember my grandparents house was only a few blocks away. They had a school and a playground down the street from them that I remember spending a lot of time in because the slide was shaped like a rocket ship that you had to climb into to slide down. The openings were kid-sized so parents couldn’t chase you inside. I would sit in there for hours (at least minutes) at a time until my mom or whoever was watching us would shout up into the opening from below to make sure I was OK before sliding down. There was also a wading pool at the playground that was maybe 18 inches deep in the center. It was a perfect circle. In the summer time, before the park volunteers would let us play in the pool, they would first pour in chlorine or some other chemical and make us walk around in circles (both directions) for 5-10 minutes before they would let us swim. I wonder how many of us will get cancer.
The list goes on and on. I’m sure I’ll include them here at some point, or at least in my autobiography, but for now I want to stay focused on every kid’s favorite things: TOYS. Looking back, I have picked my Top 10 favorite toys of all time [at least until the age of 12]. And I’m not talkin’ Frisbees, Hula Hoops, or marbles. I’m talking about toys I salivated over, toys I would have done chores for, toys I simply had to own and absolutely would have begged my parents for until they relented just so I would shut up.
As I wonder what Elliott’s favorite toys would be, these were mine [listed in more-or-less chronological order]:
SUPER ELASTIC BUBBLE PLASTIC— This is the memory that got this whole ball rolling. Now, this isn’t exactly a toy that I would have begged my parents for, but it was something I got my hands on as a little kid (I’m sure I stole it from the Yicker Tore) and thought it was the coolest stuff ever… probably because I couldn’t read the warnings that it should not be used by children under 8. Super Elastic Bubble Plastic [check out description of it here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Super_Elastic_Bubble_Plastic ] was this psychedelic plastic goo that you wadded up into little balls on the end of a straw and blew bubbles—not ordinary bubbles, but industrial size & strength multi-colored bubbles. The size of the bubble depended on how much goo you put on the end of the straw. This stuff was amazing. If blowing through the tiny little straw they provided didn’t make you somewhat anoxic, the chemical fumes from the glue were certainly powerful enough to get you high. Come to think of it, I think the first time I got high wasn’t smoking pot behind Mayfair Market in 10th grade with Frank Hobbs and Ron Santos; it was when I was three trying to make bubbles with this crap. I knew, secretly, that messing with this stuff was going to get me into trouble, and it did. After sneaking off with the tube of goo and the straw, I snuck around the corner of a neighbor’s house, loaded the straw and blew away. Long story short, it didn’t go well. I must have loaded the straw incorrectly because I was never able to blow a proper bubble. Well, the goo was tenacious like wet boogers. When I couldn’t wipe it off of my fingers onto my clothes, I used the next best thing—the side of the neighbor’s house, lucky me, at exactly the moment when that neighbor walked around the corner of the house to find me wiping the toxic sludge all over his stucco.
It took me nearly all day with a toothbrush to scrub that stuff off his stucco. I swore off being bad forever—at least until the next day when I let all the air out of the tires of my mom’s car just before she was supposed to leave for work.
[Apparently, there’s a band named Super Elastic Bubble Plastic because when I Googled and YouTubed it, most of the information that popped up first was about the band. Just FYI. I don’t know if they suck or not, I didn’t listen.]
MAGIC 8 BALL— Everybody is familiar with this classic fortune telling device. To this day, I think people believe in the advice of the Magic 8 Ball more than that of Emily Post, Dear Abby or Dr. Phil. If a social dilemma can’t be solved with Rock-Paper-Scissors, it most definitely can be answered by the Eight Ball. I was never actually given a Magic 8 Ball, but I ‘acquired’ one at some point. I don’t even remember how. I used to keep it behind the washer and dryer at that house we rented in Hawthorne, CA. The laundry room of that house could only be accessed via the outside, so I used to sneak in there and lock the door whenever I needed Eight Ball consultation. I would turn out the light for the mystery factor. There was just enough light shining beneath the door that I could read the advice of the Eight Ball as it floated through the Tidy Bowl blue liquid toward the surface of the viewing window. [Apparently, I could read then also. This is a distinct memory, yet I know for a fact I was less than four].
I have no idea what kinds of questions I used to ask the Eight Ball, but I’m sure there were a little like this: Will I grow up to be famous like Elvis? – IT IS DECIDEDLY SO. Will I drive a car as fast as Speed Racer? –BETTER NOT TELL YOU NOW. Will I get a Hippity Hop for my birthday? – OUTLOOK NOT SO GOOD.
That Eight Ball is still probably behind the washer and dryer of that rental house. I have never been able to maintain an Eight Ball in my possession. The always seem to disappear, kind of like Ouija boards.
[For a full description of the Magic 8 Ball, a list of all 20 standard responses, and an impressive list of movie and music references to the Eight Ball, go to http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Magic_8-ball or for a demonstration on how to dissect the Magic 8-Ball go to http://8ball.ofb.net/procedure.html then come back.]
HOT WHEELS CARS— The Holy Grail of boy’s toys. I used to watch the cartoon Speed Racer when I was a little, little kid at my grandma & grandpa’s house. It came on at 2:30 p.m. right after Felix the Cat. I remember it like it was my job. When Speed Racer’s car, the Mach 5, became available years later as a Hot Wheels car (or Matchbox car, the two were rivals, but really they were interchangeable) I was all over it. I think the car itself was in the family budget, but all the Hot Wheels accessories were not, so when I found a set of Hot Wheels track at a garage sale, I’m sure I begged my mom a thousand times for the $2 that I thought was the ultimate deal for a boxful of bright orange track, burgundy tongue-shaped connectors, and accessories. My brother and I used to clamp the tracks at the top of the fireplace mantel and string the tracks in as many combinations we could create: long straight-aways, single loops, double loops. Sometimes, one of us would hold up the end opposite the mantel and we would crash the cars in the center. We spent entire summer days playing with these things. Neighborhood and school kids traded cars like baseball cards. Hot Wheels were serious business.
Our fascination with Hot Wheels came to a screeching halt, however. As it turns out, these tracks are indestructible implements of pain. We got in trouble one time (and who can ever remember what for) and received the spanking of a lifetime with one of the pieces of bright orange track. The red marks on our asses made Linda Blair’s welts in The Exorcist look like a Noxzema commercial.
That day, my brother and I snuck the entire box of Hot Wheels tracks into the trash, and never spoke another word about them to our parents ever again.
SLIP-N-SLIDE— a.k.a White Trash Water Park. Nevada summers can get hot. Not Arizona hot, but hot. Sometimes reaching 100 degrees for long stretches of days. We literally begged and begged and begged for a Slip-N-Slide. The concept was simple: a 25-foot piece of durable vinyl that you would place in the yard, wet with a hose, take a running start and slide for your life. Hours and hours of fun, I tell you. Kids from all around the neighborhood would come to our house to Slip-N-Slide. We were like trailer park royalty. Kids would bring bits of food, drinks, coin, pets, bikes, anything… just to be able to beat the heat with a nice wet down and a laugh.
Ours came with another contraption (although I’m sure it was sold separately) that was like the top half of a person’s head, with Medusa-like hair-hoses that you would hook the garden hose into, and a chaotic fountain of water would squirt and squiggle its way out the end of the hair-hoses spraying water everywhere.
[I’m only including this last paragraph in the hopes somebody remembers the name of this thing. It escapes me and it’s driving me crazy. If any of you know, please email me]
ETCH-A-SKETCH— I think every kid in the world had or has an Etch-A-Sketch. When I was a wee lad, I remember always wanting to know how to draw (instinctively) but didn’t really have the technical skills to do so on my own. When I got my first Etch-A-Sketch, I thought I had been given the tool that would allow me to become the next Picasso. I quickly found out that there was a serious flaw with the Etch-A-Sketch… the rack & pinion mechanisms that drove the stylus through the silver pixie dust were only good for drawing straight lines. To draw anything with curves, you needed manual dexterity that is simply not available in the younger models of Homo sapiens. Drawing simple circles was cumbersome, and they always turned out looking like gruesomely misshapen dodecahedrons. I pretty well mastered Etch-A-Sketching the American flag (sans stars), but anything beyond that required patience I simply did not have. There was a company later on that created a model of the Etch-A-Sketch that utilized a joystick instead of the standard two knobs. I pulled a Veruca Salt on my mom and insisted on getting one. The pixie dust inside was gold instead of silver… must have been some patent issue… anyway, it worked no better, and ended up in the trash by the time I was 10. So much for being the next Picasso.
I guess the flipside of not becoming a graphic artist… this was around the time I started discovering I enjoyed WORDS and could manipulate them in fun and interesting ways. I was in the cub scouts at the time (baby version of the boy scouts). I begrudgingly entered a writing contest, urged by my pack leader. The topic was supposed to be why our mom was the best mom. After dragging my feet, I finally entered… and won. The prize was a crappy white porcelain vase filled with tacky silk flowers that my mom displayed proudly in her master bathroom until well into high school. Since then, pretty much everything I’ve ever written has received some type of recognition. I ended up being the editor of my high school literary ‘magazine’ called “The Verbatim.” In my early college years, I had a weekly column called Cadger’s Corner [which was actually kind like Corybantic Commentary, just a lot more juvenile— it paid $80 per week]. Another short story I wrote was published in one of the UNR young writer type collections. My story was one of 25 selected from over 200— there was an awards dinner and everything. I was practically famous.
I guess what I’m trying to say is, that when I win the Pulitzer, I will have to pay tribute, at least in some small way, to my failure with the Etch-A-Sketch.
[In researching this week, I also found an online Etch-A-Sketch that you can play with yourself (I don’t mean, “play with yourself,” I mean play with an online Etch-A-Sketch) at www.etchy.org ]
STRETCH ARMSTRONG— Around the time I failed Etch-A-Sketch 101, there was another toy on the market that was all the rage in the trailer park, Stretch Armstrong.
[Click on the thumbnail in the upper right hand corner of this page to see the original commercial. It starts off with a commercial for some electric company then leads into the Stretch Armstrong commercial for the last 40 seconds. Disclaimer: It’s really grainy and some of the words are inaudible, but is in fact the exact commercial I remember seeing as a kid that had me drooling for this toy.]
Having a Stretch Armstrong doll was like owning a comic book character (like a Ken doll meets The Blob). The original Stretch Armstrong (there has since been a re-vamp of the original, I’ll explain why later) was about 14 inches tall, and bulky. I bet he weighed 5 pounds. The whole point of the doll was that you could stretch him to unfathomable lengths and his body would recoil back to his original position once you let go of him. My brother, Trevor, and I really tested the limits of this doll. You could, in fact, stretch him from corner to corner of a standard-sized room… let’s just say 12 feet or so. But, like Superman and Kryptonite, Stretch Armstrong also had a downfall that would be the death of him- COLD. I discovered the undoing of Stretch Armstrong completely by accident. For those of you who don’t know the joys of living in a mobile home, the older ones are really freaking cold during winter, especially in the closets. One day, I went to get something out of my closet, and notice my Stretch Armstrong on the floor. I picked him up and discovered he was rock solid in the cold, like a brick. I tried to stretch his arms and legs, but they wouldn’t budge. So, instead of pulling on his arms, I decided to bend one, and it snapped off in my hand like a twig. I’m sure I let out the most horrified squeal, but I don’t think anybody heard me. With his cold, lifeless plastic arm stump in my palm, I noticed his insides were nothing more than a thick, red sludge that at some point had to have been a liquid. Since he was more or less frozen, I left him out in my room to thaw. When I returned several hours later to investigate, I was surprised that the red sludge was flowing like lava from his arm socket onto my desk. On further investigation, the sludge appeared to be some sort of Karo corn syrup type concoction, colored red with Red Dye #40, and tasted freakishly like raspberry [I was a boy. Of course I tasted it]. It was gummy and sweet and stuck to my teeth like cinnamon bears on asphalt. I didn’t eat much, because even then, I was sure it must have been carcinogenic.
And that was the end of Stretch Armstrong. His lifeless, rubber body, complete with amputated Karo syrup arm stump was the next of my toys to hit the garbage after the Joystick style Etch-A-Sketch.
[Coincidentally, it was years later that I discovered they had come out with a new version of the original. I just thought he got recalled and went to toy heaven. The new and improved Stretch Armstrong is much smaller and has much more distinct features—like a facial expression and fingers. Come to think of it, he looks a bit like a professional wrestler, only plastic. Personally, I think the original was much better. If he hadn’t been so easily dismembered, I would probably still have him.]
GREEN MACHINE— The Green Machine was the next step in the evolutionary process of the Big Wheel. What made the Green Machine special was the upgrade in design from its predecessor. The Big Wheel is an important part of any kid’s childhood. It was the first symbol of freedom, a mode of transportation other than walking or running. It turned front yards into things of the past and expanded a child’s universe beyond the sidewalk in front of the house. The Green Machine was like the bad-boy stepbrother to the Big Wheel. It had a larger front wheel, so it could go faster. It had an adjustable seat/rear-axle wheel combo so it could grow with its owner. It had a recumbent seat, so it was more comfortable. But perhaps best feature of all was that it had dual brake levers… one that stopped the right rear tire and one that stopped the left… or if you pulled them at the same time, stopped both. What this meant was (for those of you that sucked at physics) was that you could do SPINOUTS at HIGH SPEED!
My brother and I fought so much over our Green Machine that our parents had to buy us two of them.
We would literally spend all day cruising up and down the block in the middle of the street on our Green Machines. We had contests to see who could do the biggest or the most spinouts (left AND right). We had contests to see who could make the longest skid marks. We had contests to see who could go around the block the fastest. We were even fairly adept at jumping off curbs and homemade jumps. The Green Machine was easily the most captivating and entertaining toy I ever had. If we had ridden them any harder, we were going to need a replacement set of tires, a pit crew, and corporate sponsors just to get through summer.
Like all good things, though, the legacy of The Green Machine had to come to an end at the Freeman house. After about a week, somebody stole both of our Green Machines out of the front yard (no doubt during the middle of a much needed pit stop). We never saw them again. I think they were expensive in 1970s dollars, so we never got replacements either, at least not until we were ready for bicycles.
SIMON—This was my first electronic brain toy. Distinctively shaped like a flying saucer no doubt inspired by the movie “Close Encounters of the Third Kind,” was an electronic memory game. There were four colored buttons (red, yellow, green and blue) that would light up and beep in varying sequences. The point was to remember the sequences and press the buttons accordingly.
There is nothing socially significant about this game except for that I mastered it quickly and could beat anybody I challenged at it, therefore, I liked it. There were other knock-off type games like Merlin and electronic football, but none of those held my interest like Simon. I think I kept it until I was in college. I’d probably still have it if one of the buttons hadn’t started to stick. It was tough to get the sequences right with malfunctioning parts. Some might have considered this an additional challenge of the game. I saw it as a reason to pitch it in the garbage. [Picture of original Simon below]
ATARI (5600)— I never owned the original video game PONG. Even then, I knew PONG was overly simple and soon to be obsolete despite being all the rage. However, when the original Atari video game came out, I moved heaven and earth to get one.
I sold a bicycle to get this (more or less) original home video game system. I had gotten a bicycle for my birthday. It was a Huffy, so I though I was hot stuff. My mom bought it for me from a local store in Carson City called Sprouse Reitz (spelling from memory—this store later became a Long’s Drugs). I knew the bike cost my mom $79.99 because I remember seeing the price tag. I sold it to some kid in the neighborhood that summer for $100. I don’t know how that kid came across a hundred dollar bill, and I never asked. Anyway, I told my parents about it, gave them the C-note (which was the first one I had ever seen), and told them I wanted to put it toward an Atari game system. I told them I would spend the rest of the summer selling lemonade or body parts to come up with the rest of the money.
I remember (NEW) the cost of the unit was $179.99. Within a matter of a few days, our parents gave us the Atari as a present for “being so good.” I guess they had forgotten about the windows we had broken, pet frogs and lizards we had starved, and stuffed toys we had set on fire… and I wasn’t about to remind them.
Now I can’t even remember the name of most of the games we had. I know the one included with the game set allowed two opposing players to shoot at each other with boxy airplanes and square bullets. Eventually we had an entire collection of games from bowling to imitation’s of commercially available games i.e. Pac Man, Asteroids and the one that started it all, Space Invaders.
This definitely falls into the category of “If I had known then what I know now,” but if I had realized video games were going to remain so popular, I’d probably still be a gamer today. I’d be one of those 40-year old losers who became a multi-millionaire when Nintendo, Game Cube, Play Station and X Box took off along with the Internet. I would have made a killing during the Dot-Com boom in the 1990s probably only to lose it all and become a Sales Manager at Best Buy today. Oh well, bygones.
DAISY BB GUN— Some of my fondest memories of being a kid are of spending time with my grandpa. He used to have an old BB gun that we would spend hours playing with. We would line up old aluminum beer cans along the fence and take turns shooting them down. At the end of the day, grandpa’s fence would be embedded with hundreds of shiny BBs that he would eventually pry out with his pocketknife and re-use.
When I got my first (and last) BB gun, I was 12. I think I got it the Christmas before my parents got divorced. There was nothing fancy about the BB gun that I got except that it was a “Daisy” which was supposed to mean something. It was the successor of the “Red Ryder” BB gun that became popular around the 1940s.
[BTW- Rent the movie ‘A Christmas Story.’ All that kid in the movie wanted for Christmas was a Red Ryder BB gun. His mom swore “he’d shoot his eye out” but it didn’t matter to him. It’s a pretty funny movie. You should check it out if you haven’t seen it already. It’s a classic.]
Let me just say, that when you’re 12 and unsupervised, you should not own your own BB gun.
Apparently, BB guns were popular in the neighborhood. I was not the only kid who had one. We used to occasionally team up and have BB gun wars. As far as I know, there were never any fatal injuries, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t dangerous. My brother once got shot in the back at point-blank range with a BB gun that left a bruise the size of a baseball once the swelling went down. Another time, we were having a BB gun war in our yard and I literally almost shot some kid’s eye out when a BB I fired ricocheted off a dog dish and caught him straight between the eyes. His name was Christian. He was one of the tougher kids in the neighborhood, but the shot between the eyes sent him crying to his mom. When his mom called asking for mine, I pretended to be her so I wouldn’t get in trouble. I was 12. My voice hadn’t quite changed, so I got away with it. I pretended to be my mom and assured Christian’s mother that I would punish myself severely when I got home. I must have been convincing because it never came back to haunt me. I’m not even sure my mom knows the story to this day.
One thing is for sure though… it scared the shit out me and I never aimed that BB gun at another person again. To this day, I have never purchased another gun. I inherited an old .22 caliber rifle when my grandfather died, but for the most part, I am not a gun person. I certainly don’t want my son around any firearms. He will not have some of the same stories to tell when he is older that I have.
HONORABLE MENTIONS —That pretty much rounds out the Top 10 list. Here are some of the toys that didn’t quite make the cut for one reason or another:
SILLY PUTTY— I remember being highly impressed by Silly Putty’s ability to “lift” images from newspapers, but beyond that, it was pretty boring stuff. Plus, the image was always backwards.
SLIME— A slimy green boogery substance that I think all little boys found fascinating, especially when the manufacturer added worms and a Mad Scientist Laboratory spin to their advertising, but again, beyond the first five minutes, boring. Plus, it dried out and went bad.
PLAY-DOH— Now this moldable clay came in many colors and was actually lots of fun. I liked it because it allowed me to use my imagination. The drawback to it was that once you mixed any of the colors it basically turned brown and looked like poop. To this day, however, when some substance gets squeezed through something mechanical, it still makes me thing of the Fuzzy Pumper Barber Shop, which was a toy we played with in which Play Doh could be pressed to come out some plastic character’s head in the form of hair.
HIPPITY HOP— A child’s first mode of transportation. Basically, it was a giant rubber ball with a handle on it. There was even a variation where a horse head was substituted for the rubber handle. The problem was, even at 3, I realized the Hippity Hop was slower than walking.
JARTS— Jarts was actually a very cool toy. I remember playing with them every summer at my aunt and uncles house. If we weren’t in the pool, we were playing with Jarts. Essentially, Jarts were a metal-tipped lawn dart. Individuals stood at opposite ends of the yard trying to score points… 3 points for anything inside the circle (included) and one point for anything thrown within a Jart-length of the circle. It was a lot like horseshoes. I think Jarts were ultimately recalled. If you threw them high enough in the sky, they were definitely sharp enough to impale a kid’s head.
SHRINKY DINKS— If I remember correctly, these were little sheets or characters made of plastic that would shrink once you put them in the oven at 375 degrees. I remember thinking they were neat, but lost their appeal due to supply chain issues. Once you were out of the plastic figures, the game was over.
EASY BAKE OVEN— This was definitely a girl toy. I know my cousins Jennifer and Missy had one. It was amazing what kind of stuff you could cook solely with the heat from a light bulb. I remember that thing producing some very tasty cakes. Just like the Shrinky Dinks, though… once the dough was gone, there was nothing left to bake. Its popularity was short lived.
SIT-N-SPIN— A toddler’s version of the Tea Cup ride at Disneyland. You would literally “Sit” and “Spin” around in a circle. This thing really did make you dizzy, nauseous even. No points can be given to a toy that makes you sick.
LITE BRITE— I remember being quite enthralled with Lite Brite. It came with black paper that you placed over a light bulb in a box. Then you poked plastic pegs through the black paper to create a lighted image. You could create anything from a sailboat to Bozo the Clown. I remembered liking this toy a lot, but the pieces were easy to lose, and definitely a choking hazard.
And… just a tribute… some of the best toys we ever had were improvised. Cardboard boxes became secret hideaways. Bath towels became super hero capes. Sofa cushions became forts. Some of the best toys were actually things we came up with on our own.
My wife is crazy about wooden toys. Elliott’s collection of (great) wooden toys is already more extensive than anything I had as a kid. I think she’s secretly hoping he’ll turn out to be a rocket scientist or a doctor. With all the building blocks and Legos he has already accumulated, though, I wouldn’t be surprised or disappointed if he wants to be an architect when he grows up.
[I tried to include pictures of all these great toys, but the internet and or Blogger didn't cooperate or I just got bored trying to figure it out and gave up. I am also really curious to hear what your favorite toys were when you were a kid… especially girl toys. I remember being vaguely cognizant of Barbie dolls and Strawberry Shortcake etc., but really, I knew nothing of what girls liked or were interested in. Girls did have cooties after all.]
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