Well it's been quite an absence from the interwebs for me, but I'm glad to be back.
In fact, with the last couple of months I've had, I'm happy just to be typing away, warm and safe. Winter's grasp is collapsing all around us and the once mammoth snow drifts have been weathered down to dirty wet white humps. It's not yet sixty and sunny, but we're drifting more toward pleasant and farther away from the harsh.
But this second winter (arguably worse than my first winter) has left one indelible mark as it travels into memory.
So here is the scene. Daryl (my coworker and friend) and I are frequent travelers on a certain I-195, the tiny artery that connects Pullman to Spokane and therefore, the outside world. The Pullman Highway, as it's also known, is a winding strip of largely two lane, undivided highway that weaves through the wheat fields and towns of the Palouse. For those that have never been there, it's a place that manages to be eerily beautiful with no trees. In the fall and summer it's bare brown hills rolling over and over each other to the horizon. In the spring, it's the runty stalks of wheat breaking through forming a green haze. In the winter, it's nothing but white on white as the hills fold in and out of the skyline and frozen mist.
It's a pretty stretch of road, but not the best maintained, though I'm sure the annual take from pulling over idiotic college kids speeding is more than enough to feed the asphalt appetites of several byways. In the winter, the road is too long to be routinely serviced by deicing trucks and plows and instead the convoys of trucks work in sections: Colfax to Pullman, Rosalia to Spokane, Steptoe to Spangle, etc. Sometimes it's possible to have beautiful stretch of road lead into horrible conditions immediately depending on how the wind and mist settles in.
The point of this preamble being, the road is beautiful and dangerous, and most often times in the winter, it is both. We've had a few close calls before, but we've always arrived in Pullman or Spokane ultimately unscathed, with nothing more than an elevated blood pressure and whitened knuckles. To further the jeopardy, we travel in a vehicle designed almost purposefully to be bad in slick conditions. The work van is bulky and top heavy, with poor winter tires and rear wheel drive. With sufficient weight over the rear wheels, it's manageable. With a lightened rear, it will lose the drive wheels at nearly any speed with any hint of ice or slush.
Daryl was driving, and I was feebly attempting to stay awake in the passenger seat at about 7:00 in the morning as we left Spokane on 3/10. The weather had gotten warmer and rained a few weeks prior, but this Tuesday was in the middle of a nasty cold snap. We had our personal gear packed along with our work gear which included an industrial strength shopvac and generator. The day started normally, and it was still dark while we sipped our cheap coffee and made our way to WSU.
Approximately twenty minutes later the van was on its side after making a full rotational roll and a half turn lengthwise. Daryl was banging on his crushed driver side door to try and climb out and I was crawling through the cargo bay attempting to force the rear door open to escape.
For those of you that have been involved in a violent event such as a car crash, you know that there are two big phases. Phase one is when the adrenaline is going. Phase two is when it shuts off.
Phase one for me was closed eyes, the feeling of spin like a carnival ride. Sounds of a ladder smashing into a canister vacuum, into the generator, into the side of the van, repeat. The smell of spilled coffee on my clothes, of grimy tools. The abrupt smell of cold winter wind running through a broken window. The smell of gasoline.
My accident wasn't much different than any other. Icy roads caused a loss of control of the vehicle, which caused a rollover accident as the van left the roadway and slid down the embankment. Daryl and I walked away from the accident. If you've never been in a major accident and you turn on the TV and the anchor says "...and the driver and passenger of the vehicle both walked away..." it feels like this:
Your eyes see a sideways van, which makes no sense. Your can feel all your fingers. You can move and walk and run. There is no pain. There are people running toward you. You wave your hands, you don't remember if you yell. Your brain says: holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, holy shit....
In truth, the most traumatizing event took place well after the accident on that same day at the junkyard where our work van was laid to rest. In Phase Two, you begin to make sense of what the sounds and smells meant. And when you see how the van was crushed and smashed and broken, you begin to see yourself inside and you understand how violent the world is. You understand how unfortunate a relatively tiny patch of ice can be, how randomly it clings to some parts of road and not others. You understand what tiny forces can cascade into violent events. You understand how quickly and easily control can be taken from you.
You also see how fortunate you can be. In our case, there were no cars in the opposing lane that we crossed on our trip into a farmer's field. There was no precipice off the side, there was no sudden impact. All of the forces we felt were spread out over time. The spinning the rolling was as soft was we could make it, driving across hard asphalt and frozen ground to rest in a hollow of mud and snow.
I see how Daryl made a series of very good decisions in a short time, to steer into the first slide and attempt to steer back out of the second. He did not jam on the brake or the accelerator, did not fight the skid but instead tried to coax the van back on the road. Because of these decisions, we did not slide or flip on the road, potentially being struck by other vehicles. After the van came to a rest, he was able to force his door open, as gas fumes leaked from the overturned generator's carburetor.
So considering all the fortune and misfortune that occurred in one day, I'm sitting here typing away just like normal. All of our gear and our personal desktop computers all survived the accident. Daryl and I were largely uninjured, in fact the only visual indication that either one of us had been in a crash was an approx 2mm cut on my finger from broken glass. That's it. The only lasting issue after the crash, is the death of our work van. Instead, Daryl and I travel to work in his Hyundai Elantra, which has considerably less cargo space. But we make do.
So here it is, back to normal. And you know what, spring is here! I've never been happier for a new season.
P.S. Buckle Up!
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Sunday, January 11, 2009
A Few Good Men
Ok, it's pre-mid January. What have we got on the agenda? Oh yeah, a new president will be inaugurated ushering in potentially the most historical bit of history we've witnessed. Or at least the most historical history that will be most immediately recorded as such and played back on DVR's and DVD's and Blackberries and Iphones and beamed via satellite directly into your skull, etc. Not saying it's going to be a media spectacle of course. But I'd be delighted if there is a little class in the whole thing. I'd be a sad puppy if halfway through I am invited to text in the name of the Obama offspring I find the cutest. Bleh.
Anyway, what else? Hmmm...taxes are coming up, ew. Um, the Superbowl is coming up to determine whichever team was most kind to the officiating team in the bribe department this past holiday season. (Thanks for my lifelong cynicism, Pittsburgh Steelers.) But what else? What other traditional hoop must I jump through?
Resolutions you dolt!
Or did I purposely skip past those? I recall one year somewhere in the mix of high school where I admitted that my resolution was to have "no resolution" at all that year. It seemed like pure genius to me, very zen-like. Unfortunately, all those around me saw this as less Taoist, and more Cop-out. So every year beyond that has had at least one easily forgettable resolution. But this year needs to be different.
So I sat down with myself and was completely and totally honest. What about me needs to change and grow and nurture so that I can more fully enjoy this year and those to come? I thought of the usual, weight loss, the ability to run more than 10 yards without being winded, dressing nicer. Naw, I'd already cycled through those. Instead I cooked up a really good one. Hey, I'm 29, I'm on the cusp of the next stage of my life. So this year my resolution is...
...to be a man!
That's right, enough I'm trading my bar t-shirts for polos, my pint glasses for rocks tumblers. I wave goodbye to Kanye and say hello to Public Radio. I say adieu to my ripped-jeans and wriggle into a pair of wrinkle free Dockers. I will no longer utter the word "motherfucker" and instead replace it with the more socially acceptable "business associate." I won't be giddy at the idea of a house party unless they specifically state that wine and cheese will be served. My delight will double if it becomes a BYOP affair (Bring Your Own Pate) affair.
Or at least I'll pick up some man mannerisms.
Mannerism #1. Be a Handy Man. I really should have paid more attention in autoshop, I keep reminding myself. I have the mechanical aptitude of a toddler, I really do. It's gotten to the point that the standards that others hold for me have sunk so low, people are delighted when I am handed a screwdriver and don't immediately accidently gouge my eye out. So I resolve to take on household projects all by myself for the first time. Except I do need monitoring around power tools.
Mannerism#2. Be a Sporty Man. Well I can check bowling off the list. After several months of randomly bowling every other weekend or so over drinks my bowling skill has actually gotten worse. Add to that list softball, as my arm strength is somewhere around Mr. Jamie Moyer, except without all that accuracy. In fact, every time I strut out to the infield, I can hear "Wild Thing" playing over and over again in my head. At least drinking is also encouraged for this sport too. But I need to declare and backup my proficiency in a completely unathletic and arbitrary sport. So I think I'll take up darts. Uh oh there goes "Wild Thing" again....OH GOD MY EYE!
Mannerism #3. Be a Well-Dressed Man. Ok, here I can actually make some strides. I know that flat-front khakis are in, and they pretty much come in one color (hint: it's khaki). I know that stripey shirts are ok, but nothing says professional like a bleached white shirt offset by a incredibly masculine pink tye (hint: it's actually salmon). So, I vow to work on the wardrobe. Unfortunately my current occupation usually has me crawling through attics or steam tunnels. Knowing that one should never button the lower button does me little good, when I've hooked my sportcoat on a building truss and am currently strangling myself while I grapple for my ladder.
Mannerism #4. Be a Money Man. I took approximately five minutes of an econ class in college once, which pretty much sums up my financial awareness. I know that demand and supply are involved in a ritualistic dance and when conditions are right they invest with each other and a consumer is born. Or maybe that was health class, I don't remember. Anyway, the point is my financial responsibility level is right around an Enron executive, except without the Enron salary. My retirement package is literally a package under my bed (I packed extra undies). So until that time, I consider running across the hardwood floor and sliding on my socks wearing nothing but my professional white shirt, some of my retirement boxers and some killer shades as proof positive that I know what I'm doing with my investment portfolio. I also sing Bow-Bow...chicka-chickaaaa!
Mannerism #5. Be a Sensitive Man. This one I've got in spades. While everybody else in college was learning...well learning basically important stuff, I was off learning the acceptable rhyme variations of a sonnet. I'm also currently learning the differences between wines that actually comes in bottles. Bye, bye Franzia, you were a good friend. I'm learning the appropriate time to give flowers and cards and have taken to cruising the O channel now and again. (Also, the Hallmark channel rules.) I'm in the process of understanding a woman's wants and needs and how best to fulfill her wondrous desires (hint: empty the dishwasher).
So all in all there is much work to be done. But like the Marines commercials show, one can be transformed from an ordinary guy like myself to a crisp, standout Manly Man merely by scaling a cliff with your bare hands, and then putting on a nice Blazer and waving a sword around in synchronized fashion. Without gouging an eye.
Sigh.
Maybe I'll regress this once, as I sit here typing with my bar shirt on and drinking my Miller Lite with *gasp* no coaster! Then tomorrow I'll get back on the wagon.
Anyway, what else? Hmmm...taxes are coming up, ew. Um, the Superbowl is coming up to determine whichever team was most kind to the officiating team in the bribe department this past holiday season. (Thanks for my lifelong cynicism, Pittsburgh Steelers.) But what else? What other traditional hoop must I jump through?
Resolutions you dolt!
Or did I purposely skip past those? I recall one year somewhere in the mix of high school where I admitted that my resolution was to have "no resolution" at all that year. It seemed like pure genius to me, very zen-like. Unfortunately, all those around me saw this as less Taoist, and more Cop-out. So every year beyond that has had at least one easily forgettable resolution. But this year needs to be different.
So I sat down with myself and was completely and totally honest. What about me needs to change and grow and nurture so that I can more fully enjoy this year and those to come? I thought of the usual, weight loss, the ability to run more than 10 yards without being winded, dressing nicer. Naw, I'd already cycled through those. Instead I cooked up a really good one. Hey, I'm 29, I'm on the cusp of the next stage of my life. So this year my resolution is...
...to be a man!
That's right, enough I'm trading my bar t-shirts for polos, my pint glasses for rocks tumblers. I wave goodbye to Kanye and say hello to Public Radio. I say adieu to my ripped-jeans and wriggle into a pair of wrinkle free Dockers. I will no longer utter the word "motherfucker" and instead replace it with the more socially acceptable "business associate." I won't be giddy at the idea of a house party unless they specifically state that wine and cheese will be served. My delight will double if it becomes a BYOP affair (Bring Your Own Pate) affair.
Or at least I'll pick up some man mannerisms.
Mannerism #1. Be a Handy Man. I really should have paid more attention in autoshop, I keep reminding myself. I have the mechanical aptitude of a toddler, I really do. It's gotten to the point that the standards that others hold for me have sunk so low, people are delighted when I am handed a screwdriver and don't immediately accidently gouge my eye out. So I resolve to take on household projects all by myself for the first time. Except I do need monitoring around power tools.
Mannerism#2. Be a Sporty Man. Well I can check bowling off the list. After several months of randomly bowling every other weekend or so over drinks my bowling skill has actually gotten worse. Add to that list softball, as my arm strength is somewhere around Mr. Jamie Moyer, except without all that accuracy. In fact, every time I strut out to the infield, I can hear "Wild Thing" playing over and over again in my head. At least drinking is also encouraged for this sport too. But I need to declare and backup my proficiency in a completely unathletic and arbitrary sport. So I think I'll take up darts. Uh oh there goes "Wild Thing" again....OH GOD MY EYE!
Mannerism #3. Be a Well-Dressed Man. Ok, here I can actually make some strides. I know that flat-front khakis are in, and they pretty much come in one color (hint: it's khaki). I know that stripey shirts are ok, but nothing says professional like a bleached white shirt offset by a incredibly masculine pink tye (hint: it's actually salmon). So, I vow to work on the wardrobe. Unfortunately my current occupation usually has me crawling through attics or steam tunnels. Knowing that one should never button the lower button does me little good, when I've hooked my sportcoat on a building truss and am currently strangling myself while I grapple for my ladder.
Mannerism #4. Be a Money Man. I took approximately five minutes of an econ class in college once, which pretty much sums up my financial awareness. I know that demand and supply are involved in a ritualistic dance and when conditions are right they invest with each other and a consumer is born. Or maybe that was health class, I don't remember. Anyway, the point is my financial responsibility level is right around an Enron executive, except without the Enron salary. My retirement package is literally a package under my bed (I packed extra undies). So until that time, I consider running across the hardwood floor and sliding on my socks wearing nothing but my professional white shirt, some of my retirement boxers and some killer shades as proof positive that I know what I'm doing with my investment portfolio. I also sing Bow-Bow...chicka-chickaaaa!
Mannerism #5. Be a Sensitive Man. This one I've got in spades. While everybody else in college was learning...well learning basically important stuff, I was off learning the acceptable rhyme variations of a sonnet. I'm also currently learning the differences between wines that actually comes in bottles. Bye, bye Franzia, you were a good friend. I'm learning the appropriate time to give flowers and cards and have taken to cruising the O channel now and again. (Also, the Hallmark channel rules.) I'm in the process of understanding a woman's wants and needs and how best to fulfill her wondrous desires (hint: empty the dishwasher).
So all in all there is much work to be done. But like the Marines commercials show, one can be transformed from an ordinary guy like myself to a crisp, standout Manly Man merely by scaling a cliff with your bare hands, and then putting on a nice Blazer and waving a sword around in synchronized fashion. Without gouging an eye.
Sigh.
Maybe I'll regress this once, as I sit here typing with my bar shirt on and drinking my Miller Lite with *gasp* no coaster! Then tomorrow I'll get back on the wagon.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Thanks Dee.
This blog is a little more somber than the others I suppose. A bit more melancholy, a bit more sober. You see, today I lost an important member of my broadly weaving social circle and it caused me to pause a moment.
She's not a family member, though her family has all but taken me in. She's not a teacher, though she's shared more than a few life lessons over gin and tonics. She's not even I knew for very long, or spent a significant amount of time with. Just enough time to know. Today I lost my best friend's grandmother, by the name of Dee. Which, to type it out, makes it feel a small event. But in reality, it weighs heavily on my concience. In fact, it weighs arguably heavier than my own grandmother's death, which in a sad occurence, was one year ago this day.
I have also been recently moving apartments. The economic climate these days has forced me out of my plush two bed and two bath apartment into a more austere one bedroom unit, which I really should have been in all along. It turns out to be a dissapointingly small savings each month for the move, but each little bit counts. Anyway, as I was moving, I stumbled across my old senior yearbook. As I flipped through the pages, I ran across an old familiar name. Again, not someone I'm attached to strongly, but just enough to feel a twinge of sadness. Her name is Susanna Stodden, a onetime high school classmate and fellow college dorm inhabitant. She also would have been present at (it turns out later) mutual friend Rick's wedding as a bridesmaid. She was murdered a few summers ago along with her mother a few summers ago as they hiked a trail up near Bellingham. I googled her name, hoping that justice had caught up with their killer, but no such luck.
What Susanna and Dee have in common is that they are both people who left just enough of an impression on me to know that they were inherently good people. If you consider all the folks one comes in contact with on a daily, weekly or even yearly basis, sometimes that seems a rare quality. They really, really were, and I really, really wish they were still with us.
To face death is one of the inevitable tasks of being alive as most of us have found out. However, it's the folks that you know deep down in your heart deserve life that make you angry at death. Make you want to yell and scream and throw a tantrum. Make you yell at the sky at night about things not being fair. Somehow in my head, if my best friend's grandmother, and my friend's wife's bridesmaid were still alive, my life would be more balanced, more fair, more just. But they are not, so it is not.
So I grieve quietly when I am alone. I catch myself thinking that I am overly sentimental, that these things should be felt, dealt with and then moved along from. But that is just not my style. It is a good reminder about mortality, about what the real cost of being alive is, and what the penalty for taking things for granted is and what the payoff for living fully is. No possible incarnation of a hell can persecute or a heaven reward as fully as what your reputation you leave behind on earth will impress on your soul. And in the case of these good folks, their memory is cherished by people they barely really knew which is as good a reward as you can get from your work on earth I guess.
So here's my thanks to Dee and Susanna, and also a somber New Year's resolution. I am hoping to be a little more courageous this year (like Susanna), and a little more generous (like Dee). I'm hoping to participate a bit more in what life has to offer (like Susanna) and open my home selflessly to others (like Dee). I'm hoping that these little giant events in my life wake up a bit so that when my time's at an end, whether it be sooner or later, someone may have known for very little may pause a bit too.
So thanks and goodbye Dee and Susanna.
Also, a special thanks to her husband Don. I won't pretend to know what the pain is like of losing a wife, and I earnestly hope I never feel it. But I hope the outpour of love from your family can help ease your mind. I hope the stories flow, I hope the memories never dim.
She's not a family member, though her family has all but taken me in. She's not a teacher, though she's shared more than a few life lessons over gin and tonics. She's not even I knew for very long, or spent a significant amount of time with. Just enough time to know. Today I lost my best friend's grandmother, by the name of Dee. Which, to type it out, makes it feel a small event. But in reality, it weighs heavily on my concience. In fact, it weighs arguably heavier than my own grandmother's death, which in a sad occurence, was one year ago this day.
I have also been recently moving apartments. The economic climate these days has forced me out of my plush two bed and two bath apartment into a more austere one bedroom unit, which I really should have been in all along. It turns out to be a dissapointingly small savings each month for the move, but each little bit counts. Anyway, as I was moving, I stumbled across my old senior yearbook. As I flipped through the pages, I ran across an old familiar name. Again, not someone I'm attached to strongly, but just enough to feel a twinge of sadness. Her name is Susanna Stodden, a onetime high school classmate and fellow college dorm inhabitant. She also would have been present at (it turns out later) mutual friend Rick's wedding as a bridesmaid. She was murdered a few summers ago along with her mother a few summers ago as they hiked a trail up near Bellingham. I googled her name, hoping that justice had caught up with their killer, but no such luck.
What Susanna and Dee have in common is that they are both people who left just enough of an impression on me to know that they were inherently good people. If you consider all the folks one comes in contact with on a daily, weekly or even yearly basis, sometimes that seems a rare quality. They really, really were, and I really, really wish they were still with us.
To face death is one of the inevitable tasks of being alive as most of us have found out. However, it's the folks that you know deep down in your heart deserve life that make you angry at death. Make you want to yell and scream and throw a tantrum. Make you yell at the sky at night about things not being fair. Somehow in my head, if my best friend's grandmother, and my friend's wife's bridesmaid were still alive, my life would be more balanced, more fair, more just. But they are not, so it is not.
So I grieve quietly when I am alone. I catch myself thinking that I am overly sentimental, that these things should be felt, dealt with and then moved along from. But that is just not my style. It is a good reminder about mortality, about what the real cost of being alive is, and what the penalty for taking things for granted is and what the payoff for living fully is. No possible incarnation of a hell can persecute or a heaven reward as fully as what your reputation you leave behind on earth will impress on your soul. And in the case of these good folks, their memory is cherished by people they barely really knew which is as good a reward as you can get from your work on earth I guess.
So here's my thanks to Dee and Susanna, and also a somber New Year's resolution. I am hoping to be a little more courageous this year (like Susanna), and a little more generous (like Dee). I'm hoping to participate a bit more in what life has to offer (like Susanna) and open my home selflessly to others (like Dee). I'm hoping that these little giant events in my life wake up a bit so that when my time's at an end, whether it be sooner or later, someone may have known for very little may pause a bit too.
So thanks and goodbye Dee and Susanna.
Also, a special thanks to her husband Don. I won't pretend to know what the pain is like of losing a wife, and I earnestly hope I never feel it. But I hope the outpour of love from your family can help ease your mind. I hope the stories flow, I hope the memories never dim.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
...and the band played on
First off Happy New Year!
This year taught me that some folks should really consider retirement. Among those on the list, I include Brett Favre and Dick Clark. Good old Dick Clark may have a Rockin' New Years special, but it has been many years since the man has done any rockin' whatsoever. I don't dislike the guy, and he is the spirit of the televised new year but it's hard to watch him struggle through another new years and then have the camera cut away to an idiotically grinning Ryan Seacrest surrounded with miscellaneous pop stars and about 50,000 shit-faced New Yorkers. It may be time to pass the torch.
But I digress.
Most peroidicals are welcoming the new year by first posting the rememberances of those lost in 2008. Well, TWIS too has a member of the Spokane community I'd like to mourn, one who's end came much too soon. As of 2009, Spokane has lost its only hip-hop radio station.
Sure it's no Edmund Hillary, or Tim Russert, but to the average joe a radio station is a big deal. Back in the big town, there has been at least one or two proud stations airing the phat beats. Why I remember the good ol' days switching the home radio presets to KPLZ and KUBE when my parents weren't home so I could hear the latest Boyz II Men track. And here too in Spokane, we had a station that I would settle on when I had my fill of Classic Rock, Country or Christian Babbling.
I sensed the end was near when over the holiday season, the station temporarily switched to a "holiday music" only format. That's right, obnoxious christmas music 24 hours a day pumped right into your ears over the air. There are only so many times you can play the Chipmunks christmas special. I kept the station on my preset list, hoping that by the 26th, this would all blow over and I could continue to count on the radio to provide me with the latest from TI and Lil' Wayne.
But alas, it is no more.
Instead, the station has become 96.9 Howling Coyote Country. That's right, insult to injury. Country music has assimiliated my only refuge; destroyed my only oasis of civilization in the desert. Country music has grown from the folksy songs of women singing of cheating men, and men of cheating cards into a monstrous multimedia juggernaut. It's no longer the Grand Ol' Opry, it's now the Grand Ol' CMT. Granted, most of the hip-hop produced today is mindless drivel and I have a hard time defending most of it. But it would be nice to judge for myself how badly written the new Jay-Z lyrics are or how horribly over produced the new Kanye West song is. Instead I can now press scan on the car radio and run the entire spectrum without so much as a snippet of a sprinkler high-hat beat.
So those of you blessed to be a in a musically diverse area, don't take this for granted! Embrace every day with a helping of Akon, or Method Man. Cherish each moment of hip-hopness like it was your last before we are consumed in the apocaplypse caused by Taylor Swift and Kenny Chesney. As for me, I'm going to go through my CD's and make sure the car is stocked with Wu-Tang, Outkast, Tribe and Common. It's a sad state of affairs, but hopefully an enterprising young man with a few bucks in his pocket will decide that Spokane is big-city enough to deserve some funky fresh beats. I'll hunker down until that day comes.
I think my pal Biz Markie said it best:
This is another hit from Biz Markie
Dedicated to the radio, not he or she
Be-cause it's time for them to get recognized
This is my version of the Nobel Peace Prize
That's why I'm comin out my face like this
Far as negativity, you never get dissed
If it wasn't for you, nobody would know
That's why this is something for the radiohhhh
This year taught me that some folks should really consider retirement. Among those on the list, I include Brett Favre and Dick Clark. Good old Dick Clark may have a Rockin' New Years special, but it has been many years since the man has done any rockin' whatsoever. I don't dislike the guy, and he is the spirit of the televised new year but it's hard to watch him struggle through another new years and then have the camera cut away to an idiotically grinning Ryan Seacrest surrounded with miscellaneous pop stars and about 50,000 shit-faced New Yorkers. It may be time to pass the torch.
But I digress.
Most peroidicals are welcoming the new year by first posting the rememberances of those lost in 2008. Well, TWIS too has a member of the Spokane community I'd like to mourn, one who's end came much too soon. As of 2009, Spokane has lost its only hip-hop radio station.
Sure it's no Edmund Hillary, or Tim Russert, but to the average joe a radio station is a big deal. Back in the big town, there has been at least one or two proud stations airing the phat beats. Why I remember the good ol' days switching the home radio presets to KPLZ and KUBE when my parents weren't home so I could hear the latest Boyz II Men track. And here too in Spokane, we had a station that I would settle on when I had my fill of Classic Rock, Country or Christian Babbling.
I sensed the end was near when over the holiday season, the station temporarily switched to a "holiday music" only format. That's right, obnoxious christmas music 24 hours a day pumped right into your ears over the air. There are only so many times you can play the Chipmunks christmas special. I kept the station on my preset list, hoping that by the 26th, this would all blow over and I could continue to count on the radio to provide me with the latest from TI and Lil' Wayne.
But alas, it is no more.
Instead, the station has become 96.9 Howling Coyote Country. That's right, insult to injury. Country music has assimiliated my only refuge; destroyed my only oasis of civilization in the desert. Country music has grown from the folksy songs of women singing of cheating men, and men of cheating cards into a monstrous multimedia juggernaut. It's no longer the Grand Ol' Opry, it's now the Grand Ol' CMT. Granted, most of the hip-hop produced today is mindless drivel and I have a hard time defending most of it. But it would be nice to judge for myself how badly written the new Jay-Z lyrics are or how horribly over produced the new Kanye West song is. Instead I can now press scan on the car radio and run the entire spectrum without so much as a snippet of a sprinkler high-hat beat.
So those of you blessed to be a in a musically diverse area, don't take this for granted! Embrace every day with a helping of Akon, or Method Man. Cherish each moment of hip-hopness like it was your last before we are consumed in the apocaplypse caused by Taylor Swift and Kenny Chesney. As for me, I'm going to go through my CD's and make sure the car is stocked with Wu-Tang, Outkast, Tribe and Common. It's a sad state of affairs, but hopefully an enterprising young man with a few bucks in his pocket will decide that Spokane is big-city enough to deserve some funky fresh beats. I'll hunker down until that day comes.
I think my pal Biz Markie said it best:
This is another hit from Biz Markie
Dedicated to the radio, not he or she
Be-cause it's time for them to get recognized
This is my version of the Nobel Peace Prize
That's why I'm comin out my face like this
Far as negativity, you never get dissed
If it wasn't for you, nobody would know
That's why this is something for the radiohhhh
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Old Gods of Wrathful Winter tips
It's my second winter here in the desert.
I remember back in elementary school at some point I was told that not all deserts are hot all the time. Sometimes they are bitterly, bitterly cold and their desert status is measured only in their available water to the little critters living in them. By these standards the ice fields of Antarctica rate as deserts as all available water is not available at all, being locked tightly away in solid form as ice or snow.
These tiny bits of knowledge creep up on me every once in a while, usually not helpful at all. I was delighted by the fall in Spokane, a bit of rain here in there and not too much. Bunches of colors from the large decidious tree population. And now this...
I really should have seen it coming, I mean, it is winter every year here. It's just that after all of the hype that last year's winter was the worst winter in (fill in blank here with number of years you were alive minus two or three just to be safe and not claim that you witnessed a blizzard as a fetus) years. I was hoping that the law of averages would kick in, and my fond desert would only become more autumnish and maybe, just maybe only slightly colder. No such luck. Instead we have a fresh group of folks stating that this is the worst winter in X years again. Except what's disturbing is I no longer have 20 or 30 somethings telling me this. Now it's the old-timers peering at me from behind their snow-ridden bifocals and genuine beaver pelt hats muttering about the Old Gods of Wrathful Winter. This tends to up the ante a bit.
So thusly, if the law of averages decides to be in effect next winter, it will be a balmy 65 degrees and hopefully I'll be complaining about the heat, but I can only hope. On the flip side, I'm learning more valuable winter skills that I'd like to pass on to my friends, specifically those on the westside who only have to deal with winter about every other year or so and work with inches of snow, instead of feet.
1. Buy snowshovels in pairs, like shoes. Why, you ask, should I purchase two shovels living by myself. Well that's a fine question. Firstly, most of us don't truly live alone, as we are visited often by friends, relatives and that pesky significant other. Not having another shovel is the number one reason they use to get out of helping you shovel and this rule quickly negates that. Nothing improves shoveling morale like watching somebody else suffer, so what's an extra fifteen bucks?
2. Plan your shoveling carefully. In the best situation, you should always shovel downhill and never shovel over what you have already shoveled. The exception being stairs, where it's often beneficial to work from the bottom up. Size up your shoveling situation step by step. As a plus, standing outside holding hot cocoa and leaning on your shovel while carefully contemplating your first moves counts as shoveling work and helps delay painful backbreaking labor. Also, if you don't have a pattern and use the random-attack method, it often leads to re-shoveling where the snow has just fallen and that quickly leads to raising a fist to the sky and shaking it or attacking snow with your bare hands in frustration, etc.
3. The snow plow is a love-hate relationship. With snow coming down in feet, transportation cannot be taken for granted. Cabin fever can be lethal for one or more of your housemates even if it's only one or two days. It's not unusual for folks to crowd the streets as a plow trundles by as if the plow has just freed their street from the invading Nazi army. On the other hand, with the same movement that has made your street passable, the plow has now neatly created a nice wall of snow directly in front of the driveway you so neatly shoveled. This leads to reshoveling and more shaking of the fist at the sky. Also, if you've neglected to move your car off the street, it is now an impenetrable fortress of ice. You will note that the plow does not just blow snow to the side, but neatly compacts it before depositing. Those nice snow poofs that were slinging so slightly off of your shovel are now iceberg chunks. Hooray!
Hopefully these will help you out. However, as most west-siders don't own a snowshovel or have seen a snowplow, you'll just have to save these tidbits of information for when they are helpful. For instance making sure your buddy only has one shovel before visiting him for the holidays.
...sigh
I remember back in elementary school at some point I was told that not all deserts are hot all the time. Sometimes they are bitterly, bitterly cold and their desert status is measured only in their available water to the little critters living in them. By these standards the ice fields of Antarctica rate as deserts as all available water is not available at all, being locked tightly away in solid form as ice or snow.
These tiny bits of knowledge creep up on me every once in a while, usually not helpful at all. I was delighted by the fall in Spokane, a bit of rain here in there and not too much. Bunches of colors from the large decidious tree population. And now this...
I really should have seen it coming, I mean, it is winter every year here. It's just that after all of the hype that last year's winter was the worst winter in (fill in blank here with number of years you were alive minus two or three just to be safe and not claim that you witnessed a blizzard as a fetus) years. I was hoping that the law of averages would kick in, and my fond desert would only become more autumnish and maybe, just maybe only slightly colder. No such luck. Instead we have a fresh group of folks stating that this is the worst winter in X years again. Except what's disturbing is I no longer have 20 or 30 somethings telling me this. Now it's the old-timers peering at me from behind their snow-ridden bifocals and genuine beaver pelt hats muttering about the Old Gods of Wrathful Winter. This tends to up the ante a bit.
So thusly, if the law of averages decides to be in effect next winter, it will be a balmy 65 degrees and hopefully I'll be complaining about the heat, but I can only hope. On the flip side, I'm learning more valuable winter skills that I'd like to pass on to my friends, specifically those on the westside who only have to deal with winter about every other year or so and work with inches of snow, instead of feet.
1. Buy snowshovels in pairs, like shoes. Why, you ask, should I purchase two shovels living by myself. Well that's a fine question. Firstly, most of us don't truly live alone, as we are visited often by friends, relatives and that pesky significant other. Not having another shovel is the number one reason they use to get out of helping you shovel and this rule quickly negates that. Nothing improves shoveling morale like watching somebody else suffer, so what's an extra fifteen bucks?
2. Plan your shoveling carefully. In the best situation, you should always shovel downhill and never shovel over what you have already shoveled. The exception being stairs, where it's often beneficial to work from the bottom up. Size up your shoveling situation step by step. As a plus, standing outside holding hot cocoa and leaning on your shovel while carefully contemplating your first moves counts as shoveling work and helps delay painful backbreaking labor. Also, if you don't have a pattern and use the random-attack method, it often leads to re-shoveling where the snow has just fallen and that quickly leads to raising a fist to the sky and shaking it or attacking snow with your bare hands in frustration, etc.
3. The snow plow is a love-hate relationship. With snow coming down in feet, transportation cannot be taken for granted. Cabin fever can be lethal for one or more of your housemates even if it's only one or two days. It's not unusual for folks to crowd the streets as a plow trundles by as if the plow has just freed their street from the invading Nazi army. On the other hand, with the same movement that has made your street passable, the plow has now neatly created a nice wall of snow directly in front of the driveway you so neatly shoveled. This leads to reshoveling and more shaking of the fist at the sky. Also, if you've neglected to move your car off the street, it is now an impenetrable fortress of ice. You will note that the plow does not just blow snow to the side, but neatly compacts it before depositing. Those nice snow poofs that were slinging so slightly off of your shovel are now iceberg chunks. Hooray!
Hopefully these will help you out. However, as most west-siders don't own a snowshovel or have seen a snowplow, you'll just have to save these tidbits of information for when they are helpful. For instance making sure your buddy only has one shovel before visiting him for the holidays.
...sigh
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Fistful of Dollars
It's on everybody's mind.
Everybody, man I mean everybody is sweating this thing out. Admit it. As you lean back to enjoy the nightly news your local friendly tv anchor puts on the concern face and explains the latest economic woes to you in the most eloquent 3rd grade language he can muster. As you go to work you can see the concern faces on your coworkers. Everybody wonders what if I don't have a job tomorrow? You go to swipe your card for some christmas lights and you see the concern face on the checker who you know isn't making enough money, and the concern faces on the folks behind you in line who are mentally crossing out names on the Christmas list and recalculating their spending budget.
And you know what, the damned shame is that it wasn't on everybody's mind a few months ago. I mean really, the last time anybody really thought about any financial crisis like this was when we were assigned to read Grapes of Wrath back in high school. And then once that was over, poof! Out it went, never to return.
People like me are children of the Family Ties 80's and the Sienfeld 90's. We do what we want and we spend as we please. Mom and dad's allowance gave way to a cushy direct deposit check from a large corporation every couple of weeks and the only tax was being forced to be chained in a cube for eight hours a day. I would rant about how we take things for granted, about how we fail to save for the future, how we assume everything will turn out all right, how we ignore finances until we start getting nasty phone calls. I would go on a rant, I really would but it turns out I'm the worst offender of them all. My savings are dismal, my income is now more about treading water than anything. Christmas is looking as the bleakest one yet and if we are to believe anything the news tells us, we'll be seeing plenty more concern faces before this is all said and done.
I debate in my head daily if my predicament would have been worse had I stayed in the big city. Spokane is starting to show the signs of the economy that Seattle has not showed yet. My brief holiday excursion took me to the city that I have in memory; all the businesses are still there, the lights are still on, the sushi is still fresh, and cheap beer can still be found if you know where to look. Spokane has not been as fortunate and there are blocks of failed businesses. Some are scattered here and there. Shops and offices are now blacked out windows and faded signs. It reminds me of teeth knocked out of the losing boxer's mouth. Some are close; neighboring businesses going to the great Strip Mall in the Sky together. The carpet warehouse and the tiling showroom across the street before, and now joined in mutual destruction. 'Til death do us part.
At first it was all fun and games. The Lehman brothers spoof of two dudes making out was viral video at its best. When my bank had a different webpage I was alarmed but still making cracks. Now that it's no longer the investors but the folks on the ground who are being crushed, the jokes are fewer and fewer. The list of people I know who are directly affected grows larger.
At least I have the satisfaction in my head that had I stayed in Seattle it really would have been just as bad. Add a couple of hundred bucks to my current rent, add the cutthroat nature of the cubicle culture, add a bar a few blocks closer wholeheartedly ready to run my tab in harsh times and I'd be in the same boat. It's all hypothetical I suppose, but I know myself. It's not the location I'm in, it's me. I'd be the same financial mess anyplace I'd be.
But it's not all doom and gloom really. The best thing that could happen from this is a new appreciation, if even only for one generation. It'd be nice to walk out of this tunnel a little less spoiled and a little more resourceful. It'd be nice to replace financial ignorace with financial responsibility. Real life is a nasty but effective teacher and I'm at the point in my life where I can no longer afford to fail these tests. I know a lot of you out there are as well.
My hope is that my newfound home rebounds from this mess as quickly as it dove in and that the good things I've found here don't become buried by the pure practicality of survival. The vibrant and youthful voice of a smaller town is usually the first to go when things get bad, but it can be the first to return once things get better. Seattle has the pure insulation from financial crisis of size, but it won't save everything. At least here I'll be able to see what off the wall shops open back up in the open gaps in the strip malls. In Seattle, the neon signs just change.
So why are you still reading? Shouldn't you be transferring money online into your savings account right now? Go! As for me, I'm headed to the bar...
Everybody, man I mean everybody is sweating this thing out. Admit it. As you lean back to enjoy the nightly news your local friendly tv anchor puts on the concern face and explains the latest economic woes to you in the most eloquent 3rd grade language he can muster. As you go to work you can see the concern faces on your coworkers. Everybody wonders what if I don't have a job tomorrow? You go to swipe your card for some christmas lights and you see the concern face on the checker who you know isn't making enough money, and the concern faces on the folks behind you in line who are mentally crossing out names on the Christmas list and recalculating their spending budget.
And you know what, the damned shame is that it wasn't on everybody's mind a few months ago. I mean really, the last time anybody really thought about any financial crisis like this was when we were assigned to read Grapes of Wrath back in high school. And then once that was over, poof! Out it went, never to return.
People like me are children of the Family Ties 80's and the Sienfeld 90's. We do what we want and we spend as we please. Mom and dad's allowance gave way to a cushy direct deposit check from a large corporation every couple of weeks and the only tax was being forced to be chained in a cube for eight hours a day. I would rant about how we take things for granted, about how we fail to save for the future, how we assume everything will turn out all right, how we ignore finances until we start getting nasty phone calls. I would go on a rant, I really would but it turns out I'm the worst offender of them all. My savings are dismal, my income is now more about treading water than anything. Christmas is looking as the bleakest one yet and if we are to believe anything the news tells us, we'll be seeing plenty more concern faces before this is all said and done.
I debate in my head daily if my predicament would have been worse had I stayed in the big city. Spokane is starting to show the signs of the economy that Seattle has not showed yet. My brief holiday excursion took me to the city that I have in memory; all the businesses are still there, the lights are still on, the sushi is still fresh, and cheap beer can still be found if you know where to look. Spokane has not been as fortunate and there are blocks of failed businesses. Some are scattered here and there. Shops and offices are now blacked out windows and faded signs. It reminds me of teeth knocked out of the losing boxer's mouth. Some are close; neighboring businesses going to the great Strip Mall in the Sky together. The carpet warehouse and the tiling showroom across the street before, and now joined in mutual destruction. 'Til death do us part.
At first it was all fun and games. The Lehman brothers spoof of two dudes making out was viral video at its best. When my bank had a different webpage I was alarmed but still making cracks. Now that it's no longer the investors but the folks on the ground who are being crushed, the jokes are fewer and fewer. The list of people I know who are directly affected grows larger.
At least I have the satisfaction in my head that had I stayed in Seattle it really would have been just as bad. Add a couple of hundred bucks to my current rent, add the cutthroat nature of the cubicle culture, add a bar a few blocks closer wholeheartedly ready to run my tab in harsh times and I'd be in the same boat. It's all hypothetical I suppose, but I know myself. It's not the location I'm in, it's me. I'd be the same financial mess anyplace I'd be.
But it's not all doom and gloom really. The best thing that could happen from this is a new appreciation, if even only for one generation. It'd be nice to walk out of this tunnel a little less spoiled and a little more resourceful. It'd be nice to replace financial ignorace with financial responsibility. Real life is a nasty but effective teacher and I'm at the point in my life where I can no longer afford to fail these tests. I know a lot of you out there are as well.
My hope is that my newfound home rebounds from this mess as quickly as it dove in and that the good things I've found here don't become buried by the pure practicality of survival. The vibrant and youthful voice of a smaller town is usually the first to go when things get bad, but it can be the first to return once things get better. Seattle has the pure insulation from financial crisis of size, but it won't save everything. At least here I'll be able to see what off the wall shops open back up in the open gaps in the strip malls. In Seattle, the neon signs just change.
So why are you still reading? Shouldn't you be transferring money online into your savings account right now? Go! As for me, I'm headed to the bar...
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Opening Salvo
Ok, ok.
I haven't even really started blogging and I've already overused the potentially controversial war metaphors. I'll try to calm down going forward.
For those that know me, they know that my online presence is long overdue. For those that don't, I'll try and justify the fact that my online presence now exists. Either way, it'll be up to you to judge whether or not my stories and thoughts belong on the internet, or I'm just taking up valuable server space from http://www.mervalbertfetish.com/*.
In a brief summary. I'm a single white male, unangried and just a few months shy of thirtyhood. I'm fairly undistinguished both in personal achievements and in my career, but I've collected a fair amount of family and friends, sometimes those that blur the distinction, in my previous home of Seattle and my new home in Spokane. For those that really, really have no idea what website they are on, I'll direct you to Google Maps* for a brief geography lesson. I was born in raised in the central district of Seattle, the big city. Although really by any real cities standard Seattle is strictly small potatoes. I went to school in the pleasant little hippie town of Bellingham and have since moved to Spokane, due to unfortunate circumstances beyond my control. Actually, they were slightly in my control. Ok, very in my control. Fine, I was shit-canned by a certain large coffee Empire that rhymes with Lardsucks. Twist my arm, will ya.
But life is not about dwelling in the deepest despairs over a slight shit-canning. Life is about applying for unemployment, and then deciding on a whim to move to a new city and a new life and then possibly apply for unemployment there. And that's the spirit of optimism and hope that I can only pray translates into my newly formed blog, which otherwise may end up being a minefield of sarcasm and pessimissm.
My goal is to have a thought or a focus for each entry and to tell an interesting story or two on the way. You'll have to bear with me about all the details as I recall them, but if you are still reading then I figure I have a captive audience willing to absorb every word I type be it true or not. Dear reader, once you figure out how to use Windows Vista* and successfully navigate away from my page without crashing your entire house, including your toaster oven, then I suppose I am screwed. But until then...
*TWIS is not affiliated with mervalbertfetish.com in any way, and besides I'm pretty sure it's not even a real website anyway. But if it is and for whatever reason you click it, I hope you get lots of viruses that melt your screen, you sick bastard.
*TWIS is affiliated with the proud upstanding organization that is Google, and is grateful that our benevolent overlords have reclaimed the internet from the foul and dastardly AOL.
*TWIS not compatible with Vista. Vista smash.
I haven't even really started blogging and I've already overused the potentially controversial war metaphors. I'll try to calm down going forward.
For those that know me, they know that my online presence is long overdue. For those that don't, I'll try and justify the fact that my online presence now exists. Either way, it'll be up to you to judge whether or not my stories and thoughts belong on the internet, or I'm just taking up valuable server space from http://www.mervalbertfetish.com/*.
In a brief summary. I'm a single white male, unangried and just a few months shy of thirtyhood. I'm fairly undistinguished both in personal achievements and in my career, but I've collected a fair amount of family and friends, sometimes those that blur the distinction, in my previous home of Seattle and my new home in Spokane. For those that really, really have no idea what website they are on, I'll direct you to Google Maps* for a brief geography lesson. I was born in raised in the central district of Seattle, the big city. Although really by any real cities standard Seattle is strictly small potatoes. I went to school in the pleasant little hippie town of Bellingham and have since moved to Spokane, due to unfortunate circumstances beyond my control. Actually, they were slightly in my control. Ok, very in my control. Fine, I was shit-canned by a certain large coffee Empire that rhymes with Lardsucks. Twist my arm, will ya.
But life is not about dwelling in the deepest despairs over a slight shit-canning. Life is about applying for unemployment, and then deciding on a whim to move to a new city and a new life and then possibly apply for unemployment there. And that's the spirit of optimism and hope that I can only pray translates into my newly formed blog, which otherwise may end up being a minefield of sarcasm and pessimissm.
My goal is to have a thought or a focus for each entry and to tell an interesting story or two on the way. You'll have to bear with me about all the details as I recall them, but if you are still reading then I figure I have a captive audience willing to absorb every word I type be it true or not. Dear reader, once you figure out how to use Windows Vista* and successfully navigate away from my page without crashing your entire house, including your toaster oven, then I suppose I am screwed. But until then...
*TWIS is not affiliated with mervalbertfetish.com in any way, and besides I'm pretty sure it's not even a real website anyway. But if it is and for whatever reason you click it, I hope you get lots of viruses that melt your screen, you sick bastard.
*TWIS is affiliated with the proud upstanding organization that is Google, and is grateful that our benevolent overlords have reclaimed the internet from the foul and dastardly AOL.
*TWIS not compatible with Vista. Vista smash.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)