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Day One — Friday: Buddy, can ya spare a ride? (continued)
I was stuck. For one thing, my Dad lives in Hemet, nearly 100 miles and at least a two-hour drive away. There was no way in hell I was calling him. My friend Cindy, who was putting me up for the week, was no option either; she was working from home that day because, you guessed it, her car was in the shop.
I knew I was screwed when I asked the guy behind the counter, who was doing all he could to help resolve my problem, to find out how much a cab ride from LA to northern Orange County (where Cindy lives) would be. Let’s just say it was considerably more than the forty bucks I currently had in my wallet. Yep, not only did I blow off going to the bank before leaving home, to check the status of our account, I didn’t even take the time to pick up any cash for the trip, assuming I could just get some at an ATM once I got to California.
As I sat there in the waiting area at the car rental agency, I thought my head was going to explode.
Jay to the rescue
I really had just two options. One was the bus, with a zillion transfers and logistical entanglements in tow. The other was my college buddy, Jay who was the only other person who knew I was in town that might have been even remotely available to help me out. The problem was, I’d only made the loosest of plans with him beforehand. We hadn’t even decided when we’d get together that week. It was a, “I’ll call you when I hit town,” sort of deal. I had no idea what he was doing or what his schedule was. Even being able to get a hold of him would be a crapshoot. I had his home phone number, but that was it.
One of the truest testaments of friendship is how one person responds to another in a time of crisis. Let me tellya, Jay went above and beyond the call of duty. He wasn’t home when I first called so I left a message detailing my sad story of woe. But he called me back about 30 minutes later, cheerfully ragging my ass for being in such a laughable (to him, anyway) predicament. Then after letting me twist in the wind a little, he admitted that his inner-good-Samaritan had gotten the better of him once again; he’d be happy to help me out. After giving him directions to the rental place (which was about a mile from LAX) he was on his way to pick me up.
I think it necessary to explain the magnitude of this guy’s sacrifice. It was by now after 4:00 PM on a Friday afternoon. Jay lived 25 miles away in Long Beach and had to launch himself directly into the teeth of some of the most legendary rush hour traffic in the nation, just to give me a lift to another friend’s house (whom he didn’t even know). Now that’s a pal right there, boys and girls.
I can’t adequately communicate my relief at that point. I went from utter despair to outright giddiness in a matter of about 15 seconds. After I hung up with Jay, I sat and watched the TV that was playing there in the lobby, re-orienting myself to the local color, the commercials and news personalities. It’s just another one of the subtle pleasures I experience each time I come here — the process of re-connecting with this place. I was just so happy to be out of the mess I’d been in. Now I could get down to the business of having a busy but enjoyable week.
Before I knew it my cell phone was vibrating again. Jay needed a little more help finding the car rental agency, which I have purposely not named — yet — but will focus upon a little later. Jay had overshot the turnoff, which isn’t well marked, by a couple blocks so once we got him turned around, I was able to guide him in.
(Aren’t cell phones just the most freaking wonderful things ever?)
I looked out the front window to see Jay’s familiar dark blue Chevy truck pulling into the driveway and went out to meet him. We did the man-hug thang; he loaded my duffel and suit bag into a covered compartment in the truck bed and we hit the road.
Given the Friday afternoon traffic factor, we had a longer-than-normal time to catch up on what had been going on in each other’s lives in the year since my last visit to the homeland. That week I stayed most of the week with Jay, but for this visit Cindy insisted I stay at her place. It’s nice to know that I have not one, but two, Motel Californias vying for my patronage whenever I come back to this wondrous place that still feels so very much like home to me.
I know he wasn’t expecting it, but in gratitude to Jay for his taxi service, I told him that when we got together later that week (which, we decided would be the following Wednesday night), he could name the restaurant; dinner was on me.
Welcome to Cindy Manor
If you’ve followed this blog, you’ve already met Cindy. If not, allow me to ‘splain you something. She’s one of my oldest and dearest friends, and Michelle feels the same way about her that I do. So, if the proposition of me spending a week, by myself at the home of an unmarried woman, 2500 miles from my wife, causes anyone reading this to sprout a raised eyebrow, relax. This is a purely platonic relationship. Always has been, always will be.
I won’t completely re-hash our history, and what Cindy means to me as the friend she’s always been. But suffice it to say I was looking forward to spending the extended time with her that I wasn’t able to when I was in town a year ago.
When Jay dropped me off at her house, in a nice, middle-class neighborhood of suburban Orange County, she was busy undoing the mess that’s often left behind by any auto mechanic fixing anything on the inside of your car. In this case, Cindy’s SUV had a malfunctioning instrument panel that needed repair, requiring her to work from home that day. But now that she’d gotten her car back home, she had to replace the various items, once located neatly in storage compartments in her car, which had become mysteriously strewn all over the floor and back seat.
Following our greeting hugs, I thanked Jay once again and bid him adieu until Wednesday. She was just finishing up with her car, so we exchanged pleasantries for a few moments and then went inside. She showed me my room and refreshed my memory of the layout of her very handsome home, which she refers to as “the dump of the neighborhood,” but which actually couldn’t be further from the truth.
She asked me to run down my schedule for the week so that she could get a fix on when I was going to be around. As I related to her my plans for spending Monday and Tuesday out at my Dad’s in Hemet, she went to the entry table near the front door and began thumbing through a small stack of papers gathered there. “Okay,” she said, “If you’re going to be with your Dad on Tuesday night, maybe you two could get some use out of these…” She placed a skinny rectangular envelope in my hand with the words, Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim printed boldly across the front.
“I can’t make it to the game Tuesday and I want you to take your Dad,” she said with a smile. Cindy, as you may recall is a longtime Angels season ticket holder and of course, the Halos are my (as well as my Dad’s) favorite team as well. It had already been established that she and I would be taking in a game during my visit, but that was a week away, the following Friday night versus the Boston Red Sox. This other game was a complete surprise. A bonus I that certainly didn’t expect, but yet I wasn’t exactly surprised either; that’s the kind of person she is.
We sat and spent probably an hour catching up on our lives, as well as those of our mutual friends, some of whom I remain in contact with and some I haven’t seen in 10-15 years, but whom Cindy still keeps tabs on.
She is, to a large degree, the single touchstone for an entire segment of my past, without which I would certainly lose contact. She hasn’t changed one iota in all the years I’ve known her. I guess she just reminds me of a time in my life when the whole world was so much bigger and more wonderful than it is now; back when we were all young and our lives were all before us. Not that I want to live in the past, it’s just that for me, she’s just such a wonderful link to that time, and I’ll always appreciate her for that.
By the time we’d finished our little re-introductory confab, it was getting to be dinnertime. The plan was that since I’d missed out on eating at my favorite restaurant a year earlier, we’d make it a point to do so at least once while I was there this time.
Where are you tonight, Sweet Marie?
Hoo-boy, I could write an entire post about this place — and in the interest of brevity and staying on-topic, I probably will. However in the meantime, need to rant just a little on the passing of a phenomenon, in my opinion.
If you live most anywhere in the Western U.S., you’ve seen them and more than likely eaten in one as well. If you live anywhere else, chances are for the past ten years or so you’ve seen this restaurant’s faire featured in your supermarket’s frozen food section. But if your experience is only the latter, you’ve unfortunately missed out on a lot. Marie Callender’s Restaurants were founded here in Southern California and became a fixture in the casual dining arena long before the numerous wannbes that couldn’t even approach their uniqueness or quality came along.
However one store in particular, my Marie’s, the original Marie Callender’s, is the subject of this mini-rant.
Marie’s son, Don was the family entrepreneur. It was he who made the push to expand his mother’s homemade pie operation from a small North Long Beach bakery and open a restaurant in nearby Seal Beach. That restaurant, just a mile west of my first bachelor pad, was the unofficial meeting place of most of my friends at during my late high school/early college years.
The MC franchise was well underway in the mid-70s, when the Seal Beach store became our personal Cheers. The larger, full-sized restaurants were already the norm for the growing MC chain, but not so for number one. Because of it’s more humble beginnings (it was essentially pie and coffee shop when it was built in the 60s), the original Marie’s maintained it’s cozy charm, even after an early 70s remodeling nearly doubled its overall size.
This was a special place, filled with memories of a less-complicated time and a menu of unique dishes that never disappointed. If it’s possible to have a personal relationship with a restaurant, well, I was head-over-heals in love with Marie’s.
When Michelle and came out in May of 2004, we ate there in Seal Beach and I relished a side of their famous Fettuccine Alfredo alongside a salad-bar salad drizzled with MC’s legendary exclusive hot bacon dressing. It was just as good as I remembered it, and maybe better. For dessert I had my old fave, a slice of Black Bottom pie. I was in heaven.
However when I returned for my second stay in SoCal that summer, in August, I was disappointed to learn that the Seal Beach store had closed for yet another remodeling. It was scheduled to re-open in the Summer of 2005. Oh well, I thought, maybe next time, then. I didn’t know it at the time, but that May visit would end up being my final opportunity to enjoy my old friend.
They say you can’t improve on perfection, but you can sure as hell go the other way.
In an apparent attempt to bring the “little Marie’s” up to snuff, corporate decided to give the place both a major facelift and image upgrade. The inside was all but completely gutted. Its coffee shop feel was completely obliterated and in its place was installed the sophisticated look of an upscale eatery. Even the name out front changed to reflect the restaurant’s new personality. Instead of the familiar, classic script welcoming patrons to Marie Callender’s Restaurant & Bakery, a new heavy, masculine marquee now simply read, Callender’s Grill. As far as I’m concerned, a LOT was lost in the translation.
Joining Cindy and me for dinner was another mutual friend from the old days; one I’ve actually kept up with better than most, and have wriiten about previously: my good friend Az and his wife Katy. Although his parents live just a few blocks from the restaurant, Az now lives in San Diego County, but was willing to make the 90 minute drive north to join us (what a pal, eh?). Given that it was Friday evening, freeway traffic understandably had them running later than they thought they’d be. Receiving updates from time-to-time via cell phone, Cindy and I went ahead and were seated when our name was called. We decided we’d just sit, talk and wait until they arrived to order.
We were seated in a big booth in the very back of the restaurant, which seemed to be the only part that wasn’t changed in the re-model. Unfortunately that turned out to be the only thing that was familiar about this visit to my dearly departed little haunt.
We decided to chill with a glass of wine, and occasionally called in for a road-progress update from Az. As it turned out, they’d hit a pretty big snarl and told us to go ahead and order, they’d be along as soon as they could.
So it was at this point that I first got a real glance at the menu. It was almost completely unrecognizable. Nearly all the classic MC favorites such as the Frisco Burger (the best sourdough burger you’ve ever eaten), Chicken Callendini (a wonderful combo of Fettuccine, stuffed tortellinis and a whole chicken breast, smothered in their wonderful Alfredo sauce), and even their classic Spaghetti and Meat Sauce dish, was gone. In its place was a myriad of appetizers, $15-$20 steak, chicken, and seafood entrees and the ever-ubiquitous catch of the day.
Sacrilege! You call this progress? I call it atrophy. I call it not knowing when you’ve got a good thing and screwing it up when you try to make it better. The most unique, warm, and inviting place in which I’d ever lifted a fork, was now just like any other medium-to-high-dollar restaurant, replete with servers expounding overly-contrived descriptions of today’s special. It was depressing itellya; simply depressing.
The menu’s one redeeming factor was that the Soup & Salad Bar (which thankfully made the cut) was still available, and another classic MC standard, Potato Cheese soup was as well. That was the good news. The bad news was that apparently, perhaps the restaurant’s most unique signature offering, their Hot Bacon dressing somehow got lost in the shuffle.
When Cindy and I went to make our salads, in anticipation of enjoying that incredible condiment once again, we looked at each other in disbelief when we realized that it was missing from the salad bar. We asked our server, and of course, she didn’t have the foggiest notion what we were talking about. She was a new hire and had never even eaten at the old restaurant. The place had been re-opened for a month and she admitted she’d never seen anything like it offered at the salad bar. We described the dressing to her and she said she’d go back to the kitchen and ask around. We went ahead and began eating our salads, sans the Hot Bacon.
Happily, minutes later our server reemerged with a large silver gravy boat, filled with none other than our prized Hot Bacon dressing! She proudly announced that they’d always had the ingredients on hand, but in the bustle of the restaurant’s re-opening, nobody had thought about it, and no customers voiced any complaint about it not being there until we did.
So never let it be said that Cindy and I never contributed anything to the culinary culture of Southern California. Why, we reintroduced them to Hot Bacon dressing, dammit!
Overall the food was still good, the service was pretty decent as well (that little girl earned an extra big tip for getting us that dressing!). Az and Katy arrived soon after we sat down with our salads, so we all ended up eating around the same time.
The conversation was of course fabulous (Az still laughs at my jokes — ‘nuff said). We talked about kids, jobs, and the next time Michelle and I might be able to come out to visit again. It was just a great time — a fitting end to a truly eventful first day of my visit to the homeland.
Next: Day Two — Saturday: Re-Wheeled
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
Sunday, December 18, 2005
More LA Stories: 2005 (Part I)
Day One — Friday: Buddy, can ya spare a ride?
Gather ‘round, boys and girls and hear a cautionary tale from ol’ AJ. It’s based on a very wise, old Chinese saying, He who make cheque fly will eventually have ass grounded.
Ya see, it all happened like this…
After a very hectic period at work I was anxious to get on the plane for eight days of R&R, doing one of my very favorite things — spending time with my family and friends. It was late August, one of the worst times of the year to be in Middle Tennessee from a weather standpoint, so I was really looking forward to getting away from the humidity and enjoying that incredible SoCal climate; that incredible combo of warm sunshine and a cool ocean breeze — the one thing above all that I so desperately miss about my former homeland.
Traffic getting to the airport was mild on a Friday, between A.M. rush and lunchtime. I arrived at the airport, having already printed off my boarding pass online, and had to wait only a few minutes prior to boarding time for my flight. I was able to procure my usual, preferred aisle seat in the upper two-thirds of the cabin and was comfortably settled in. I was curious as to whether I’d end up with a neighbor who wanted to talk or keep to themselves during the four-and-a-half hour flight. Personally I can go either way. I usually bring music to listen to, but for this trip I was unable to find my portable CD player (and I still haven’t found it), so I was out of luck as far as music was concerned. I suppose I was a little more inclined towards conversation for that reason.
I’ve met some interesting people over the years on airplanes. Last year, on this same flight to LA, I sat next two a father and son who were on their way home from the East Coast where they had followed our mutually favorite Major League Baseball team, the (then still) Anaheim Angels on a brief eastern road trip.
In 2002, I visited a friend who now lives in Idaho. On the flight home I spent a fascinating time discussing high-tech trends for what was then an entirely new concept of the “plugged-in home” — pre-building high-speed fiber-optic cable and other tech options into entire subdivisions of new homes — with an electrical contractor specializing in that cutting-edge service.
But perhaps my most interesting in-flight confab, at least now in retrospect ocurred in December of 1992, on the first of several business trips I would make between Nashville and SoCal, back when I still had freelance clients there. I sat and listened while a wired, very young-looking, and just a little geeky Dermot Mulroney chatted my ear off about his part in a just-completed movie entitled, The Thing Called Love, his first “big” role, in which he co-starring with River Phoenix. It was shot mostly in Nashville and Mulroney was just returning home following the film’s wrap. At the time I’d heard the film mentioned on the local news and was familiar with Phoenix, but had no idea who this Mulroney guy was. So I politely listened, gave him my business card and told him to look me up the next time he was in town.
After that, I didn’t really think all that much about the encounter until five years later when the movie,My Best Friend’s Wedding came out. To my surprise, here was this same Dermot Mulroney playing the lead male role, starring opposite Julia Roberts. This was obviously his greatest commercial success to date. He’s had a few other starring roles but has primarily made his career as a supporting, character actor. Still, just to realize in retrospect that, “Hey, that guy talked my ear off on an airplane once, way back when,” well, it was kind of a cool experience for non-Hollywood types like yours truly.
As it turned out, I had enjoyable conversations with two people who ended up occupying the seats next to me on this sold-out West Coast flight. The gentleman who took the window seat to my right was from a small town in southern Tennessee, returning to Bakersfield, CA for his father’s funeral. Later, the still-vacant seat between us was filled by a guy connecting from Detroit flying out to Los Angeles with his family for a vacation. He had given up his previous seat to a lady who needed to sit next to her elderly father with Alzheimer’s. There weren’t any empty adjoining seats left, so he gave his up to accommodate her.
It was a great flight. In the air, everything was smooth. It wasn’t until we landed that I encountered some turbulence. And going back to something that had happened earlier that morning, I probably could have seen it coming; as Lennon and McCartney once said, I shoulda known better.
Michelle had told me earlier Friday morning, after viewing our checking account balance online, that she was surprised to see the check she’d sent in for our son Shaun’s Fall Semester tuition had already been received by the bank, a mere two days after being sent to the University. Not that we are normally in the habit of kiting checks, but the close proximity of the tuition due date and my trip to California wasn’t anything Michelle had necessarily made provision for, or even worried about. She understandably assumed it wouldn’t be a problem due to the fact that normally it takes about four days to process a check being sent from outside our local area to come back and hit our account. That being said, Knoxville is nearly 300 miles from where we live, more than far enough away to qualify for that kind of scenario. Additionally, our paychecks were due to be auto-deposited on Friday night, so there was no immediate concern given to the possibility that the funds needed for me to rent a car in LA wouldn’t be there when I needed them. Michelle believed she had headed off any potential problems by moving some extra money into our checking from another account, once she’d seen that the tuition check had already posted.
So when she told me about it early Friday morning I agreed that it shouldn’t be a problem. However something happened soon thereafter that should have clued me in that all was still not well in Debitville.
My flight was scheduled to depart at 11:15 AM, so the plan was that I would first take Michelle to work at 7:30, come back home and finish packing, and then pick her back up at 9:30 so she could drive me to the airport. When I dropped her off at work, Michelle reminded me that the car was low on gas and asked if I would stop and put a few gallons in the tank on my way back home, which I was happy to do. When I went to get the gas, my debit card was rejected at the pump. Irritated but not dismayed, I figured that for some reason the money Michelle had transferred simply hadn’t been officially credited into the system, given that it had only been an hour or so since she’d done it. So I paid cash for the gas and proceeded on home to finish preparing for my trip. In retrospect I know now that I should have followed my gut and gone to the bank to check our account status, just to be sure. I had the time, although taking that extra 30 minutes or so would have made things tight. Still in the long run it would have saved me even more time, not to mention the embarrassment and frustration I would experience some six hours later.
As I’ve already mentioned, the flight was great. The time passed quickly and I was in good spirits when the shuttle dropped me off at the rental car agency.
It’s hard to say that I wasn’t thinking of it at all, but I certainly didn’t expect to have any problems. Yet there was that flash; just a thought that sort of hung in the back of my mind as one of those, now-wouldn’t-it-just-suck-if-this-happened kind of fleeting thoughts which oftentimes spring from the fertile fields of my paranoid mind.
Only this time it came true.
“I’m sorry sir, but your debit card has been rejected. Do you have another you could use? Like a credit card perhaps?”
“Um…nope. This is the only card I carry,” I replied, as a steadily growing feeling of warm dread began to overtake my spine and shoulders.
I was boiling over inside, furious that something like this could have happened to derail my vacation before it even started. However I tried to remain calm, asking the attendant what recourse I had. She said she would check with the company’s credit office and see what she could do. She then disappeared into the back for several minutes, only to return with the same discouraging refrain: she was sorry, but they just couldn’t rent me a car today.
Unwilling to give up just yet, I asked if she would call my bank directly to make sure there wasn’t some kind of mistake or at somehow vouch for the good standing of our account, regardless of what that damned computer said. Perhaps I could get the bank to explain that there would be more than enough in the account later that night when our paycheck money was due to go in automatically.
But no dice; the bank said the current balance was short of the amount needed to cover the rental company’s required 200% hold for the projected weekly rental fee. I would have no choice but to wait until the auto-deposited paycheck money hit the account.
But how did the tuition check get back to our bank so fast? At first we surmised that the University of Tennessee, Knoxville must bank with the same institution that we do, but would learn later, it was more likely that technology played the dominant role in our little misfortune.
Many companies are now using software which allows them to use that series of numbers printed along the bottom of a check to directly debit a payee’s account. It’s the same process used by companies who allow you to pay by check “over the phone.” But now, realizing that The University of Tennessee has this ability makes another one of their policies more than a little dubious. To pay via check for tuition and other fees is free. However if you want to pay online with a credit or debit card, you’ll also pay a $25.00 service charge for the privilege! How wrong is that, particularly when they can get their money just as fast with a check as they can with a direct transfer via credit or debit card? Oye.
I’m a wild and cash-only guy.
Just the same, about now you may be wondering exactly why I found myself in that predicament in the first place. Why don’t I carry a credit card like everyone else?
Call it a “once bitten-twice shy” mentality, or maybe I’m just stubborn, but ever since we became debt-free (except for the mortgage) in August of 1999, I’ve been pretty staunch in my stance against using credit cards.
I haven’t checked my credit report in years, although I know I probably should. We re-fi’ed the home mortgage a year and a half ago, so I know my credit is good, but frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn if I’m five-star or one-star. And the only reason I would, is if I ever intended to use credit again, which I don’t. I may want to get another mortgage someday, but even that’s a wait-and-see proposition. I just don’t use credit. Don’t want it, don’t need it.
I’m a cash-only kinda guy. I’ve learned that for me, if the money’s not in the checking account (or not already earmarked for something else), then too bad AJ, you can’t afford it. The good news is, with nothing but the utilities and mortgage that have to be paid each month, it only takes a couple weeks of saving to be able to buy just about anything I want anyway. And while I know that I’m sort of a weirdo for living this way, after what I’ve dealt with in terms of debt issues, the alternative is infinitely worse in my estimation. But don’t relegate me to the horse and buggy set just quite yet. 99.999999 times out of 100, my Visa debit card does me just fine, thank you. I can purchase anything with it that I could with its credit counterpart. In fact, over the past six years I’ve never run into a problem of any kind as a result of not owning a credit card.
Until now.
Next: Day One — Friday: Buddy, can ya spare a ride? (continued)
Gather ‘round, boys and girls and hear a cautionary tale from ol’ AJ. It’s based on a very wise, old Chinese saying, He who make cheque fly will eventually have ass grounded.
Ya see, it all happened like this…
After a very hectic period at work I was anxious to get on the plane for eight days of R&R, doing one of my very favorite things — spending time with my family and friends. It was late August, one of the worst times of the year to be in Middle Tennessee from a weather standpoint, so I was really looking forward to getting away from the humidity and enjoying that incredible SoCal climate; that incredible combo of warm sunshine and a cool ocean breeze — the one thing above all that I so desperately miss about my former homeland.
Traffic getting to the airport was mild on a Friday, between A.M. rush and lunchtime. I arrived at the airport, having already printed off my boarding pass online, and had to wait only a few minutes prior to boarding time for my flight. I was able to procure my usual, preferred aisle seat in the upper two-thirds of the cabin and was comfortably settled in. I was curious as to whether I’d end up with a neighbor who wanted to talk or keep to themselves during the four-and-a-half hour flight. Personally I can go either way. I usually bring music to listen to, but for this trip I was unable to find my portable CD player (and I still haven’t found it), so I was out of luck as far as music was concerned. I suppose I was a little more inclined towards conversation for that reason.
I’ve met some interesting people over the years on airplanes. Last year, on this same flight to LA, I sat next two a father and son who were on their way home from the East Coast where they had followed our mutually favorite Major League Baseball team, the (then still) Anaheim Angels on a brief eastern road trip.
In 2002, I visited a friend who now lives in Idaho. On the flight home I spent a fascinating time discussing high-tech trends for what was then an entirely new concept of the “plugged-in home” — pre-building high-speed fiber-optic cable and other tech options into entire subdivisions of new homes — with an electrical contractor specializing in that cutting-edge service.
But perhaps my most interesting in-flight confab, at least now in retrospect ocurred in December of 1992, on the first of several business trips I would make between Nashville and SoCal, back when I still had freelance clients there. I sat and listened while a wired, very young-looking, and just a little geeky Dermot Mulroney chatted my ear off about his part in a just-completed movie entitled, The Thing Called Love, his first “big” role, in which he co-starring with River Phoenix. It was shot mostly in Nashville and Mulroney was just returning home following the film’s wrap. At the time I’d heard the film mentioned on the local news and was familiar with Phoenix, but had no idea who this Mulroney guy was. So I politely listened, gave him my business card and told him to look me up the next time he was in town.
After that, I didn’t really think all that much about the encounter until five years later when the movie,My Best Friend’s Wedding came out. To my surprise, here was this same Dermot Mulroney playing the lead male role, starring opposite Julia Roberts. This was obviously his greatest commercial success to date. He’s had a few other starring roles but has primarily made his career as a supporting, character actor. Still, just to realize in retrospect that, “Hey, that guy talked my ear off on an airplane once, way back when,” well, it was kind of a cool experience for non-Hollywood types like yours truly.
As it turned out, I had enjoyable conversations with two people who ended up occupying the seats next to me on this sold-out West Coast flight. The gentleman who took the window seat to my right was from a small town in southern Tennessee, returning to Bakersfield, CA for his father’s funeral. Later, the still-vacant seat between us was filled by a guy connecting from Detroit flying out to Los Angeles with his family for a vacation. He had given up his previous seat to a lady who needed to sit next to her elderly father with Alzheimer’s. There weren’t any empty adjoining seats left, so he gave his up to accommodate her.
It was a great flight. In the air, everything was smooth. It wasn’t until we landed that I encountered some turbulence. And going back to something that had happened earlier that morning, I probably could have seen it coming; as Lennon and McCartney once said, I shoulda known better.
Michelle had told me earlier Friday morning, after viewing our checking account balance online, that she was surprised to see the check she’d sent in for our son Shaun’s Fall Semester tuition had already been received by the bank, a mere two days after being sent to the University. Not that we are normally in the habit of kiting checks, but the close proximity of the tuition due date and my trip to California wasn’t anything Michelle had necessarily made provision for, or even worried about. She understandably assumed it wouldn’t be a problem due to the fact that normally it takes about four days to process a check being sent from outside our local area to come back and hit our account. That being said, Knoxville is nearly 300 miles from where we live, more than far enough away to qualify for that kind of scenario. Additionally, our paychecks were due to be auto-deposited on Friday night, so there was no immediate concern given to the possibility that the funds needed for me to rent a car in LA wouldn’t be there when I needed them. Michelle believed she had headed off any potential problems by moving some extra money into our checking from another account, once she’d seen that the tuition check had already posted.
So when she told me about it early Friday morning I agreed that it shouldn’t be a problem. However something happened soon thereafter that should have clued me in that all was still not well in Debitville.
My flight was scheduled to depart at 11:15 AM, so the plan was that I would first take Michelle to work at 7:30, come back home and finish packing, and then pick her back up at 9:30 so she could drive me to the airport. When I dropped her off at work, Michelle reminded me that the car was low on gas and asked if I would stop and put a few gallons in the tank on my way back home, which I was happy to do. When I went to get the gas, my debit card was rejected at the pump. Irritated but not dismayed, I figured that for some reason the money Michelle had transferred simply hadn’t been officially credited into the system, given that it had only been an hour or so since she’d done it. So I paid cash for the gas and proceeded on home to finish preparing for my trip. In retrospect I know now that I should have followed my gut and gone to the bank to check our account status, just to be sure. I had the time, although taking that extra 30 minutes or so would have made things tight. Still in the long run it would have saved me even more time, not to mention the embarrassment and frustration I would experience some six hours later.
As I’ve already mentioned, the flight was great. The time passed quickly and I was in good spirits when the shuttle dropped me off at the rental car agency.
It’s hard to say that I wasn’t thinking of it at all, but I certainly didn’t expect to have any problems. Yet there was that flash; just a thought that sort of hung in the back of my mind as one of those, now-wouldn’t-it-just-suck-if-this-happened kind of fleeting thoughts which oftentimes spring from the fertile fields of my paranoid mind.
Only this time it came true.
“I’m sorry sir, but your debit card has been rejected. Do you have another you could use? Like a credit card perhaps?”
“Um…nope. This is the only card I carry,” I replied, as a steadily growing feeling of warm dread began to overtake my spine and shoulders.
I was boiling over inside, furious that something like this could have happened to derail my vacation before it even started. However I tried to remain calm, asking the attendant what recourse I had. She said she would check with the company’s credit office and see what she could do. She then disappeared into the back for several minutes, only to return with the same discouraging refrain: she was sorry, but they just couldn’t rent me a car today.
Unwilling to give up just yet, I asked if she would call my bank directly to make sure there wasn’t some kind of mistake or at somehow vouch for the good standing of our account, regardless of what that damned computer said. Perhaps I could get the bank to explain that there would be more than enough in the account later that night when our paycheck money was due to go in automatically.
But no dice; the bank said the current balance was short of the amount needed to cover the rental company’s required 200% hold for the projected weekly rental fee. I would have no choice but to wait until the auto-deposited paycheck money hit the account.
But how did the tuition check get back to our bank so fast? At first we surmised that the University of Tennessee, Knoxville must bank with the same institution that we do, but would learn later, it was more likely that technology played the dominant role in our little misfortune.
Many companies are now using software which allows them to use that series of numbers printed along the bottom of a check to directly debit a payee’s account. It’s the same process used by companies who allow you to pay by check “over the phone.” But now, realizing that The University of Tennessee has this ability makes another one of their policies more than a little dubious. To pay via check for tuition and other fees is free. However if you want to pay online with a credit or debit card, you’ll also pay a $25.00 service charge for the privilege! How wrong is that, particularly when they can get their money just as fast with a check as they can with a direct transfer via credit or debit card? Oye.
I’m a wild and cash-only guy.
Just the same, about now you may be wondering exactly why I found myself in that predicament in the first place. Why don’t I carry a credit card like everyone else?
Call it a “once bitten-twice shy” mentality, or maybe I’m just stubborn, but ever since we became debt-free (except for the mortgage) in August of 1999, I’ve been pretty staunch in my stance against using credit cards.
I haven’t checked my credit report in years, although I know I probably should. We re-fi’ed the home mortgage a year and a half ago, so I know my credit is good, but frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn if I’m five-star or one-star. And the only reason I would, is if I ever intended to use credit again, which I don’t. I may want to get another mortgage someday, but even that’s a wait-and-see proposition. I just don’t use credit. Don’t want it, don’t need it.
I’m a cash-only kinda guy. I’ve learned that for me, if the money’s not in the checking account (or not already earmarked for something else), then too bad AJ, you can’t afford it. The good news is, with nothing but the utilities and mortgage that have to be paid each month, it only takes a couple weeks of saving to be able to buy just about anything I want anyway. And while I know that I’m sort of a weirdo for living this way, after what I’ve dealt with in terms of debt issues, the alternative is infinitely worse in my estimation. But don’t relegate me to the horse and buggy set just quite yet. 99.999999 times out of 100, my Visa debit card does me just fine, thank you. I can purchase anything with it that I could with its credit counterpart. In fact, over the past six years I’ve never run into a problem of any kind as a result of not owning a credit card.
Until now.
Next: Day One — Friday: Buddy, can ya spare a ride? (continued)
Friday, December 16, 2005
More LA Stories: 2005 (Prologue)
A little travellin’ music, please…
There are a lot of ways one can spend money. Unfortunately for people like me, when you don’t do a good job of choosing priorities, you often spend too much, and find yourself in a hole before you know it. Having fought for years through all of that, it’s pretty cool to see things from the opposite side of the equation. Not that we’re now rollin’ in the dough by any means, but in recent years Michelle and I have been in a decidedly more positive financial circumstance than had been the case for the vast majority of our lives together. It’s actually taken a little getting used to.
There are obviously a lot of nice things about being unencumbered by debt. However I was surprised to find that one of the best of those benefits was something I had never really thought about all that much while we were on the opposite side of the issue. It wasn’t exactly on the list of things I pined for in the old days; the years when I wondered what it would be like to experience 24 hours without my phone ringing off the hook, an endless parade of bill collectors waiting on the other end of the line, either to extract their pound of flesh or inject a ton of guilt into my already beleaguered psyche. Back in that godforsaken time in my life, when just looking forward to the day that junkmail would once again out-draw the number of bills in my mailbox seemed like the Impossible Dream.
No, for me, I’m happy to say, perhaps the most enjoyable perk of being essentially debt-free is the fact that I now finally have the means (relatively speaking) to travel more than once in a blue moon. Not that I necessarily wish to become some kind of globetrotter; I’m more than happy to just be able to see my family and my friends on a semi-regular basis.
The passing of my Step mom, Maxine, in 2000 slapped me in the face like a wet glove. The realization that my parents had actually become mortal, seemingly overnight caused me to see things from a much more proactive perspective. That impetus became even more pronounced two years later when my Dad, who had never even been diagnosed with high cholesterol before, suffered a minor, yet near-fatal heart attack, resulting in quintuple bypass heart surgery at the age of eighty.
At that point it became abundantly clear that it was time for me to wake up and smell the reality; my Dad was not going to be around forever, and seeing him once every two or three years was no longer acceptable. I decided that seeing him as often as is feasible was something I needed to make a priority in my life.
Michelle’s parents live relatively nearby in Florida, and she has always made seeing them a priority. Either she travels there or they come to spend a week or so with us, at least once a year. I figured it was time I did the same with my Dad.
My plan finally took flight in early 2004, when Michelle surprised me by saying she wanted to take a trip to SoCal as a belated celebration of our 25th wedding anniversary (in March). It would be the first time she’d been back to SoCal (or indicated that she even wanted to go) since we’d moved to Tennessee. I of course had been back several times on business, and most recently for Maxine’s funeral. But at that point it had been more than three years since I’d seen Dad and over two years since his heart attack). Needless to say I was eager to go.
That summer was also my 30th High School Class Reunion, and I had already been planning to attend that as well. So as it turned out I made two trips; one in May and the other in August, giving me the rare opportunity to see my Dad and his wife Helen twice in less than three months time.
I decided that twice a year would be my goal from that point forward. If I couldn’t pull it off, so be it, but I really wanted to try.
This past year I made only the single trip to California that is the subject of this series. Nonetheless I was able to see my Dad twice in 2005 because of the trip we together had taken in February, to Dallas to spend a few days with my brother Alex (something I haven’t written about but may at a later time). So now the pattern is somewhat in place. Twice a year, some way, somehow, I’m going to try to find a way to see my Pop twice a year, and I’ll continue to do so for as long as I have the opportunity.
Friends
But for as much as I love seeing my Dad, these frequent visits back to the SoCal homestead have provided an additional bonus. They’ve allowed me to reestablish familiarities with a few old and dear friends from my high school and college days, in addition to further cementing friendships with a couple more recent pals from Blogsville. A lot has changed since I lived in Southern California, but thanks to my friends, I really do feel as though I can go home again.
The title of this series is merely an update of the original from the 2004 trip, for which I owe a tip of the cap to Michael, who first gave me the idea. But I really need to offer my most special thanks to Aimee, who I had the extreme pleasure of meeting for the first time on this trip, and without whom much of this story would quite literally have never been written.
And I’ll explain that a bit later.
Next: Day One — Friday: Buddy, can ya spare a ride?
There are a lot of ways one can spend money. Unfortunately for people like me, when you don’t do a good job of choosing priorities, you often spend too much, and find yourself in a hole before you know it. Having fought for years through all of that, it’s pretty cool to see things from the opposite side of the equation. Not that we’re now rollin’ in the dough by any means, but in recent years Michelle and I have been in a decidedly more positive financial circumstance than had been the case for the vast majority of our lives together. It’s actually taken a little getting used to.
There are obviously a lot of nice things about being unencumbered by debt. However I was surprised to find that one of the best of those benefits was something I had never really thought about all that much while we were on the opposite side of the issue. It wasn’t exactly on the list of things I pined for in the old days; the years when I wondered what it would be like to experience 24 hours without my phone ringing off the hook, an endless parade of bill collectors waiting on the other end of the line, either to extract their pound of flesh or inject a ton of guilt into my already beleaguered psyche. Back in that godforsaken time in my life, when just looking forward to the day that junkmail would once again out-draw the number of bills in my mailbox seemed like the Impossible Dream.
No, for me, I’m happy to say, perhaps the most enjoyable perk of being essentially debt-free is the fact that I now finally have the means (relatively speaking) to travel more than once in a blue moon. Not that I necessarily wish to become some kind of globetrotter; I’m more than happy to just be able to see my family and my friends on a semi-regular basis.
The passing of my Step mom, Maxine, in 2000 slapped me in the face like a wet glove. The realization that my parents had actually become mortal, seemingly overnight caused me to see things from a much more proactive perspective. That impetus became even more pronounced two years later when my Dad, who had never even been diagnosed with high cholesterol before, suffered a minor, yet near-fatal heart attack, resulting in quintuple bypass heart surgery at the age of eighty.
At that point it became abundantly clear that it was time for me to wake up and smell the reality; my Dad was not going to be around forever, and seeing him once every two or three years was no longer acceptable. I decided that seeing him as often as is feasible was something I needed to make a priority in my life.
Michelle’s parents live relatively nearby in Florida, and she has always made seeing them a priority. Either she travels there or they come to spend a week or so with us, at least once a year. I figured it was time I did the same with my Dad.
My plan finally took flight in early 2004, when Michelle surprised me by saying she wanted to take a trip to SoCal as a belated celebration of our 25th wedding anniversary (in March). It would be the first time she’d been back to SoCal (or indicated that she even wanted to go) since we’d moved to Tennessee. I of course had been back several times on business, and most recently for Maxine’s funeral. But at that point it had been more than three years since I’d seen Dad and over two years since his heart attack). Needless to say I was eager to go.
That summer was also my 30th High School Class Reunion, and I had already been planning to attend that as well. So as it turned out I made two trips; one in May and the other in August, giving me the rare opportunity to see my Dad and his wife Helen twice in less than three months time.
I decided that twice a year would be my goal from that point forward. If I couldn’t pull it off, so be it, but I really wanted to try.
This past year I made only the single trip to California that is the subject of this series. Nonetheless I was able to see my Dad twice in 2005 because of the trip we together had taken in February, to Dallas to spend a few days with my brother Alex (something I haven’t written about but may at a later time). So now the pattern is somewhat in place. Twice a year, some way, somehow, I’m going to try to find a way to see my Pop twice a year, and I’ll continue to do so for as long as I have the opportunity.
Friends
But for as much as I love seeing my Dad, these frequent visits back to the SoCal homestead have provided an additional bonus. They’ve allowed me to reestablish familiarities with a few old and dear friends from my high school and college days, in addition to further cementing friendships with a couple more recent pals from Blogsville. A lot has changed since I lived in Southern California, but thanks to my friends, I really do feel as though I can go home again.
The title of this series is merely an update of the original from the 2004 trip, for which I owe a tip of the cap to Michael, who first gave me the idea. But I really need to offer my most special thanks to Aimee, who I had the extreme pleasure of meeting for the first time on this trip, and without whom much of this story would quite literally have never been written.
And I’ll explain that a bit later.
Next: Day One — Friday: Buddy, can ya spare a ride?
Sunday, August 21, 2005
A (blog)spot poll
This will be a very short, VERY temporary post for today only. I'm back from vacation and antsy to blog again. Problem is, I've really got so much to write about I honestly don't know where to start.
I know that some of you have been anxiously awaiting the resumption of my current "Long Strange Trip" series, and quite frankly, so have I. However, my two recent vacation trips, first to Reston, VA and then the just-completed one to SoCal are literally screaming to get out right now. I'm GONNA write something today, it's just a question of what.
So I'll throw it out to you. Call it a (blog)spot poll. Which story would you rather see first?
1.) Continuation (to completion) of What a Long, Strange Trip It’s Been?
2.) The stories about my vacation trips to D.C. and L.A.?
I certainly won't have my feelings hurt if nobody responds, but I just thought I'd give you all the option. Personally I can go in either direction.
Lemme know today.
This post will self-destruct in 12 hours.
I know that some of you have been anxiously awaiting the resumption of my current "Long Strange Trip" series, and quite frankly, so have I. However, my two recent vacation trips, first to Reston, VA and then the just-completed one to SoCal are literally screaming to get out right now. I'm GONNA write something today, it's just a question of what.
So I'll throw it out to you. Call it a (blog)spot poll. Which story would you rather see first?
1.) Continuation (to completion) of What a Long, Strange Trip It’s Been?
2.) The stories about my vacation trips to D.C. and L.A.?
I certainly won't have my feelings hurt if nobody responds, but I just thought I'd give you all the option. Personally I can go in either direction.
Lemme know today.
This post will self-destruct in 12 hours.
Sunday, August 07, 2005
This Nerd's in Paradise (Preview)
No Rest(on) for the weary
Got back home on Tuesday evening exhausted from my second 10-plus-hour drive in three days, but it seemed much shorter because of the wonderful memories fresh in my mind of what turned out to be a spectacular weekend. However, as is normally the case when I return from any time away from work, I was instantly swamped when I went back into the office Wednesday. So there was really no time to write until today.
I'm determined to continue with my current series for now, but I will be writing much about my experience in Reston, Virginia with Tony Kornheiser and my fellow "Nerds" sometime in the near future.
I golfed very poorly but it didn't matter. It was as much fun as I've had in a very, very long time.
My foursome for the golf outing included, (L–R) fellow TK Blogger, "The Tick," Tony's son Michael, Tony Kornheiser, and myself. Also pictured is Tony's radio show right-hand man, Gary Braun (far right)
But in the meantime...
This upcoming week will be another crazy one as I prepare for another eight-day vacation, this time to SoCal where I look forward to spending some time my Dad as well as a few old real-time and recent online friends, including Michael, and for the first time, Blogsville neighbor, Amy. And now I’ve just learned that (by way of West Virginia) I'm going to see Inanna as well!
I will try to keep writing throughout the week, but again, if you don't see anything new posted here for awhile, you'll know why.
Thanks to all for your interest and patience. I hope to share some interesting stuff with you here coming up soon.
Got back home on Tuesday evening exhausted from my second 10-plus-hour drive in three days, but it seemed much shorter because of the wonderful memories fresh in my mind of what turned out to be a spectacular weekend. However, as is normally the case when I return from any time away from work, I was instantly swamped when I went back into the office Wednesday. So there was really no time to write until today.
I'm determined to continue with my current series for now, but I will be writing much about my experience in Reston, Virginia with Tony Kornheiser and my fellow "Nerds" sometime in the near future.
I golfed very poorly but it didn't matter. It was as much fun as I've had in a very, very long time.
My foursome for the golf outing included, (L–R) fellow TK Blogger, "The Tick," Tony's son Michael, Tony Kornheiser, and myself. Also pictured is Tony's radio show right-hand man, Gary Braun (far right)
But in the meantime...
This upcoming week will be another crazy one as I prepare for another eight-day vacation, this time to SoCal where I look forward to spending some time my Dad as well as a few old real-time and recent online friends, including Michael, and for the first time, Blogsville neighbor, Amy. And now I’ve just learned that (by way of West Virginia) I'm going to see Inanna as well!
I will try to keep writing throughout the week, but again, if you don't see anything new posted here for awhile, you'll know why.
Thanks to all for your interest and patience. I hope to share some interesting stuff with you here coming up soon.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Pardon the Interruption...Once Again
So sorry for my silence, all
I have been up to my eyeballs planning this Tony Kornheiser golf outing that, along with 20 of my "Original Blog-Mates," I will be a part of this Monday August 1st in Reston, VA.
I hadn't intended for it to work out this way, yet I somehow became the point-person between our group, Tony's people, and the Sheraton Reston Hotel, who is sponsoring (and fully comping) this entire she-bang.
I've been working on it on nearly a daily basis for the past three weeks, so it has occupied whatever mental energy my work and family hasn't taken up during that time.
I'm also furiously trying to get ready for my trip to California, which comes just 10 days after that, so I've truly been swamped.
I will be writing A LOT about the Reston trip after the fact. It's unbelievable how well this thing has come together. You're gonna die when I give you all the details (my wife is dying right now because she can't come with me)! It promises to be a once-in-a-lifetime experience for me and my buddies.
So please "Pardon the Interruption" (and a gold star to those of you who get that pun *LOL*), but I will get back to my current series after this week, and possibly sooner, (but don't hold your breath).
Talk to you soon...
AJ
I have been up to my eyeballs planning this Tony Kornheiser golf outing that, along with 20 of my "Original Blog-Mates," I will be a part of this Monday August 1st in Reston, VA.
I hadn't intended for it to work out this way, yet I somehow became the point-person between our group, Tony's people, and the Sheraton Reston Hotel, who is sponsoring (and fully comping) this entire she-bang.
I've been working on it on nearly a daily basis for the past three weeks, so it has occupied whatever mental energy my work and family hasn't taken up during that time.
I'm also furiously trying to get ready for my trip to California, which comes just 10 days after that, so I've truly been swamped.
I will be writing A LOT about the Reston trip after the fact. It's unbelievable how well this thing has come together. You're gonna die when I give you all the details (my wife is dying right now because she can't come with me)! It promises to be a once-in-a-lifetime experience for me and my buddies.
So please "Pardon the Interruption" (and a gold star to those of you who get that pun *LOL*), but I will get back to my current series after this week, and possibly sooner, (but don't hold your breath).
Talk to you soon...
AJ
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
Vivo en el Cinco de Julio
Happy 5th of Alive, folks.
For many years now, July the Fifth has been sort of a second Thanksgiving Day to me. No, we don’t grill turkey breasts or even bob for sweet potatoes out in the back yard. It’s a personal celebration, one that I’m not sure that I’ve ever really talked to anyone about before now.
With the possible exception of being a little hung-over, most people wouldn’t regard today as being much different than any other.
But it is for me.
Twenty-Nine years ago (omigawd you can’t believe how old that makes me feel) I was a few weeks shy of my 20th birthday. I was also president of the college-age class at my church. Like any other social group, we often planned activities around holidays when people would be off work or school. The Fourth of July fell on a Sunday that year, so the added bonus of that happenstance was that most everyone was off on Monday the 5th. So we thought it might be fun to plan a little outing on that day.
I dubbed it a “Cinco de Julio Celebration.”
We planned a day hike in the local SoCal mountains; just a half-day kind of thing. Pack a lunch, hike a little, take in the scenery, hang out and relax. And since it was principally my idea, I was also the one with whom the responsibility of delivering the devotional was charged (after all, this was a church group outing).
I don’t so much remember what it was I said, but I do recall a lot about the time I spent preparing for it. A good part of the previous day, I sat on the couch in my apartment with the TV on, watching as I wrote down notes to this short, fifteen-minute, (hopefully) inspirational talk I was about to give.
It was July 4, 1976, our nation’s Bicentennial, and the networks were awash in special programming about the Revolutionary War and the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Every channel it seemed was broadcasting some kind of patriotic program. I remember tears welling up in my eyes as the pride swelled within my chest. I was so thankful to be an American.
I still am.
Every year since, Cinco de Julio has served as a reminder for me; as the first day after the fireworks have faded and the bands have fallen silent, that life continues, and the real celebration should begin. A celebration of freedom; a celebration of life as a blessed people.
Despite the debacles, both social and governmental, which have stained America in our lifetime, this is still a great nation. It’s not perfect, but then again neither are we. Neither am I.
What I am is blessed — no matter how you choose to interpret the word. That’s how I feel today.
Of all the metaphysical gin joints in the world that good fortune could have walked into, she chose to walk into mine. And as each year passes I find myself more and more amazed at my fate but less convinced that I had any real hand in making it so.
Regardless of your stance on things political and/or social in the world, I hope you celebrated our nation’s birth yesterday — I mean really celebrated it — in your mind and in your heart, not in just the outward trappings of food and fireworks. I know I did. And I realized once again just how good I indeed have it today — not ten or twenty years ago — but today. It doesn’t matter how much better I ever thought my life should have been. The fact is, it’s pretty damned good right now.
There is still a lot of work to be done to make this country what it could be, but I hope you’ll join me today in celebrating it for what it is; and for what we are: a truly blessed people.
Happy Cinco de Julio, my friends.
Happy 5th of Alive.
finis
For many years now, July the Fifth has been sort of a second Thanksgiving Day to me. No, we don’t grill turkey breasts or even bob for sweet potatoes out in the back yard. It’s a personal celebration, one that I’m not sure that I’ve ever really talked to anyone about before now.
With the possible exception of being a little hung-over, most people wouldn’t regard today as being much different than any other.
But it is for me.
Twenty-Nine years ago (omigawd you can’t believe how old that makes me feel) I was a few weeks shy of my 20th birthday. I was also president of the college-age class at my church. Like any other social group, we often planned activities around holidays when people would be off work or school. The Fourth of July fell on a Sunday that year, so the added bonus of that happenstance was that most everyone was off on Monday the 5th. So we thought it might be fun to plan a little outing on that day.
I dubbed it a “Cinco de Julio Celebration.”
We planned a day hike in the local SoCal mountains; just a half-day kind of thing. Pack a lunch, hike a little, take in the scenery, hang out and relax. And since it was principally my idea, I was also the one with whom the responsibility of delivering the devotional was charged (after all, this was a church group outing).
I don’t so much remember what it was I said, but I do recall a lot about the time I spent preparing for it. A good part of the previous day, I sat on the couch in my apartment with the TV on, watching as I wrote down notes to this short, fifteen-minute, (hopefully) inspirational talk I was about to give.
It was July 4, 1976, our nation’s Bicentennial, and the networks were awash in special programming about the Revolutionary War and the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Every channel it seemed was broadcasting some kind of patriotic program. I remember tears welling up in my eyes as the pride swelled within my chest. I was so thankful to be an American.
I still am.
Every year since, Cinco de Julio has served as a reminder for me; as the first day after the fireworks have faded and the bands have fallen silent, that life continues, and the real celebration should begin. A celebration of freedom; a celebration of life as a blessed people.
Despite the debacles, both social and governmental, which have stained America in our lifetime, this is still a great nation. It’s not perfect, but then again neither are we. Neither am I.
What I am is blessed — no matter how you choose to interpret the word. That’s how I feel today.
Of all the metaphysical gin joints in the world that good fortune could have walked into, she chose to walk into mine. And as each year passes I find myself more and more amazed at my fate but less convinced that I had any real hand in making it so.
Regardless of your stance on things political and/or social in the world, I hope you celebrated our nation’s birth yesterday — I mean really celebrated it — in your mind and in your heart, not in just the outward trappings of food and fireworks. I know I did. And I realized once again just how good I indeed have it today — not ten or twenty years ago — but today. It doesn’t matter how much better I ever thought my life should have been. The fact is, it’s pretty damned good right now.
There is still a lot of work to be done to make this country what it could be, but I hope you’ll join me today in celebrating it for what it is; and for what we are: a truly blessed people.
Happy Cinco de Julio, my friends.
Happy 5th of Alive.
finis
Sunday, June 19, 2005
A Dad’s Day Tribute, 2005
Happy Father’s Day to all the Dads out there, wherever you are.
Once again I’m taking a short break from my current series to write this, despite the fact that it was totally unplanned and spur-of-the-moment.
However this morning I felt compelled to write by as much sudden inspiration as I have ever known during the 12-plus months in which blogging has become my outlet for the thoughts and expressions that ramble around in my head.
I felt a genuine pang in my gut as I read the Sunday Tennessean newspaper this morning and saw an article with a photograph that nearly spun my head around. As usual, I was browsing through the sports section. The article was a large, two-thirds-page pick-up from the Atlanta Journal-Constitution featuring three figures well-known by anyone who has followed Major League Baseball in the last 30 years with more than a passing interest.
With the proliferation of cable TV in the 90s in general and the notoriety of the “Superstations” in particular, two National League teams became adopted as “America’s Teams.” They were the Atlanta Braves, featured on WTBS, and the Chicago Cubs, featured on WGN. Both stations were, and still are, included in 99% of all basic cable packages. And while it's no longer the case now, throughout the 80s and 90s, both Superstations carried most of their respective team’s ballgames on the air.
So naturally, not only did the teams themselves gain notoriety outside their city’s general market, but their announcers did as well. And those announcers just happened to be father and son. The immortal Harry Caray broadcast for the Cubs, and his son Skip (whose real name is Harry Jr. but has never used it because of his famous father’s notoriety), called the play-by-play for the Braves.
The third person in the photo was Skip’s son, Chip, who has worked for both the Cubs and now has joined his Dad as a member of Atlanta’s five-man rotating broadcast team. At first glance, the three smiling faces, caught in a happy, but apparently rare pose together taken in 1991 (Harry Sr. passed away in 1998). Front and center in the picture I of course immediately recognized Harry, whose full head of white hair and large, thick Elton Johnesque glasses had become his signature nearly as much as his famous broadcast exclamation of “HOLY COW!”
(left to right) Chip, Harry and Skip Carray, 1991
File Photo © 2005 Nashville Tennessean
But even before I fully recognized Harry and in turn, Skip, my eyes were drawn to the young man flanking the elder Caray on photo’s the left side. I didn’t recognize him for whom he was, quite frankly because with the exception of maybe a half-dozen occasions over the years, I don’t believe I’d actually seen his face on television. But believe me, I was shocked when I saw it in this newspaper photo. It was a young, 26 year-old Chip Caray, at the very beginning of his career following his father and grandfather into the broadcast booth. But what grabbed my attention was how in this picture he appeared to be the absolute spitting image of my brother Alex at that same period of time in the early 90s, the time in his life that Alex’s image is most prominent in my mind. I literally did a double take.
The article spoke of the fact that today on Father’s day it will mark the first time that Skip and Chip will have spent the holiday together in nearly 20 years. They’ll be together at mic-side calling the game between the Braves and the Reds in Cincinnati on WTBS. The article went into painful detail about how divorce has split two generations of the Caray family. It told of the pain that Skip has endured watching his two children go through the same thing he went through as a child when his father Harry’s marriage broke up when he was a mere five years old. It spoke about the fact that as Skip had to do, his son was forced to “get to know” his Dad by watching him on TV and listening to him on the radio.
I have to admit to sucking back the tears a few times as I read through the lengthy article. What a sad story I thought. I had never known that about the Carays. It made me ponder and even more appreciate the incredible way that God has blessed me with a family, though certainly embattled by tragedy, has managed to avoid the harsh emotions and gut-wrenching damage that is usually caused by divorce.
Today I am truly thankful that I didn’t have to learn of how to be the man I am from a voice on the radio or from a relative stranger I only saw every fourth weekend. And while my Dad wasn’t able to spend the time with me individually while I was growing up that I would have liked, I never once felt abandoned or shut out, because his actions made his words count, and I never once doubted them.
And naturally I also thought about Alex, whom is heaviest upon my mind at this moment. He is of course in the mid-stages of early-onset Alzheimer’s Disease. The image of Chip Caray in that newspaper photo was so haunting because it so well captured my mind’s-eye image of Alex: young, handsome, vital; a man who seemed to have the world by the tail. My once-indestructible little brother, who now because of the family curse, may or may not even fully grasp the significance of the day in which we celebrate the love and gratitude we hold for the men in our lives whom we call Dad.
Happy Father’s Day, Pop; Happy Father’s Day, Alex. I love you both from the bottom of my heart.
finis
Once again I’m taking a short break from my current series to write this, despite the fact that it was totally unplanned and spur-of-the-moment.
However this morning I felt compelled to write by as much sudden inspiration as I have ever known during the 12-plus months in which blogging has become my outlet for the thoughts and expressions that ramble around in my head.
I felt a genuine pang in my gut as I read the Sunday Tennessean newspaper this morning and saw an article with a photograph that nearly spun my head around. As usual, I was browsing through the sports section. The article was a large, two-thirds-page pick-up from the Atlanta Journal-Constitution featuring three figures well-known by anyone who has followed Major League Baseball in the last 30 years with more than a passing interest.
With the proliferation of cable TV in the 90s in general and the notoriety of the “Superstations” in particular, two National League teams became adopted as “America’s Teams.” They were the Atlanta Braves, featured on WTBS, and the Chicago Cubs, featured on WGN. Both stations were, and still are, included in 99% of all basic cable packages. And while it's no longer the case now, throughout the 80s and 90s, both Superstations carried most of their respective team’s ballgames on the air.
So naturally, not only did the teams themselves gain notoriety outside their city’s general market, but their announcers did as well. And those announcers just happened to be father and son. The immortal Harry Caray broadcast for the Cubs, and his son Skip (whose real name is Harry Jr. but has never used it because of his famous father’s notoriety), called the play-by-play for the Braves.
The third person in the photo was Skip’s son, Chip, who has worked for both the Cubs and now has joined his Dad as a member of Atlanta’s five-man rotating broadcast team. At first glance, the three smiling faces, caught in a happy, but apparently rare pose together taken in 1991 (Harry Sr. passed away in 1998). Front and center in the picture I of course immediately recognized Harry, whose full head of white hair and large, thick Elton Johnesque glasses had become his signature nearly as much as his famous broadcast exclamation of “HOLY COW!”
(left to right) Chip, Harry and Skip Carray, 1991
File Photo © 2005 Nashville Tennessean
But even before I fully recognized Harry and in turn, Skip, my eyes were drawn to the young man flanking the elder Caray on photo’s the left side. I didn’t recognize him for whom he was, quite frankly because with the exception of maybe a half-dozen occasions over the years, I don’t believe I’d actually seen his face on television. But believe me, I was shocked when I saw it in this newspaper photo. It was a young, 26 year-old Chip Caray, at the very beginning of his career following his father and grandfather into the broadcast booth. But what grabbed my attention was how in this picture he appeared to be the absolute spitting image of my brother Alex at that same period of time in the early 90s, the time in his life that Alex’s image is most prominent in my mind. I literally did a double take.
The article spoke of the fact that today on Father’s day it will mark the first time that Skip and Chip will have spent the holiday together in nearly 20 years. They’ll be together at mic-side calling the game between the Braves and the Reds in Cincinnati on WTBS. The article went into painful detail about how divorce has split two generations of the Caray family. It told of the pain that Skip has endured watching his two children go through the same thing he went through as a child when his father Harry’s marriage broke up when he was a mere five years old. It spoke about the fact that as Skip had to do, his son was forced to “get to know” his Dad by watching him on TV and listening to him on the radio.
I have to admit to sucking back the tears a few times as I read through the lengthy article. What a sad story I thought. I had never known that about the Carays. It made me ponder and even more appreciate the incredible way that God has blessed me with a family, though certainly embattled by tragedy, has managed to avoid the harsh emotions and gut-wrenching damage that is usually caused by divorce.
Today I am truly thankful that I didn’t have to learn of how to be the man I am from a voice on the radio or from a relative stranger I only saw every fourth weekend. And while my Dad wasn’t able to spend the time with me individually while I was growing up that I would have liked, I never once felt abandoned or shut out, because his actions made his words count, and I never once doubted them.
And naturally I also thought about Alex, whom is heaviest upon my mind at this moment. He is of course in the mid-stages of early-onset Alzheimer’s Disease. The image of Chip Caray in that newspaper photo was so haunting because it so well captured my mind’s-eye image of Alex: young, handsome, vital; a man who seemed to have the world by the tail. My once-indestructible little brother, who now because of the family curse, may or may not even fully grasp the significance of the day in which we celebrate the love and gratitude we hold for the men in our lives whom we call Dad.
Happy Father’s Day, Pop; Happy Father’s Day, Alex. I love you both from the bottom of my heart.
finis
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
What a Difference a Year Makes
This is just a short acknowledgement that I wanted to make to mark the first anniversary of this blog, one year ago today. Three hundred sixty-five days, one hundred thirty-five posts, and a little more than one hundred twenty-five thousand words later, it has become more a part of me than I could have possibly imagined.
Originally intended to merely be a repository for assorted remembrances of concerts and family anecdotes, it quickly grew into an extremely personal biography about all of the things in my life I have ever considered important or worth remembering. That particular function of this site will continue for as long as I have memories to recall and stories to tell.
I want to say thanks to all those who've stopped by to look over my shoulder and comment on the words I've written; many of whom I now consider my friends. Thank you to all the members of our wonderful Blogger community who have likewise shared a part of their lives with me through their own blogs. Thanks to you for inspiring and challenging me; for your words that caused me to roar with laughter or choke back tears. What an incredible gift this entire experience has been for us all.
I look forward to seeing how long we can make it last.
At the risk of slighting the rest, please allow me to single out one person, my good friend Queenie, who was the first to comment on my blog, in my third post on May 25, 2004. She said, “I enjoy getting to know people I will never know.”
Thank you Q, and to all of you as well, for taking the time to get to know me too.
Originally intended to merely be a repository for assorted remembrances of concerts and family anecdotes, it quickly grew into an extremely personal biography about all of the things in my life I have ever considered important or worth remembering. That particular function of this site will continue for as long as I have memories to recall and stories to tell.
I want to say thanks to all those who've stopped by to look over my shoulder and comment on the words I've written; many of whom I now consider my friends. Thank you to all the members of our wonderful Blogger community who have likewise shared a part of their lives with me through their own blogs. Thanks to you for inspiring and challenging me; for your words that caused me to roar with laughter or choke back tears. What an incredible gift this entire experience has been for us all.
I look forward to seeing how long we can make it last.
At the risk of slighting the rest, please allow me to single out one person, my good friend Queenie, who was the first to comment on my blog, in my third post on May 25, 2004. She said, “I enjoy getting to know people I will never know.”
Thank you Q, and to all of you as well, for taking the time to get to know me too.
Thursday, May 19, 2005
Not dead yet...Still “Trippin’”
Ah geeze I’m a mess.
Just a note to let anyone who cares know that I'm not bummed out or sick, just busy and confused. This kind of thing seems to happen to me a lot when I get involved in a long story in which the sequence of events are vital to its impact. I knew going in there were a lot of sub-plots that I would have to work into and around, and I have to admit, just the mapping out of all these things has been almost as much effort as the crafting of the words themselves.
Also, in my personal life, I've been extremely busy at work, filling in for a vacationing co-worker while trying to do my own job at the same time. But the good news is that he's back now and this week things have started to return to normal. Also, my in-laws were staying with us for 10 days over the past two weeks and that limited my time as well. But again, things are slowing back down now so I'll be getting back into the swing again soon.
In fact, the next time I post, I'll actually be posting two and possibly three parts simultaneously (they're already written but need a lot of editing). So why haven't I posted them yet? Well, it's a matter of flow.
One of the reasons it has taken so long to get this story out is that I’m really struggling with my efforts to keep the main story flowing and the sidebars to a minimum. However the sidebar issues are vital to the story itself, and I'm learning that one of the most difficult things about writing is managing the flow of a story. And I've realized that I'm not doing a very good job of that. I'm now trying to re-arrange some of the things I've already written so as to make the events fall into place better, instead of continuing to stop the story to pursue a tangent, and then starting it back up again, which I feel I've been doing in the last few installments.
All of my stories are important to me, but this one has taken on special importance, because I've come to realize that it's not just about my marriage; for all intents and purposes, it's the autobiography of my entire adult life, and I want to do it right.
So the next time you see a new post, be sure to scroll down because there definitely will be more than one to read.
Special thanks to all of you who are still with me on this. I apologize for the frustration, but hey, I'm still new at this...
:)
Just a note to let anyone who cares know that I'm not bummed out or sick, just busy and confused. This kind of thing seems to happen to me a lot when I get involved in a long story in which the sequence of events are vital to its impact. I knew going in there were a lot of sub-plots that I would have to work into and around, and I have to admit, just the mapping out of all these things has been almost as much effort as the crafting of the words themselves.
Also, in my personal life, I've been extremely busy at work, filling in for a vacationing co-worker while trying to do my own job at the same time. But the good news is that he's back now and this week things have started to return to normal. Also, my in-laws were staying with us for 10 days over the past two weeks and that limited my time as well. But again, things are slowing back down now so I'll be getting back into the swing again soon.
In fact, the next time I post, I'll actually be posting two and possibly three parts simultaneously (they're already written but need a lot of editing). So why haven't I posted them yet? Well, it's a matter of flow.
One of the reasons it has taken so long to get this story out is that I’m really struggling with my efforts to keep the main story flowing and the sidebars to a minimum. However the sidebar issues are vital to the story itself, and I'm learning that one of the most difficult things about writing is managing the flow of a story. And I've realized that I'm not doing a very good job of that. I'm now trying to re-arrange some of the things I've already written so as to make the events fall into place better, instead of continuing to stop the story to pursue a tangent, and then starting it back up again, which I feel I've been doing in the last few installments.
All of my stories are important to me, but this one has taken on special importance, because I've come to realize that it's not just about my marriage; for all intents and purposes, it's the autobiography of my entire adult life, and I want to do it right.
So the next time you see a new post, be sure to scroll down because there definitely will be more than one to read.
Special thanks to all of you who are still with me on this. I apologize for the frustration, but hey, I'm still new at this...
:)
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