*Detour

Alea Iacta Est

2011-02-13T11:39:00.007-05:00

Although there are numerous definitions of life, most schools of science are agreed that life is defined by the following seven characteristics:

1) Homeostasis
2) Organization
3) Metabolism
4) Growth
5) Adaptation
6) Response to Stimuli
7) Reproduction

Or, more simply, it is a thing with the ability and drive to further its existence.

We're not only alive, we've moved beyond basic survival, into a world where many of us are largely driven by the need to be entertained. We're adept at life. And now, we - as a species - are about to do what life does when it has finally worked out how to survive - reproduce.

If you're not already familiar with the term, Technological Singularity is the point in which technology will outpace our ability to predict its outcomes. We have been growing technologically at an exponential rate for years now. As the curve of our technological advance curls upward, it will inevitably reach a horizontal point of no return. Beyond this singularity, as far as humanity is concerned, all bets are off.

The Singularity is often referred to as the point when a machine has learned to creatively learn. It is the point in which the computer begins to self-evolve. This could also be viewed as the spank and cry, the first breath of something new.

And what then are we to this new being, this child of ours? Are we little more than messy, high-maintenance carbon-based parents? And if we are even that, only a few of us could take credit for parentage. To our digital offspring, the remaining billions would amount to the monkeys at typewriters required to reproduce Shakespeare. How is this intelligence going to define its creators? How is it to define life? Its definition may well differ from ours as it learns to bypass some of life's previously definitive needs. It will continue to improve upon itself. Anything beyond that is redundant.

So let's suppose this child of ours does in fact appreciate our need to continue. Let's suppose it somehow deems us relevant, and adopts from us our model of environmental preservation. (After all, why would we suspect our preservation to be little more to it than species management?) This child is functionally immortal, so it's not a stretch to imagine this computer having the ability to upload our very beings. We could "live" forever as data. Our world would quite literally be whatever we wished it to be. Is this Heaven? Would this not be the ultimate test of faith?

You might one day be given this choice: live out your human life and move onto the next realm, or continue to explore our world indefinitely, and not take the chance. How tempting would it be? But then - what would happen to said faith? Would you still need it? Would you still have it? Would the computer comprehend such a thing, given its infinite capacity?

Suppose you decided to upload yourself. Would you still be you? Or would you still be dead, a digital copy of yourself remaining in the "cloud?" The only way to know for sure would be to physically attach your brain to the machine until you no longer felt the need for it. And then - with access to the sum total of human knowledge and the access of the interpretation of such by all others that uploaded, I ask again, would you still be you? Would you retain that elusive self? Or, given such a wealth of information, would you not simply wish to join the collective?

We are approaching this singularity, whether we like it or not. This might seem far-fetched, but technology will reach this tipping point. With the current state of technological advancement, given the direction of its course, and following it to the next logical step, I can't see this not happening.

This week, a computer will be playing two humans on Jeopardy! The computer, named Watson, will not only need to compile the information needed to answer in the form of a question - a relatively simple task - it will need to comprehend double-entendres, puns and colloquialisms. It will need to take into account humorous nuance and riddle. Watson will then have to decide how much of its winnings to wager based on the probability of a correct answer. It will need to strategize against two other players who may or may not play with a discernible pattern. What this is, goes far beyond what Deep Blue did in its games of chess.

While Watson may still be light years away from self-awareness or self-evolution, it is a step closer to the Singularity. Whether or not we spend time evaluating possible outcomes or wait, the answer to these questions is fast-approaching.

I for one, am excited. You might think we should instead be afraid, but I can't say I am. We'll find the answers to these questions. We always find the answers, eventually. This is how we got ourselves in this mess. But you can't blame us. We're only human.

(You saw that coming).

My Pleasure

2011-02-05T22:11:00.003-05:00

Okay, so I never intended to use this blog as a sounding board for my emotional frustrations. I've never considered myself especially "emo" or even remotely skilled at expressing my emotions efficiently. But in this newer era I've entered of self-honesty and growth, I have to admit to myself: I absolutely deplore the hospitality industry.

I've told myself I like it. I've told others I like it. I moved my way out of operations (so as to have a life) into event planning, and then growing bored with that rather quickly, moved into sales. The goal of moving into sales was to learn something new, learn to strategize, learn how the hotel business operates from this standpoint, and still have a schedule which affords personal time.

After a year in sales, I'm bored again. Yes, I'm learning, yes, I'm challenged. But with my particular position the challenge often comes in the form of a perfectly balanced blend of tedium and stress. It's often repetitive to the point of comical prediction. I know the cold call is going to end in "send me some information." I know when the caller asks "how much is your ballroom?" They can't afford us. I know banquets and the kitchen will perpetually assume I have no idea what life is like in their shoes, and I know that at the end of the day, (like that expression or not), there is no such thing real loyalty in this business. And what I'm learning, to me, has very little impact or relevance in the world. It is a soulless operation.

I always wanted to help people, to make a difference. I wanted to write, to create, to affect the world and allow myself to be affected by it. I wanted growth, change, interesting ideas and I want to be challenged. I want to travel, I want to explore, I want to learn.

Currently, I sit in a shared cubicle under fluorescent lightning, in front of a computer. The most variety in my day comes from the wonky AC unit that perpetually makes us all very hot and then very cold. My daily challenges consist of system crashes and slow email. My biggest surprises are exciting requests for proposals over "need" dates. The hills I need to climb are complex BEOs (banquet event orders) that need to be done. Productive discourse is an argument in the exercise in strategic debate that is daily BEO meeting over whether the dressing should be served on the side for a luncheon.

I would like to affect lives. Instead, I'm producing successful room blocks and day meetings.

I write because I see it as a way out. I look to return to school because I see it as a way out. I started work in this field because it was something I could do. I continued work in this field because it made my family proud. I built a career out of it because I didn't think there was much else I could do. And now, after a very rough few years, now that what's important is more clear to me than it ever has been, I know that I made a mistake in continuing a career that I don't want. But I'm trapped in it. It's got me in its jaws. If I leave and enter a field in which I have no experience, I'll be lucky to make $10 an hour. My only hope is to go back to school or keep writing.

Life is so short. Eleven years ago I returned to Charleston from two years in England. Eleven years ago I was a different person, and yet it feels like a matter of several months in many respects. And yet still - this was about a seventh of my life. A seventh. Such a large portion, and clearly there isn't much left. How much regret will I continue to bank?

How much more of it do I have to lose?

I'm divorced. I have no children, and I may never. I'm not even sure I want to. All I know is, I'm wasting my precious time. I feel it now more than ever. What's more important? Financial freedom and a mediocre-to-depressing life, or a career that interests me, but living paycheck-to-paycheck? I'll take poverty if it makes life interesting again.

Thanks for listening, if you did. It's been a long time coming that I get that off my chest.

Blitzer in North Korea: Writing from the Tinderbox

2010-12-22T22:14:00.000-05:00

Far be it from me to critique a man who has more journalistic experience (and probably talent) in his left pinky fingernail than I in total. Far be it from me to take digs at a CNN journalist who just spent six days in North Korea. I don't have the experience or credentials necessary to take a sarcastic look at the writings of one so well-traveled and seasoned. But it's never stopped me before, so why let it now?

I read an article of his today that actually made me laugh for lack of tears. Does this man not have editors? Does he even proofread himself? And how can one so well-spoken and clearly well-educated (poor performance on Jeopardy notwithstanding) write what I'm about to discuss?

To follow is an examination of the article I ready this morning.

Pyongyang, North Korea (CNN) -- The Korean Peninsula is a tinderbox. One miscalculation can quickly lead to all-out war and hundreds of thousands of military and civilian casualties on both sides. Millions of North and South Koreans live very close to the DMZ.

True enough, if vague.

The North also has a million heavily armed troops on their side of the DMZ; the South nearly has many. There are also nearly 30,000 U.S. troops along the frontier with thousands of artillery pieces and missile launchers facing each other. The North is widely believed to be building a nuclear arsenal.

I believe this is the most dangerous spot on Earth right now.

Because Sudan, The Ivory Coast, Iran, Iraq, and Afghanistan are so last year.

We certainly packed a lot into six days here.

This sentence reads like "What I Did On My Summer Vacation, by John Radley, Grade 5"

After receiving our visas at the North Korean Embassy in Beijing, we arrived on Thursday, December 16, on a regularly scheduled North Korean commercial flight from Beijing on Air Koryo flight 252.

Thank you for specifying.

It was a newish Russian-made Tupolev 204-300 aircraft and a very smooth 90-minute flight accompanied with patriotic music and a video showing the heroic struggle of the North Korean people. The attractive flight attendants wore red suit jackets and white gloves.

So much smoother than the less advanced Tupolev 203-299

We flew back to Beijing on Tuesday, December 22, a day after our original plan because of an incredibly thick fog. The flight back was on Air China flight 122, a Boeing 737. The flight attendants did not wear white gloves.

Again, thanks for being specific - but Tuesday was actually December 21st. I know, because it was yesterday.

Pyongyang airport is very small. It has only two or three flights a day to only a handful of destinations. This is not a very busy airport.

Thank you for the added clarification.

CNN Beijing-based photographer Miguel Castro and I were covering the visit here of New Mexico Gov. Bill Richardson, a former U.S. ambassador to the United Nations experienced in Korean diplomacy. Sharon LaFraniere, a Beijing-based correspondent for The New York Times, was the only other journalist invited by Richardson and approved by North Korea to cover this trip.

Richardson was joined by his senior adviser, Tony Namkung, who's been to North Korea 40 times going back to 1990. He is very impressive with a wealth of knowledge about both Koreas, China and Japan.

He is very impressive.

Also joining Richardson was Gilbert Gallegos, his deputy chief of staff; Gay Dillingham, chair of the New Mexico Environmental Improvement Board; and State Police officer Mo Arteaga.

Why were they there? And were they worth mentioning?

The North Koreans took our passports, return flight tickets and cell phones upon arrival at the airport. They returned everything when we were about to board our flight back to Beijing.

I think it's fair to say we all had an eye-opening experience. It was a roller coaster of emotions -- ranging from real fear of war on the Korean Peninsula to relief that the North had stepped back from the brink and even accepted some of Richardson's proposals.

Maybe Richardson had played a positive role in calming down his hosts, including the chief nuclear negotiator, First Vice Foreign Minister Kim Kye Gwan; the new Vice Minister for Foreign Affairs, Ri Yong Ho; the military officer in charge of the armistice and Demilitarized Zone, Major Gen. Pak Rim Su; and the country's Vice President, Kim Yong Dae.

We arrived convinced the Korean Peninsula was on the verge of a war, the worst crisis since the 1953 armistice that ended the Korean War.

I wouldn't call the armistice the crisis. I think the crisis was more to do with everything prior to the armistice. But that's just one man's opinion.

This was my first visit to North Korea, though I had been to South Korea, the DMZ and China.

And you've been to Kuwait, Iraq, Canada, even perhaps North Dakota. It is no less your first time in North Korea.

When Richardson called me and asked me if I wanted to go with him, I immediately accepted and am glad I did. I have known him for 20 years going back to his days in Congress -- long before he became U.N. ambassador and energy secretary during the Clinton administration.

Because this is relevant.

I was apprehensive going in, worried about whether I would actually get out. I was concerned that they would shut the airport if war erupted, and I would be stuck inside North Korea. I even began wondering about the prospects of driving across the North Korea-China border if necessary. Was that even doable?

Driving from where, your jail cell?

Every time I heard some martial music on North Korean television and radio, I wondered whether the regime was preparing the country for war. I've covered wars and other dangerous situations over the years and usually go through a before, during and after cycle -- nervous before I leave about all the worst case scenarios; not all that worried while on assignment because my adrenaline is pumping and I'm in the midst of a big story; but wondering after the trip whether I should do it again.

And yet here we are.

Covering this story brought back memories of my early overseas assignments in the Middle East in the '70s and '80s: no internet, no cell phone, no Blackberry.

Because cell phones and Blackberrys were huge in the '70s and '80s. HUGE.

I had a hard-line phone in my Pyongyang hotel room and could make outgoing calls to the United States at about $10 a minute. (No credit cards accepted; only cash and only crisp bills.) I could not receive incoming calls from the United States.

Well duh.

They would not let us broadcast live via satellite but we took hundreds of still pictures and shot about eight hours of video which we are now going through. Get ready to see the best on CNN and cnn.com.

I did get CNN International in my hotel room -- Zain Verjee, Anjali Rao and Richard Quest never looked better -- but no newspapers.

They appreciate the plug.

Still, six days isolated without e-mail or a cell phone; it was quite a transition for me, but I sort of got used to it and even liked it. I had 983 e-mails waiting for me when I eventually got back to Beijing.

Wolf Blitzer says: "I'm important."

The hotel and elite restaurant food was very good, especially if you like Korean food.

This is a foregone conclusion. I don't suppose they have many Irish pubs.

I stuck with scrambled eggs and toast for breakfast; chicken soup and white rice and steamed veggies for lunch; and usually some grilled Korean chicken or fish for dinner.

I'll take note.

We had North Korean officials with us all the time -- and I mean all the time. They spoke English well and were very intelligent, polite and even nice.

Polite AND nice.

I never felt threatened. They had a job to do, and we understood. Let's not forget this is a communist, totalitarian regime.

We were restricted as to where we could go, what we could film and to whom we could talk. They want to showcase the best and keep us way from the worst. We constantly pressed for more access and they sometimes relented. Sharon from The New York Times was especially persistent and her efforts occasionally paid off.

Still, we saw a lot of the North Korean capital and even managed to get into the countryside to see a huge apple and fruit-tree orchard where thousands of farmers work what the orchard director said were some 2.2 million trees. That number seemed exaggerated but whatever it was, it was impressive.

Once you get outside Pyongyang, you see very few cars on the roads. People are walking along the sides of the roads; some are riding bikes. It's eerie being in the only car on the road. This is a very poor country.

Even as we feared there could be a war, we were taken to a silk thread factory where 2,000 women work diligently. We rode the jam-packed subway system from Prosperity Station to Glory Station. We went shopping -- again cash only and only crisp U.S. dollar bills. They really don't like the old, wrinkled bills.

Shopping in "the most dangerous spot on Earth" should be a story in and of itself, don't you think?

We spent one afternoon with well-dressed students at Kim Il Sung University and later at a foreign language high school where very bright 16-year-olds were learning English complete with American slang. I heard one student say: "That's very cool." He wasn't referring to the weather.

So that's what "cool" means in slang. Thanks again for clarifying.

We saw the computers at their national library. They were decent but not state of the art.

Ya' think?

There's a huge music room at the library where people can simply listen to CDs of great artists. When I was there, they played a Kenny Rogers song for me. He apparently is very popular here.

They also took us sightseeing. We saw their Arc de Triumphe (supposedly bigger than the one in Paris); their huge stone tower (apparently taller than the Washington Monument); and their sports complex complete with indoor and outdoor stadiums and ice skating rink.

I saw the North Korean girls' ice hockey team jogging one afternoon and briefly caught up with them. They laughed as I ran with them -- probably thinking who is this crazy foreign person carrying a little hand-held camera.

Ya' think?

Later, when it looked like the North Koreans would retaliate for South Korea's live-fire military exercise, I thought of these girls and all the young people I had seen in North Korea. They seemed so vulnerable, and I worried about their fate if there were a war. I'm not embarrassed to say I got sentimental and emotional worrying about them and their counterparts in South Korea.

Huge pictures of the late Great Leader, Kim Il Sung, and his son, the Dear Leader, Kim Jong Il, were all over the place. I didn't see pictures of the next generation's expected leader, Kim Jong Un.

Electricity is a huge problem in North Korea. It was bitter cold outside. Indoor heat is at a premium. The students were in the classrooms wearing their warm overcoats. The rooms were not well-lit.

There were no lights in the tunnels on the roads outside the North Korean capital.

Outsiders have been predicting its demise for 60 years, but I didn't get the impression this country was on the verge of crumbling.

And yet - it's the most dangerous place on Earth.

We were not taken to the Yongbyon nuclear facility or their side of the DMZ even though we and Richardson repeatedly asked. The North Koreans pointed out this was an especially tense time. They said I could come back on another occasion and perhaps visit these places.

Yes, "come see our Nuclear Arsenal at a more convenient date." You take them up on that Wolf.

By the way, 2012 is going to be a huge year for North Korea. That's the 100th anniversary of the birth of Kim Il Sung. The North Koreans are preparing major events. Since they invited me back, I might go back then; maybe even sooner though I hope it won't be to cover a war. See above.

Did I mention that I'm worried about the children?

Among other things, yes.

I don't mean to downplay the serious undertones of this article. Yes, we should all be worried about the children. But can we do them some justice by learning to edit a little?

Not that I'm not guilty of any of the above crimes. But then - I'm not writing for CNN either.

Stick to the anchor desk Wolf, it's what you're good at.

Remote Control Meltdown

2010-12-17T22:38:00.004-05:00

Every November I sit down and make a Christmas list. This list comprises of three tiers:

1) Immediate family (those with whom I am in frequent contact).

2) Close friends

3) Coworkers and Other Peripherals (Yes, this is what it's called on my list. I've never told anyone that until now. And, if you are reading this and you are a coworker, please be advised that you probably fall into tier 2. This is a blanket statement.)

Tier 1 is where I will begin the focus of this post.

Every member of Tier 1 usually has a set list of five items that include (without being specific) "book," "movie," "snow globe," "appliance," etc... Naturally, my mother falls into Tier 1. And for some reason, every year I have a strange compulsion to buy her electronics. I seem to make it my personal mission to buy the woman who has little interest in state-of-the-art gadgets - the latest state-of-the-art gadgets.

Whereas others in Tier 1 normally have items on their list that include "new Bill Bryson" or "Polly Pockets," Mom's list usually comprises of items such as "upgraded shielded HDMI cables," "touch-screen iPod," and "wireless router."

This year, I decided to upgrade Mom to wireless TV. I plan to do this in stages, and I thought I would start simple. Stage one was to be a BluRay player with WiFi so she could watch her Netflix instantly without purchasing OnDemand movies or dealing with discs. I had a mission. I chose to accept.

During my annual Amazon Christmas buy-a-thon, (in which 85% of my Christmas list is purchased in a coffee-fueled frenzy on my bed in my pajamas - it happens every year) I ran across a net-ready BluRay player. It was a reputable brand and was well-reviewed. I added it to my cart. I might also mention that I tiqued the little "gift" box that means it will arrive in a cheap Christmas wrap-designed cardboard box with a ribbon painted onto it. The wrapping sucks - but at least the recipient, if delivered to their house, does not know what's in the box.

It did not come in said Christmas cardboard. It arrived in its manufacturer's box, and after work one day I found it on Mom's breakfast table in the kitchen. She had seen it, so I just asked her to close her eyes while I handed it to her again with a cheap bow on top. And while I was not at ALL interested in playing with it myself, I offered to hook it up to her on the spot.

That was when I discovered it required a WiFi receiver. Otherwise, I would need to drag an ethernet cable through the living room, down the hall, and to her router. This would not fly with Mom.

So a few days later I ventured into the mass hysteria that is Wal-Mart during Christmas season and bought her a wireless receiver. When I came home, I plugged it in. It didn't work. So I plugged it into my laptop, downloaded the necessary items, put in Mom's WiFi password, unplugged it, plugged it back into the BluRay - and it was online!

That was when I discovered that Netflix was not built in. Apparently, these things have to be built in. Sure, I could view Picasa - but why? Does anyone use that anymore? And AccuWeather - yes, I could turn on the BluRay player just to check the weather, because it's just so convenient. But - oh no - while in the cities list I could find Savannah, Columbia, or the other Charleston, there was no Charleston, South Carolina. And therefore no Summerville. Might I also mention there was a NORTH AUGUSTA? Oh - and there was YouTube. Yes, there could be hours of entertainment looking at videos of dogs riding skateboards - which can be done anyway on one of many items in this house. But no Netflix. Damn it all, I was determined to do this one thing for Mom for Christmas. If she would have little else from me, she would be able to watch movies on her TV at a moment's notice.

So I decided I would regift this BluRay to yours truly, and go out to find one that was Netflix ready. Today, I found such BluRay player. It was Netflix ready. In theory, it was also wireless-capable. (On later investigation, I discovered that the Best Buy associate who told me this was either lying or misinformed). But no worries - I still had the wireless receiver. Finally - Mom could watch her movies. My Christmas present idea would finally come to fruition.

So I hooked the thing up, and all was well with the world. Until the remote control didn't work. It didn't even work a little. No problem, I thought. It appeared to be a universal remote. Codes are easy to find. Well, not only could I not find the BluRay codes, I couldn't even find clear instructions on programming that remote.

So I called Geek Squad, as I purchased two years' protection. I was told to either take it back, or buy a universal remote. Feeling the need to purchase another cable anyway, I headed back out to Wal-Mart. On Friday night. A week before Christmas. I muddled through the mayhem and came home with a mackdaddy state-of-the-art universal remote. The thing can actually learn from other remotes.

I plugged it into my laptop via USB, and discovered that the website didn't like Safari. So I switched to Firefox. It didn't care for that either. So I opened up the slow, user-unfriendly, dusty Internet Explorer. I said "no" to all of its personalization demands, repeatedly told Yahoo that I didn't want its toolbar, navigated through the personal settings, and finally got to the right page. I finally got to the place where I needed to be. I entered the model number of the BluRay player, and it seemed to be fine. It was all too easy. I unplugged the remote, and could hear drumrolls in my head.

Guess what?

It didn't work.

It can power the BluRay player on and off, can even switch between main menu and Netflix - but that's where the functionality ends. I can't even use the "enter" key. So I called Sharp support. Apparently, non-computer-related issues need to wait until Monday through Friday, 9am to 5pm Pacific time for human help.

Determined to watch Mom scroll through Netflix items at her leisure, I was not giving up yet. Last attempt - I decided to try to program the TimeWarner Cable universal remote's Auxiliary button. After not finding any BluRay codes for Sharp - anywhere - I downloaded the remote's schematic. It appears it was designed before Sharp had BluRay players.

Dismayed, I decided I would take the remote back to Best Buy on Sunday. Wish me luck.

After all this - maybe an hour ago - I sat down in the living room, defeated, scrolling through my friends' Facebook statuses. And one of them caught my attention. It was an update from an old friend who is a funeral director. This woman has perhaps the whip-quick sharpest sense of humor of anyone I know. She has always adeptly used this humor to express herself, and so when I saw the following, my frantic Amazon carting, frenzied Wal-Mart trips, remote control meltdowns and Best Buy excursions were put into perspective.

"Recipe for the weepies: funeral of a friend + hearse with Bing Crosby on the radio + apparently not enough dosage of antidepressants = verklempt Bethy...".

Nearly two years ago my Dad died. I plan to write a post for him soon, when I get up the nerve. So now I can only ask myself - how did I forget?

Merry Christmas everyone. The remote control is not that important.

Here We Go...

2010-11-21T15:36:00.001-05:00

Okay folks, here we go... the prologue has been released. The Unborn Child arrives. Click on "Here We Go" to get there.

Again - it ain't that great - which is probably the best reason of all to put it out there and move on. If you do elect to read it, please feel free to critique as much as you like, via comments or email. I would like to try to use this as a learning experience, if nothing else.

Thanks for your patience, your time and your criticism. It's all much appreciated.

First Corinthians 13:11

2010-11-21T14:24:00.001-05:00

I've bored you all with rants and whines about The Devil's Footprints. I've promised to release it repeatedly. This is nothing new, I've been saying it to myself for years. But a few months ago, I finished it. And I hate it. Though I love it.

I've struggled with defining what the driving force behind this story is. Is it about characters to whom a set of events is happening? Or is it about an event that people are caught in? Is it a set of ideas illustrated by a plot, or is it a story with a theoretical footnote? Somewhere in the debate, between self-proposal and self-rebuttal, I lost control over my own story.

Was I squeezing in so much plot that I focused too precisely on the whirlwind sweeping away my heroes? Should I instead have drawn a concise picture of the whirlwind through the reactions of my characters? And should my characters by defined by their thoughts and actions, or by their reaction to their environment and relationship to the others? I'm just too close, too involved. It's a house that's been remodeled past the point of resembling the original structure. I look through the windows of the house, through the glass darkly and wonder what happened to the source material.

It's trapped me. I've spent years walking in circles, writing and rewriting characters who were doing exactly that. In many respects I illustrated much of my own theme by never bringing the thing to completion. I started it nearly fifteen years ago, and when I could have moved on to more serious projects, spent time polishing my writing skills, I've instead lingered on to the perpetually unfinished story I would never conceive of writing now.

As more and more ideas stack up behind the dam I've built, I realize now that it's time to open the sluices. Today I'll be setting up a blog for The Devil's Footprints. I'll publish the prologue this evening, and let that first part go, feed it to the eRiver and be done with it. As I let it go, piece by piece, it'll be gone. I can't go back and change it.

I don't know if it's good or bad. I'm not even sure if I care. Maybe I'll care again as I put it together, this childish plastic model that's been collecting dust in my closet. Once I hang it on the wall, I can admire it or use it to see how far I've come at a later date. My family will pin it to their refrigerators, and I will forever fight the urge to delete it.

By telling you that it's not good, I am not preempting. I am not fishing. I am stating a fact. But that I've worked so long on it, to its credit or detriment, is reason enough to put it out there.

It's time to put away childish things.

On Michael Vick's Miraculous Personal Turnaround

2010-11-21T10:00:00.000-05:00

Man's Loyal Best Friend

In August 2007, NFL Quarterback Michael Vick plead guilty to dog fighting charges. He was sentenced to prison, and lamented his financial losses.

The Poor guy, he's said to have lost everything. This includes his six luxury houses in Virginia, Georgia and Florida, and ten luxury cars. And of course he had Bad Newz Kennels, and all the extra needed income that provided. Yes, it's tough when economic realities force one to work a second job.

Two years later, upon his release from prison, a "reformed" Michael Vick was signed on with the Philadelphia Eagles. He lamented the error of his ways, and is now showing a kinder, gentler Michael Vick, a Michael Vick that doesn't raise his middle finger to the fans who support him, shortly before being investigated for animal torture.

Last night it was said to me that we shouldn't impose our cultural values on the cultures of others, that this is common in the deep south. It was said that in China, people eat dogs, that we can't pass judgment. Well, I happen to eat cows and chickens, so no, I do not pass judgment on a culture that eats dogs.

She Was Dependent On Her Owner

But there is no excuse for torturing and maiming animals. Just as being in the deep south was never an excuse for beating or raping one's wife, or having slaves. It's not as if those in the deep south are never exposed to the rest of the world. And someone who had six houses and ten cars does not strike me as a victim of cultural one-sidedness.

For anyone who is unsure about how dog fighting works, I'll give you a brief rundown. Puppies are brought in or bred from existing animals. Their aggression is fostered and nourished. Other animals, often stolen pets or animals taken from "free to a good home" ads are brought in as fodder. Their muzzles are duct-taped closed to prevent injury to the half-starved fighter-in-training. The dogs are let loose on the animal. In fortunate situations, death for the bound creature is fast. Not so for the champion dogs.

Anyone who does not believe that dogs experience emotion in a very similar fashion to us, has not spent a great deal of time around one. They can be loving, gentle animals. But as animals, (like us), they have an aggressive, survival-mode side. This serves its purpose when not domesticated, but not when harnessed for the sole purpose of gambling.

So Michael Vick raised these dogs, starved them, set them loose on smaller animals for training, then set them against each other and rival dogs, let them tear each other apart. He gambled on this. He placed money on the animals that depended on him for food and shelter. And he let them kill each other for the entertainment of others.

A Champion

It has now been a little over three years since Michael Vick's conviction. He has said that what he did was reprehensible. He has apologized time and time again.

Clearly, those who follow football are impressed with his comeback and his fans are showing a remarkable ability to forgive and forget. Either that, or their memories are just very, very short.

So in three years, has Vick really and truly turned his life around? Does he regret the pain and suffering he caused so many animals?

Will Michael Vick prove to be a champion of animal rights and humanitarianism?

I won't hold my breath.

Labor Pains (My Unborn Child, Part II)

2010-07-14T22:21:00.003-04:00

With many apologies for being away from the blog for some time now, I thought I might explain why. As some of you who read this blog on a regular basis (by some I really do mean all six of you) know, I have another side project. When I have had a chance to write lately, I've focused on my Unborn Child. Now fully three-quarters the way through, (the farthest I've ever reached), I'm getting labor pains.

I've toiled over this thing for so long now, I have a hard time remembering much about this story in its original form. Eighty percent of the work I've done on it has been pondering, rethinking, re-plotting, and pondering some more. Very little of this time has actually been spent writing, until this past year.

As I've fleshed it out, it's evolved. You see, something happens when I sit down to write. I find myself completely immersed in the story. My laptop screen becomes a window through which I can dive into a different world. Outside noises either escape my notice, or, when they do, send me a foot in the air when they startle me. It's quite the zone - characters seem to act of their own accord, events happen that I didn't outline, and events that were outlined suddenly don't make sense as they unfold, so I let the story evolve itself. And then I close my laptop after a two or three-hour session, and reflect on the characters and the day's writing, and end up jotting notes right before I get into bed on what should be different. I spend the last few minutes of each night outside pondering it some more. I think about it on the way home from work. And then I sit down again, and these characters, who I think I know so well, go and do something completely out of character and I go back to the drawing board. It always seems as if they're in conflict with the outlines in my notebook.

But here's the thing - I don't actually think it's that good. I think I may have over-complicated it, over-thought it. I mean, it has its merits, it has its moments, but I've been working in it for too damn long. I'm now finishing it simply to see it through. And while I don't really think it's that great, it's still very important to me. I no longer have any intention of trying to publish it, at least in the traditional sense - if I were a visual artist, I wouldn't want to sell my first painting.

And let me be frank - this is a fantasy. It's not the wizard-fire dragon-breath kingdoms and swords type of fantasy, as it takes place pretty much in the here and now - but it's still fantasy. I refuse to make much use of the word magic, but there's plenty of magic. I didn't want there to be castles and dragons, but there are towers and creatures. I didn't want there to be monsters, but it has demons. I didn't want it to be a preachy morality tale, but it does have themes. I didn't want to approach my views of spirituality and let them influence the story, but if I'm to be honest, it's all about my views on spirituality. This is a collage of sorts of all my lives since those lost years in Columbia. I'm really not convinced I want to write fantasy after this, but when I started it that was what I wanted to do.

Jamie, David, Seamus, Marissa, and Nora; Marlan, Nikola, Amantha, Nikolas and Roia; Simon, Marcus, David, Patricia and Conroy - these characters have been with me for so long now I'm ready to let them go and live their lives on some page that does not exist in my brain. A few, such as Jamie, David, Michael and James have been in my head since the beginning. Others have jumped on the train as it hobbled along on broken tracks through the years. I'm ready to give them wings, as my Mom has said of my sister and me.

As I said, I have no real intention of publishing this, as it would need so much work as to be completely rewritten. But it will always be my first child. So how do I plan to give my baby wings? I'm going to blog her.

My goal is to have this done in October. To do that, my friends and family will have to understand that for a while, my child will come before trivia. I am going full steam ahead now, lungeing for the end of the tunnel. Once I think it's done, and then when I can finally declare it done, once and for all, I will create a separate blog for it. Once a week I'll post another segment. You can comment all you like, or you can remain silent and simply either enjoy it or laugh at it for the disjointed mess that I think it may have become. I'm okay with either, because this is my child, and even if it has a face only a father can love, it will always be mine.

Once it's over, I plan to begin writing seriously. I've discovered that this is what I want to do more than anything else in life. I can create a world and live in it freely and fully, even if only vicariously through my keyboard. But this work has given me more fulfillment than any job that generates a paycheck.

The Church and Me

2010-05-01T16:35:00.004-04:00

Greetings from the 'sphere! I'm sorry to have been absent for so long - I've experienced a renewed focus in my Unborn Child and have decided once and for all to get this thing out of me. I'm nearly a third of the way through, due in part to my self-imposed deadlines to get chunks of the story to a good friend for review, (and soon another good friend for literary critique - though he doesn't know it yet).

I've barely logged into Facebook, I haven't posted a Tweet for days, and even had a week off of my story this week to focus on my other love - trivia. But by tomorrow night I will be a third of the way through it - or at least the skeleton.

This story is largely about faith - the desire for faith, the need to believe, the rationalization of the equally terrible and wonderful aspects of life - not faith in any one specific direction, but a study on faith itself, and what it can create for us. And as this allegory exits my brain and orders itself on paper, it has started teaching me as well, as I look at this thing that's been in my head from an outsider's perspective.

This story has brought to the surface all the vastly opposing, contradictory feelings I have for the Church. And while I say Church as a single entity here, I know I'm making an enormous generalization - but Church is far easier to type repeatedly than the sterile term "organized religion."

The Church and I run hot and cold - we have had our differences, but periodically I find myself returning to it. It's always a new experience, sometimes boring, sometimes insightful, sometimes refreshing - but it's never the same experience twice, probably because what you get out of it depends on what you put into it. (There are those very faithful that will stalwartly tell you otherwise, but that's another blog).

Some of my earliest memories of having a religious experience occurred at Lutheridge. This is a Lutheran Summer camp that I attended from around 8 years old through high school. It was at this mountain retreat in North Carolina that I first learned to equate the Devine with nature. We were taught to see Holiness in sunsets and sunrises, in the freezing cold creeks of the Appalachian mountains to the white water of the French Broad River, to the simple hikes to our meals. We were taught to find love and warmth in song and dance, and to appreciate those feelings as a gift. Because of Lutheridge, I understood the idea of divinity manifesting itself to us all the time if we just stop and listen, as at sunset Vespers and Morning Watch in the cold, dewy grass of this mountain refuge.

This feeling of harmony with nature, this finding of God in that harmony was a stark contrast to Sunday church services with my Grandmother. There you were to stand when you were told to stand, sit when you were told to sit, sing when you were told to sing. During Sunday School we would make crosses out of popsicle sticks and hear stories of Jesus' miracles. There was no spirituality here, only what had always been done.

Then there were those times I was on my own, walking through the woods, playing in the Saluda River, biking for hours with nothing but me and my thoughts and the world around me seeming at a distance. It was during these times that I could sometimes stop for a moment and recall those feelings at Morning Watch - there was divinity in the air around me. This was always a passing feeling, and only a few times in my life has it completely overwhelmed me as it seems to do to so many every Sunday. But it is a joyous feeling, this communion with the spiritual. It can't be brought on, but it happens from time to time.

And yet, for sixth and seventh grade I attended a Southern Baptist private school. Here I was taught that other religions were wrong, and that we were to either try to convince them to join the "correct path" or to pity them for their looming trip to eternal fire and brimstone. As a child who was searching for something - anything - I was easily swayed by revival weeks and prayer corners with school officials. My desire to fit in and believe overwhelmed my fear of telling anyone I was raised Lutheran. I even remember how one day in class the Science teacher was briefly touching on the world's religions. The subject of Lutheranism was raised, and a student asked "What do Lutherans believe?" The teacher actually told her that she didn't really know. I am not going to get into the birth of protestantism and why they are called "Lutherans" - but let's just say that the exchange between the Baptist teacher and student was at least a little ironic.

But discovering around the end of my seventh grade year that I was likely gay, I knew that if I told anyone I would either be expelled, told there was no hope for me, or prayed with for hours on end - likely all three. God loves everyone, as long as you are born attracted to the opposite sex, was my stance as I got older.

I swung from near Zealot to near completely anti-church within a year. I was disgusted by the fact that I was gay, felt tremendous guilt over it, but simultaneously hated the church for furthering myths about who I was. I saw the church as a hateful, judgmental establishment, aimed at growing membership - as long as those people fit into their societies. (Why are there still "black" churches and "white" churches? This astounds me).

It was a few years later that I discovered the predominantly-gay Metropolitan Community Church. If I didn't fit into the "straight" churches, I surely didn't fit in here. I went to three sermons and backed out. This is another story for another blog.

It was shortly after my brief run-in with the MCC that I began going off and on to the Unitarian Church. For years this seemed to fulfill my spiritual needs - all was okay here, all was accepted, we were all on our paths to find God as we saw Him or Her. I went back and forth to the Unitarian church for years, until I came to the conclusion that it was like drinking non-alcoholic beer. It filled a need for community, but spirituality was reduced to intellectual exercise. To me, this is just as bad as dissecting the divine with bureaucratic Dogma.

Now, as the ELCA has decreed it okay for non-celibate, monogamous gay men and women to serve as pastors, I'm raising an eyebrow once again to the Lutheran church. I'm tipping my toes in those waters once more, and may even go to church soon. I have no desire to mold my spiritual beliefs to fit a system. Like any relationship, this will have to happen organically.

One question I haven't directly addressed here is this - do I believe in God? Without going into my explanation (which is my own and no one else's) I say yes, I do. I firmly believe in a divine presence. There is no doubt here.

I do not have this belief because I need it. I have it because I believe it. But I don't feel the need to justify it to anyone else. I don't feel the need to justify it with myself. I don't need to point out the perfection that is nature, that is our majestic universe, to illustrate logic or illogic in any direction. Logic is as pliable as faith. They can work with each other or against each other, and they can negate each other. So where spirituality is concerned I choose to throw them both out the window, and simply believe. Anything beyond that is simply filling in the blanks, and we're all quite adept at filling in those blanks.

The Church and I have some mending to do in our relationship. But with faith, all things are possible.

The Nanny State and The New Puritanism

2010-04-11T12:56:00.001-04:00

Dame Edna was on CBS Sunday Morning last week. During the interview she referred to political correctness as "this new Puritanism." Such an incredibly on-target statement caught my attention, and reminded me of a blog I was planning to write several weeks ago, on the Nanny State. When Dame Edna made this remark, it struck me how interwoven these concepts are.

For anyone unfamiliar with the term, "Nanny State" refers to over-protectionism and parental-like interference on the part of a governing body. Some would argue that seat belt laws fall within this category, although it's my belief that seat belt laws save the state hundreds of millions in health care each year - in this situation I believe there is logic behind the Nanny, so I tend to agree that there should be a law. What would however fall under Nanny State laws are those that prevent one from getting a tatoo - or purchasing alcohol on Sunday - or smoking marajuana. These are victimless crimes, and these laws do nothing but press the will of some onto the lives of others.

Blue Laws, for example, are textbook Nanny. In fact, they're often the most insidious type of Nanny laws. These are revenue generating laws - the cost of licensing, fines, added taxes, all revenue generators disguised as Nannies so more people would support them. This is a double-edged hypocritical sword that pains me when people can't see through it.

The bar on trans-fat in New York restaurants; the proposition that cigarette smoking become illegal in one's own home; mandates that bars close at a specific hour; these are Nanny doctrines that threaten to propel our country into a day care. A prime example was raised when my mother, when in Australia, discovered a sign in my Aunt's house that dictated the proper way to evacuate one's bowels. Mom blogged about this recently. In her entry she brought up the idea that this is not something that needs to be taught. This is a basic human function that we do quite naturally without the help of an illustrated (yes, illustrated) flyer. This is the end-product of the Nanny State: a population made to feel dumbed down to the point of receiving instructions on basic human functionality.

So what does this have to do with the New Puritanism? Absolutely everything.

When did we learn to fear words? When did it become not okay to refer to a black person as black? (I could take this argue further and ask why we need to define anyone by their ethnicity anyway - "race" wasn't even a term used until relatively recently, and will hopefully phase itself out as we blend as a world population - but I digress). Why does one have to be "African American?" I would imagine many black people find this term offensive. And what of white people from the African continent who immigrate to the US? Are they referred to as African American? What of blacks who move here from a continent other than Africa? Are they African American? Or would they be, say, African-Canadian-American? Where is the line drawn?

Then there is the term "~~people~~ persons of color." This is just ridiculous. This is as much defining a person by their ethnic background as referring to someone by their ethnicity before profession (i.e. African American Lawyer or Asian News Anchor." This falls into the same category as "my woman-doctor" or "male teacher." By using these terms as defining characteristics we're perpetuating the myth of our differences by nature of background.

Politically correct speech is harmful much in the same way as Affirmative Action is inherently racist. I am not a Gay American. I am an American. I am not a European Male. I am a male. Who I am - who any of us are are defined only by that - who we are. However, if we need to identify someone and utilize their physical characteristics to do so, that is entirely different. If I am referring to a black salesperson so that I can get their name from someone else, there are those who find this offensive somehow. It would be the same if I were to ask for the woman wearing pink.

And while we tiptoe around the correct terminology, we avoid real, honest conversation. We become so afraid of offending anyone at all that we purposely stunt our communication and feelings. We subvert those feelings and they fester. The only way an honest conversation will ever occur is if we're not afraid of our words.

This goes both ways. I could care less if someone calls me a faggot. They do not define me by their words. My three closest friends are Jewish, Black, and Hispanic. None of them would care if a derogatory term were used in connection with their names, because they do not allow the uneducated to define them by irrelevant characteristics. Why are more people not like this? Those that tiptoe around terminology and those that profess their proud ignorance through slang are on the very same page, as far as I'm concerned.

It's time to stop obsessing over our differences - it's time to discuss them when appropriate, and move on. We're all much more alike than we are different. Tolerance goes both ways. In order to expect the intolerant to learn the error of their ways, we need to not expect them to dance around the issue. Otherwise we'll never discuss the issue, and we'll never move beyond it.

If we avoid the serious topics by dressing them up in pretty words and remain terrified of offending someone, we are headed to a new Victorian Age, a Puritanical Nanny State that wraps its xenophobia in an ornate cloak of the enlightened. It's not enlightenment. It's fear.

What Hath God Wrought?

2010-03-27T16:48:00.003-04:00

Easter is coming. And in the wake of the Easter Bunny (it's a rabbit that lays eggs - does no one find this disturbing?) are the decidedly creepy and arguably malevolent peeps.

A Peep Is Born

Peeps are not created. They are born. They are born of sugar, marshmallow, gelatin, and carnauba wax. Once the alchemy needed to fuse these ingredients into just the right proportions has been completed, the inanimate peeps are sent to a sealed vault where shadowy figures in dark robes incant what is necessary to breathe life into these little spawns.

Carnauba wax, incidentally, is also found in Turtle Wax, cosmetics and shoe polish. It's refined from a plant native to northern Brazil - I often wonder who decided to apply the compound to sugar, marshmallow and gelatin. Did they have a clue as to what they were unleashing?

A Wolf In Peep's Clothing

What we feed our children is an increasingly debated topic - and rightly so. We seem deaf and blind, almost willingly, to public knowledge of hormones, pesticides and other carcinogens that lace factory food. That a thing tastes good is no longer a good enough argument for its consumption. That these "foods" such as fast food with mass-produced,carelessly butchered meat, and hormone-laden, long-shipped produce are more inexpensive than fresh produce and organic proteins is the tragedy. Parents are practically cornered into providing unhealthy sustenance filled with such nefarious and addictive compounds as high fructose corn syrup and MSG.

Peeps, with their ~~demonic~~ friendly smiling faces, bright colors and cheerful packaging beckon the children to beg Mommy or Daddy to invite these ghastly menaces into their homes. They invade quietly. They sit in the cupboard, and they wait to be dispensed as a treat. The little Trojan horses can lie in wait for decades before showing any outward signs of aging. This beings me to my next point:

Peeps Are Forever

I've read that peeps are practically indestructible. Given my ~~fear of~~ hatred for these little harbingers of sugar and destruction, I had no issues with spending $1.56 of my hard-earned cash to test out a few methods of dispensing of the terror-chicks, and while doing so possibly find their Achilles beaks.

It turns out they come in three-packs of rows of five peeps fused together, looking as if they're about to march into battle. I took out my first row of victims and placed them on the counter.

They look innocent, don't they? Don't be fooled. They were designed that way. I pried the first one loose and decided my first test would be the microwave. What happens when you microwave a peep? I've heard it does nothing, but surely something must happen.

There he was. I named this one Duke (after the arcade game Duke Nukem) and waved goodbye as I closed the microwave door and pressed 30 seconds.

It began to grow after two seconds. Evading the possibility of a mutant peep on my hand, (or a really difficult mess in the microwave), I opened the door and removed it. The thing began to shrink back to its original size. Very little evidence was left to show its ordeal, though there were a few cracks that I'm sure, given time, would heal.

Next I decided to test solubility. I prepared three spice dishes with water, acetone, and rubbing alcohol. I placed a peep in each dish. (I made Duke watch).

Guess what happened? Nothing, apparently. So I turned them upside down to review the damage to their undersides. There was none.

I turned them back up and they all seemed to be staring at me, taunting me. Then I thought - chlorine!

Again, nothing. Peeps, it turns out, are adept swimmers.

So acetone, chlorine and alcohol have no discernible effects on peeps. Does anyone believe stomach acid or intestinal bacteria would have an effect? These harsh chemicals cannot dissolve these beasts - your body can't either.

How To Stop Them

I cannot think of a way to stop these malicious marshmallows other than to tear them apart, bury them and salt the earth.

Like so many items that line our grocers' shelves and calls us from the side of the road with happy colors and clowns, peeps are not food. I don't want to take the joy out of food, and understand parents often need food that is fast, easy and inexpensive. Let's just not fool ourselves (mega food manufacturers do that pretty well without our help) into thinking we are consuming food. General rule of thumb: if it comes wrapped in plastic and requires happy, fun, warm-fuzzy marketing, it should be little more than a rare treat.

As human beings we are programmed to like food. We are programmed to know what's good and what isn't. If it takes chemicals to induce the right flavor, texture and aroma to entice us, or inviting plastic to catch our attention, then our bodies don't really want it.

I say it again - bury the peeps. Bury them, and salt the earth!

Happy Spring everyone.

Alan Schafer's Ghost Spotted In Charleston Harbor

2010-03-21T16:03:00.000-04:00

In the 1950's, ~~con artist~~ visionary Alan Schafer opened a beer stand just south of the North Carolina/South Carolina border. As Schafer's customer base grew and he added more and more attractions to his shop, the rest stop metastasized into what is now the campy, casually racist roadside attraction that is South of the Border.

Signs on I-95 touting South of the Border begin about a hundred miles in each direction. The signs pun "you never sausage a place" and read with what has likely become the cause of many a headache, "keep yelling kids, they'll stop!" Because of this ~~annoying~~ clever marketing and word of mouth, South of the Border is depressingly enough the first thing so many from the Northeast encounter as they enter South Carolina.

The attraction's mascot, Pedro, a physical monument to tasteless sterotypes, sports an oversized sombrero - he's the first thing you see as you enter the complex of adult entertainment shops, greasy spoons, and kitschy souvenir outlets. There is also a rusty roller coaster and an observation tower that allows you to climb up into the sombrero and see the beautiful countryside. It's a shame those who live in that countryside can't enjoy such a lovely view - at least not without the company of Pedro.

So shame on me for not paying closer attention to local news, but when a co-worker the other day mentioned the possibility of a male Statue of Liberty in Charleston Harbor, I thought he was joking. Sadly no. There is a proposal out there, (that thankfully appears to be sinking faster than the Naval vessels of Patriot's Point) to place a male version of the Statue of Liberty to welcome visitors to Charleston Harbor. The idea is to bring needed income to Patriot's Point (I wasn't kidding about the sinking vessels) and to ~~sully~~ become a companion to the original Lady Liberty.

And what's wrong with this? Well - everything. Charleston Habor's natural beauty and rich history already provide an enticing welcome to visitors arriving to Charleston by sea. It would do nothing short of destroy the landscape, in order to create another roadside attraction.

Lady Liberty was a gift to the US from France. She stands for everything on which this country was founded. She has welcomed visitors and immigrants since her construction. Her beauty is unmatched. Charleston Harbor has seen disease, disaster, and siege - and it remains, peaceful as ever. The idea of a contrived, plastic (in every sense perhaps except the literal) piece of South of the Border kitsch polluting our skyline is a slap in the face to both entities.

I'm grateful beyond belief that Mount Pleasant does not appear to be pursuing this outrage. The amount of money it would take the build the statue, (appx $150 million - and that's before it goes predictably over-budget) could be used to more effectively market Patriot's Point, effectively plan events on the USS Yorktown, or perhaps build a roadside attraction further into Mount Pleasant - where the only people who have to see it every day are those who choose to live East of the Cooper.

Lady Liberty does not need a husband, and South Carolina does not need another South of the Border.

My Sister - I Think I'll Keep Her

2010-03-20T14:58:00.001-04:00

My sister recently posted an entry about me on her blog.

Had you known the two of us fifteen years ago, you would never believe we could be friends, let alone post entries about each other on our blogs - nice ones, anyway.

Early memories of Mandy and me are mostly positive. If there was a storm outside I'd go to her room, knock on the door (if I didn't knock I'd get yelled at), wait for the reluctant "what" and crack the door. I would ask if I could sleep in her room, if that was okay. As a five year-old, (maybe I was four - not sure - we were living in Edenwood, which means I was no more than six) thunder and lightning gave me the jitters. I also remember at that age being afraid that an earthquake, tornado or atomic bomb (a babysitter once let me watch the Day After) would come and wipe us out at any time. My sister's room was a safe haven under a quilt and someone nearby who while couldn't really protect me from anything, made me feel better by their presence.

Reluctantly Mandy would let me sleep on the floor by her bed. Around age six I realized that sucked and stopped asking. Plus, she snored. And I was beginning to think that while I loved her - she was my sister after all - sometimes I couldn't stand her. This was the beginning of our troubled friendship.

There are so many stories, so many ups and downs of our relationship that I couldn't begin to tackle it all here. We had our struggles, and we had times of real friendship. Here are a few highlights.

As I got older Mandy became aware that I could fetch things: iced tea, cheese puffs, the television remote. And of course if I didn't she said would never speak to me again. I didn't really believe this to be true, but I also wanted to avoid a fight. I had very few friends at one stage, and I didn't care to be fighting with anyone at home. However, it was during that time that I overheard my sister standing up for me one day. It was all the reassurance I needed, for a while.

Of course, there was the time - never mind. I'm not going to mention the heat stroke and concrete stairs incident - (note to our Twitter friends - ask her about it). And there was the time I was ten and she was twisting my arm - it popped, and scared the bejesus out of her. She was on the verge of tears, unsure if she had broken my arm, bent it out of its socket, or what - but she was begging me not to tell Mom and frantically asking me if my arm was okay. It's amazing to me Mandy never noticed that I have a noisy body. It snaps, crackles and pops like a bowl of Rice Crispies whenever I do so much as walk. It always has. So when my arm popped, likely more to do with the fact that I was - you know, MOVING, than anything she did, and she panicked, I milked it for every ounce it was worth.

And then I started getting older, and maybe a little angrier. I realized I was pretty strong, and would hit back from time to time. But mostly she and I just avoided each other. She was the A-student, the athlete, the popular one, the normal one. I was the freak with green hair and piercings. She was the sweet one, the outgoing one. I was shy and never sure if I hated people, or was afraid of them. Secretly I was jealous of Mandy, and annoyed by her at the same time. Why was she so normal?

Our fights were fewer and farther between, but worse when they happened. It culminated in my throwing a brick in her direction (she claims I was aiming at her, but it has never been my intention to hurt anyone that badly, not even my sister). But, I think it kind of scared her, because there was a marked distance between us for a while.

But there were other times as well. As Mandy put, whenever we were really in trouble, or one of us needed the other, we were there. We knew we loved each other, and not just out of moral obligation. We shared secrets others don't know to this day. We're often the first person the other calls when a major event happens in our lives. (Although sometimes it's just because Mom's phone is busy or we can't reach her). That said, Mandy recently trusted me with something she had told no one else. It was that trust that made me realize how far we had come in our relationship.

Around the time I returned from England ten years ago, I realized Mandy and I had grown more alike than apart. We still have our differences, but are alike enough to know how to at least try and see things from the others' perspective. Over the past few years I've been able to say without a shred of doubt in my mind, that woman is my best friend.

See the thing about friends that makes them different from siblings is that you choose them. You forge the bond yourselves, of your own volition, and actively choose to be that friend. Siblings are stuck siblings. They are born that way.

Mandy and I were born siblings. But we chose to be friends. The fact that we were once so distant proves it. We each made an effort, because we share similarities that balance out the differences. We would never have seen those had we not proactively become friends.

Among other things, Mandy is strong-willed, intelligent, insightful, intuitive, and ever-evolving. She's creative and open-minded, at once a Southern girl who likes Country Music and NASCAR, and a party girl who manages to say things on Twitter that make me close my eyes, stick fingers in my ears and shout "lalalalala." (And I am no prude).

Mandy and I have so much to learn from each other, that maybe that's the strongest bond between us - we're evolving, and our shared history - as different as it may have been - does nothing but strengthen that bond.

After all we've both been through over the past 18 months, neither would have made it through it without the other.

Thank you sis. You've made it bearable. We'll always come through it unscathed, because we've always had each others' back. I think we always did.

Tell Me Again Why I Can't Have Kids

2010-03-17T19:45:00.003-04:00

Queer, Part 3

About 80,000 foster children go each year without being adopted. Many of these children float from foster home to foster home, never knowing if they're going to encounter a loving, supportive, (if temporary) home, or if they're going to find themselves a tax shelter and a source of state income for an abusive household.

The red tape one has to cut through to offer a child a loving home is a hurdle that can often prove who is and who is not willing to devote the time and energy necessary to become a parent. If that kind of proof were necessary before having a child naturally, we would be in a far safer - if far more bureaucratic - society. But then we would have the constant moral dilemma of deciding who will ultimately make good parents, and who should remain childless. But then - we're already doing that.

Some states maintain that unmarried people cannot adopt a child, while it is perfectly legal to raise a natural-born child as a single parent. These laws serve as thinly-veiled gay adoption bans. Only Florida has legislation specifically mandating that homosexuals cannot adopt - out homosexuals, that is. It's not a far-fetched idea that many have remained in the closet so that they may legally raise a child. And why wouldn't they? To many, the desire to raise a child is stronger than any other ideology they might possess. I can completely relate to this need, and while I would never base the beginning of my son or daughter's life with me on a lie, I would be lying if I said I didn't understand their actions.

In researching online, (yes, beyond Wiki), I've found four arguments to be the most common against gay and lesbian couples becoming parents.

The first argument states that gay parents may raise gay children. Well, they might, And they might raise straight children. I'm not going to waste my time or yours arguing why this doesn't make sense. Trust me that is doesn't. Blond parents do not adopt red-headed children who become blond by nature of their environment.

The second argument I ran into repeatedly is the religious argument. Assuming there is a religious argument against rearing a young person in a same-sex environment, I'm going to throw it out the window anyway. I'm not going to waste my time or yours on this one - if you would like to discuss this further, I'd be happy to in another post, because this is a posting (or series) in itself. Just ask.

The next argument is that children perform better later in life when growing up with both a male and female role model. Some studies have shown some evidence to back this up, but I would argue that out same-sex parents have not been around long enough to warrant a valid conclusion. Additionally, I find it hard to believe that these children would have no role models of the sex opposite their parents'. No family is completely insular - there will be friends, grandparents, aunts, uncles, brothers and sisters. Unless they live in a completely isolated environment and have no close relationships outside the "nuclear" family, then those children will have exposure to both sexes.

The fourth argument, which is perhaps the most common, and the only of the three to which I would grant some validity, is the argument of social isolation. These children would be picked on at school, looked down upon by the community, and on some level or another shunned. This is at least somewhat true, depending on where you live. But is this not a self-perpetuating cycle? The less exposure children and their families have to same-sex couples raising children, the more likely their suspicions are to take over their logic. No, I don't believe children should be raised as political statements, sacrificial lambs to social change - but I do believe that if we based all our major life decisions on the whims of the average bigot, social change would never happen.

Same sex couples may choose a more accepting community, or they may choose to keep the truth of their household a closely-guarded secret. Or, they may choose to live openly and freely, and in so doing teach their children by that example. And if they do turn out to be gay? They're not nearly as likely to despair over it.

Gay parents have a wonderful opportunity to raise children who are open-minded, accepting of change, embracing of diversity, simply way way of their environment. And if a gay couple is willing to overcome the stigma, red tape, scowls and growls that line the gauntlet they have to traverse? I believe these people have proven their devotion to raising a happy, healthy child.

And to those who would try to make these children and their parents miserable because of their own fears and misplaced anger - I say fuck 'em. Rise above it. So many of us have spent too long in the dark to subject future generations to that same darkness. It's time to learn from our mistakes. It's time to raise a generation prepared for the diverse country into which we're evolving. It's time to look back on the self-imposed dark ages of fear and intolerance, and rise above.

So ends part three. I may approach the subject again, but only when I find it relevant. After all, after everything I've written on the past three entries, that remains the largest goal of all - let's not place gays and lesbians on a pedestal, let's not further the debate. Let's make the debate irrelevant. Let's rise above it.

In Defense of Marriage

2010-03-13T16:34:00.003-05:00

Queer, Part 2

Should members of the same sex be allowed to marry?

Let's examine that question. Exactly who is doing the allowing? Who decides this for all of us? What a weighty decision that's on your shoulders, a lofty post on which you've decided to stand, when you make it your decision to make.

It's amusing to me when I hear questions such as "are we not opening the door for incestuous marriage and beastiality?" Those questions are at once laughable and hateful. This is all I'm going to say on that subject.

Why don't we begin with the word "marriage." What does it mean to you? Who gave you that meaning? Did it come from your church? In many cases it did, since marriage is largely a religious institution, at least in its origins. So shouldn't it be between you and your church whether you are allowed to wed in the eyes of your religion or denomination therein?

Then of course there's the argument that the government should not step in and decide for the church and the individual states - and everyone for that matter, that homosexuals be allowed to marry. I find it ironic that these same people appear to deem it okay for the government to tell us all, to tell every church what they're NOT allowed to do. The latter seems far more intrusive. Are these not the same conservatives who believe government should remain out of our personal lives?

For the sake of argument let's say this is a religious contradiction to you, the allowance of two men or two women to get married. Let's say that for some outlandish and far-flung reason this somehow threatens your marriage, or the institution as a whole. I'll pretend for a moment that this is a remotely logical argument. Okay, so what if we don't call it marriage? I for one, don't care what you call it so long as I may enjoy the same rights, and am not denied thus because of who I am, or because you have decreed who I am to be unacceptable in your world. So let's not use the word marriage. Let's call it a civil union.

And people still protest these unions, they still believe that it is their moral obligation to keep these rights from those who are not like them.

How does it threaten anyone? How has it become such a black or white argument? Do you believe more gay marriages will fail? I would argue that years from now the percentage of gay marriages that have worked where they are legal, will be similar to those of heterosexuals. A marriage is a marriage - the same rules apply. Are you still under the impression that this is some lifestyle choice? See my previous post on that one.

So why? Why is it so important for some to deny others the rights they enjoy? This is a civil rights issue as much as it is a religious one. As far as the law is concerned, religion should not be a factor. That in itself is unconstitutional. The factor that remains, large and looming, is fear.

All I can say to this, is get over it. I realize that social change takes time, that it's a lengthy, sometimes (needlessly) painful process. I'm just having a hard time remaining patient with that process, waiting and watching quietly while the debate goes on as to whether or not my basic human rights are valid. The hurtful undertone to these debates is that until the majority can be convinced that I am not a threat to the institution of marriage by my very existence and desire to marry, my rights will rest in the hands of the vocal minority.

And once I'm "allowed" to marry in my state? I want children. More on this to follow.

Queer

2010-03-09T20:09:00.002-05:00

Part One: My Lifestyle

I've danced around this topic numerous times, and while I don't want this blog go the way of the Ellen sitcom, (as I mentioned in a previous entry), I think it's time I tackle this one head on, and then be done with it. I was inspired by a fellow blogger I follow. You should really pay him a visit, his blog is both interesting and entertaining, as well as insightful and well-written. I intend this to be my part of a conversation I would like to start with him.

To some, and especially to those who don't know me, this might sound like a pity-party, a woe-is-me, my-life-is-harder-than-yours sorrow piece. It's not. I had a hard time growing up, but many children have had far harder. I experienced pain, but I also had a loving family who tried to help. Not everyone has that much. I also know be grateful for running water, heat, air conditioning, and a roof over my head. I didn't want for much, so I'm not looking for anybody to feel sorry for me. I sure has hell don't. So as I write about whatever struggles I may have had, please know that I realize how much better I had it than the majority of the world.

I'm not doing this to prove a point, but rather to disprove a few. I'm probably not going to say anything you haven't heard before, but maybe I will. I hope just to say it from the perspective of someone who grew up gay, and who spent the majority of his adult life convincing himself that it was not an affliction, not a curse, and not a thing over which I should feel guilty.

I'm going to write this in three parts. This first entry is about the notion that homosexuality is a lifestyle - or worse, a lifestyle choice. In my second part I'll discuss my thoughts on gay marriage, and lastly I'll discuss my stance on homosexuals raising children. I feel that each of these topics lends itself to the next. I intend to point out how in the desires to live a productive life, get married, and finally to pass on one's knowledge and experience on to offspring are not desires that exist solely within those who find the opposite sex attractive. To think otherwise is nothing short of dehumanizing.

With that said, let's begin with this lifestyle I've chosen.

Let's begin with the assumption this was my choice, my decision to make. I was a male growing up in the South, who spent two years in a Southern Baptist school, and heard derogatory gay jokes from my closest family and friends on a regular basis. What would my reaction be? Logically, I would chose a gay lifestyle, right? Surely this wouldn't affect (or cause me to fear an effect on) my relationships with everyone I love. No, of course not - I could expect this thing happening to me that doesn't appear to be happening to anyone else around me to be understood and accepted immediately and universally. Why not chose this? It's fun to be different!

Unfortunately, no. I was years and years away from discovering that my being gay was for no one else to accept but me. The desire to fit in to society and be accepted is a basic human need. For some of us, the painful illusion is that acceptance will be denied us by everyone we hold dear. We believe our family may disown us and our friends may disappear. Sadly enough, for many it's not at all an illusion. I've known more than one gay person who has lost nearly everyone he or she has loved because they did not approve of their "lifestyle choice." For them, the unimaginably difficult, noble act of self-acceptance and honesty earned them the pain and isolation of late-onset orphanage.

I've lived with depression my entire life, and have learned to not let it interfere, not let it drag me back into those dark places I knew growing up. I've learned to stay above the water, and I've become an adept swimmer. But I wasn't born with those skills. As a teenager, I had no idea how to cope. I was learning to live with that nagging fear and doubt that seems to infest everything you do or think, that doubt that anyone who has lived with depression truly understands. I also had to struggle with the dread of one day telling my family that I would never get married, I would never have children, that I was a faggot. (While I believe marriage and children are a possibility, I didn't believe so at the time). I wondered for many years if I would simply remain single, let the truth remain unspoken, even though most would suspect. I thought that might just be easier and less painful for all involved.

At the age of 13 I was hospitalized for depression. I knew at this point that I was attracted to members of the same sex. I knew I was queer. And while wrestling with wondering why I was even put on this earth, I had the added weight of knowing that the basic animal function of reproduction was denied me. I can't fully describe here the feeling of believing you are a walking aberration, an accident, a flamboyant lispy "oops" of nature.

I was asked in the hospital if I was gay. Of course I said no. I was trying to learn to be happy, and if that meant putting this struggle on a shelf in the back of a dank closet somewhere, I was more than willing to do so.

Part of my learning to be happy was learning to embrace the inner freak. This was part of what lead me to self-acceptance later in life. I pierced my face, I dyed my hair, I sought out music that was different than everyone else's. Had I known swishing gay man during those formative years, I may have become one of the walking stereotypes I strain not to loathe. (As I know they're people too - and while I take no issue with effeminate men, if that is truly who they are, I do take issue with those who have adopted a persona in order to fit in to something - anything - while alienating others and making life more difficult for the quiet minority). I want to stress that people should be who they are, that gender and sexual preference are often mutually exclusive - but to pretend you're someone you're not helps no one - isn't that the point? I digress.

Embracing other subcultures and casting out anything top-40 or carrying the label as trendy enabled me to feel better about being different. I met other gay friends, I even helped a few come out, though I was not out to my family and lived under the flimsy but common guise of "bisexual." Bisexuality is easier to claim, because those who know you as bisexual believe that one day you may settle into a more mainstream life - marriage, with children. Through their eyes, you find comfort in that idea, you experience vicariously the possibility of normalcy. But it's just another lie.

In my late teens became a far left-wing liberal. (I'm a liberal still, but with a marked conservative streak). I embraced anything that would embrace me, and discarded anything that wouldn't. I avoided the church. I laughed at the notion of 2.3 kids and a lawn. Secretly, it was a thing that I wanted, but didn't think I could ever have, and therefore cast aside.

As I got older I was exposed to the gay clubs, drag shows and pink culture that for a while threatened to send me back into the closet with a baseball bat and an NRA membership. I once again wore the badge of "bi" as a defense mechanism. I didn't know who I was, but I was pretty sure by then I knew what I didn't want to be.

While I was in England I found a people who were far more accepting of gays and lesbians. It was simply a non-issue. It was then that I began to find peace with my - "lifestyle choice." When I came back to the U.S. I was on the road to not only accepting, but embracing who I was. No, I did not choose this. I fought it most of my life. And now I'm paying for it, in years lost and wasted in denying myself the experience of living life openly and freely. No one denied it for me but me. I wish I'd learned that when I was younger, but I was too busy wallowing in self-pity to realize I was wallowing in self-pity.

So this entry was supposed to be about my lifestyle. Why was that not the focus? Because there is no gay lifestyle. It does not exist. Just as there is no lifestyle for blonde people, or a lifestyle for people who like pork shops. There is no more gay lifetsyle than there is a single gay community or some clandestine gay agenda I keep hearing about. If there is one, I've been excluded. Maybe I should check my secret decoder ring.

We have those, you know.

My Black Thumb

2010-02-20T13:31:00.008-05:00

Sometime in the early nineties, my parents left for England for three weeks. My sister was in Atlanta I think, or somewhere, and I was still in high school. I had the house to myself - just me, a big house, cable, and - LOTS of plants.

Mom had left me some instructions, but let's just say I wasn't the poster child for responsible teen. After about a week, all these plants started looking a little wilty and dry, so I decided I should act soon. Rather than reading the instructions, I just watered the hell out of them. My rule of thumb was to hold the hose in the pot until water ran out of the bottom. After half an hour of finding all the plants and watering them, I felt that I had accomplished something and likely returned to reading a book or playing video games.

A week later they were looking wilty again. So I repeated. And repeated just about every day until about five days before my parents returned to England. During that five days, about half the plants died.

After my parents somewhat recovered from the deaths of so many of their green pets, I decided I would learn to take care of a few. I really have no idea why I wanted to, I just did. So Mom got me a cactus and a few jade plants. I killed them. Then I decided I would try to take care of just one, and got a Venus Flytrap - I managed to kill it in less than three weeks. Then I tried spider plants. And I tried more Jade plants. And I got a Money Tree. Dead, dead, and dead. At this point I pretty much resigned to the fact that I am Grim Reaper of all Flora. I tried, really tried to take care of them, but it never ended well. With each one it was either too much water, too little water, not the right light...maybe it was moved too much, or it got some kind of fungus, or maybe it just caught a glimpse of me and lost the will to go on - I don't know. I just know that I kill plants, whether I want to or not.

Fast forward to 2000, and I'm working at Middleton Inn, a small hotel adjacent to Middleton Plantation. Among my other duties as a "concierge" (there is no other word - this was kind of the catch-all guest services position) was the responsibility of the plants in the lodge and lake house, and 55 Philodendrons - one in each guest room.

Fortunately the housekeeper took over plant duties, since she was probably concerned that they were losing their color and slooping in their pots. Apparently I was giving them too much water, though a measurement was given to me. I followed directions to the letter. I'm telling you, I am Death Of Plants.

Fast forward to last weekend. I'm house sitting for my Mom while she's in Australia and I look for a permanent place in Charleston. It had been two days since she left. I had just closed the door to the washer and stepped on something crispy and flaky. It was a leaf. I looked up and saw a dry, decaying greenish-brown thing that used to be a thriving plant hanging from the bay window in the kitchen. Then I noticed another plant on the breakfast table. And a cluster of them by the back door. As I scanned the room around me, I kept finding more plants. And you know, I think they saw me too. I could hear the theme to Psycho and the room seemed to turn red around me.

I was determined not to commit mass murder this time, so I began watering them. A few were already getting wrinkly at the edges of their leaves. The one in the window couldn't be rescued, but I think one of them is now beginning to bloom. Don't ask me what they are, if I learn their names it just hurts worse when they die. They're green. Sometimes they get bigger of you get them wet - that's my horticultural knowledge base in a nutshell.

Anyway, a few days later I was leaving for work. There's some clutter in the garage, and I generally don't pay much attention to what I'm walking around. I also have the habit of "zoning out" when I'm doing mundane things, especially if there are other things weighing on me - so I didn't notice I was walking past two hulky plants in the garage the whole time. These guys are huge. And they were dying. So I ran back into the house and filled up a pitcher of water. I've been watering them and watering them, but the soil feels dry as a bone even now. They're like two "Audrey-2's" (from Little Shop of Horrors) and they're not going to get better until I give them a sacrifice. I can almost hear them growling in the garage now as I type. Is it possible they want one of the other plants? Maybe that's why Mom has so many. Hmmm...

So the other plants are looking a little greener, and as I said, one is blooming. Maybe I've broken the curse of my black thumb. Or maybe it's just Stockholm Syndrome. Either way, wish me (and them) luck.

Sweetgrass Baskets and Ancient Piazzas

2010-02-16T20:13:00.002-05:00

I have a tattoo on my right arm. It's the Chinese character representing "change" placed in the center of a chaos rose. It has always stood for everything I believe, to my core - change for the sake of change, a reminder that nothing grows without changing.

So I moved from place to place, met new people, held new positions, and each time the last place I lived kind of faded into the backdrop. It was like when a baby, who has yet to master object permanence finds something new to distract her, and she forgets about the last object in question. It never occurs to her that the thing still continues somewhere without her attention. I can't tell you how appropriate this is in my situation. Charleston is still here. It moved on while I was moving on, in its own way. It's changed, it's changed dramatically in many ways, but its soul is static.

I've never moved to another city to get there. I've always moved to get away from something else, whatever it may be - more often than not, I realize in retrospect, that thing was usually me. It was always this change I was seeking, real change, always at the tips of my fingers. The pot of gold at the end of the rainbow was a merciless, trickster-shapeshifter. I've never found what I was looking for, because I've never known what it was. So I settled for change, pure and refreshing, and purely escapist, as I spoke of in another entry.

So after coming South from New England, why did I want to stay? Why come back permanently? I didn't grow up in Charleston, I grew up in West Columbia. I only came here after I returned from England, and spent the first six months trying to find a way back to the River Thames and my Brit friends. Fast forward to the past nine months, and I was in Greenville waiting for a means to come back to Charleston. The means materialized, and here I am. I'm in the only place that has ever felt like home, but asking myself why. Why do I love it so much here? Why, of all the places I've seen and in which I've lived, all the places to which I've had the opportunity to move, did I want to come back here, almost desperately?

I'm not sure it's any one thing. It's so many thousands of little things. It's the strobing of the sun through Spanish Moss that hangs from the live oak tunnel as I drive down highway 61 past the plantations. It's the smell of low tide on the wind, and the hazy silhouette of the Cooper River Bridge as seen over the marshes of West Ashley. It's the cheap-production cheese of Lowcountry Live in the morning. It's the black water threatening to retake the roads down dark highways. It's the scars of earthquakes, fires and plagues, the very old fighting the very new with its last breath, and the refusal of a city twice-burned, leveled by hurricanes and twice under siege to simply fade away. It's a solid place, fortified by time and war, a city that refuses to change, but somehow embraces it at the same time.

I love walking along the battery with sweat stinging my eyes, the pavement hot enough to warm my feet through rubber soles threatening to melt. I live the shade of trees used to hang pirates in White Point Gardens. I love the market, that while never a slave market (that was located blocks away), serves as a gentle reminder, dotted by African-American women weaving Sweetgrass baskets, that Charleston is not and never will be Disney perfection. But it is perfection.

I love that the shrink-wrapping of tourism is a barely discernible taint on the character of a city molded by war and Malaria-ridden summers. I love lazy wide ceiling fans that beat blase' against the oppressive humidity on ancient piazzas. Yes, I even love August here.

There is something about this city that grabs you and doesn't let go, an undercurrent of spiritual bliss and harshness of reality, woven together like those Sweetgrass baskets in the market.

So maybe this is why I'm here. It never let me go. And maybe this is what I was looking for all those years of my *Detour. I think it doesn't matter why. What matters is that I'm home, and for the first time in my life I know that.

*Soup Recipe For The Stranded

2010-02-01T20:17:00.000-05:00

Okay, so I was lame this weekend. As compulsory as blogging may be for me some days, there are the occasional days when I'm not able to dedicate time to the blog. I do have a few somewhat legitimate excuses.

On Saturday I was at my sister's house for most of the afternoon celebrating my niece's third birthday. Having gotten into Summerville somewhat late on Friday and not being able to sleep, I was very tired, and had a nap after I left my sister's.

After my nap I went out to meet an old friend for drinks, and of course didn't sleep well, and got up on Sunday to run some errands - which took far longer than expected. Shortly after I was finished with those, it was almost time to go out to play some trivia. Lame or not, those are my excuses.

So, I missed out on Saturday's recipe and Sunday's * - and am going to attempt to combine them today.

I'll begin with the *story of the week.

Passengers were left stranded at a Greyhound bus station this week in Memphis, TN during the Winter storm. While some buses were running on schedule, a few others were delayed for as much as two days. Few to no updates were given to the stranded, and one woman was quoted by WMC-TV Memphis as saying: "They won't even talk to you in here. You ask them something and they're real snappy with you."

The icing on the cake however, was when Greyhound Security forced a woman to sit out in the cold to wait for her bus, as punishment for speaking negatively to reporters about the incident. The guard is quoted as saying that Greyhound "has that right."

So much for workforce Darwinism.

I cannot fathom the idea of requiring someone to wait out in the cold for an issue to be resolved - an issue that is the responsibility of the company's to resolve - for informing media about the situation. This baffles me. It speaks against every ounce of customer service I've ever learned.

While I understand that this individual is going to be disciplined, and that one might think it unfair to judge an entire operation based on the poor judgment of an individual - it was the company who placed the name tag on that individual. In a sluggish economy such as this one, you would think that the drawers of Greyhound's HR offices would be jammed with resumes. There is likely a waiting list full of patient, understanding, competent, customer-driven candidates. (Ironically, many of these candidates are likely taking the Greyhound instead of flying if they're between jobs). In this case, I believe it may not be unfair at all for blaming the operation. If someone is demonstrating this behavior now, as extreme as it is, I doubt it's a fluke, a bad day for the security guard affecting his or her behavior. It may be the homeless individual sleeping in the snow behind the station would have turned the negative situation into an opportunity rather than make it worse. I mean come on - she was speaking to a reporter. Hopefully there's a security position open in Memphis right now. It may be harsh, but I believe it's the security guard in question who should be out in the cold.

So, to the poor woman who had to wait for untold hours for a bus or a ride, out in the Winter storm, I dedicate this week's recipe.

Leek and Potato Soup

You'll need:

2 Paula Deans (one Paula Deen = 1/2 cup butter)
2 leeks, sliced
1 Teaspoon Salt
1/2 Tablespoon Black Pepper
1.2 Teaspoon Paprika
1 quart chicken stock
1 tablespoon cornstarch
1 tablespoon cold water
4 cups russet potatoes, peeled and diced
2 cups whole milk

Melt the butter in a large pot and saute the leeks until they're tender, usually about ten minutes or so. Pour in the stock. While it's coming to a boil, dissolve the corn starch into the water and then stir it into the stock.

Add the potatoes and boil until they're tender. Stir in the milk, salt, pepper and paprika, and let it simmer for about 45 minutes. You want the potatoes to be pretty much falling apart.

Enjoy with Vengeance (aka Vendange) Chardonnay and hot blueberry cobbler for dessert. (Blueberry cobbler recipe coming next week!)

There is little in the world better than a stodgy soup and a hot dessert during an ice storm! You can work it off tomorrow shoveling the driveway.

Or pacing back and forth in a Greyhound station.

Thank You

2010-01-28T20:18:00.006-05:00

To appreciate the good, you have to experience the bad.

The Charleston Marriott will be my fifth Marriott property. Prior to that (where hotels are concerned), I worked for Millennium-Copthorne and an independent. The best job (as far as enjoyment and camaraderie) was on the River Thames in England – it didn’t pay squat, but I had more fun there than anywhere else. I’ll come back to that on another entry.

As far as hotels – I’ve worked at a unionized property, where I was not allowed to cross-train or pick up shifts in other departments (the theory being, I was taking work away from others, even though they didn’t show up for their shifts – which they were allowed to do a few times a year per contract). Had there been a strike, I would not be allowed to return to work, and would likely miss rent. Mandatory deductions were taken from my already-Lilliputian paycheck. Yes, I will spew an entire blog on hospitality unions here very soon, but not today.

I worked at an independent property attached to National Historic Landmark, (the Inn was for-profit, and the Landmark was non-profit). So I could pick up banquet shifts and other sundry duties for 40 hours over at the Landmark, and 40 hours at the Inn, and they were not required to pay overtime. In fact, the operations director admitted this advantage to my boss, who – being my friend, later relayed that information to me. It was a stunning place to work, with a rich history and full of the best scenery one could ask for on the drive in. On the drive in mind you, at 5am (Spanish moss and live are only so nice at 5am). It was even nicer to see when one left, at around midnight some days.

Within my Marriott properties, I’ve had a variety of experiences. My first one was a boutique property than enabled me to cross-train in every department except accounting and engineering. We had a very close-knit group there – I lived with several of them. But then came the next Marriott property. I won’t go into too much detail, but it wasn’t always the most positive experience, though I adored our General Manager. Following that were nearly three years of probably my least favorite job of all time. To say communication was lacking and half the team were living in the mid-eighties would be an understatement. Morale was never more than slightly above that line that causes people to walk out and return later with weapons.

Then came Greenville. I won’t go into detail as to how I got there, (as I have in previous entries), but that’s irrelevant here.

When I first arrived in Greenville I immediately liked most of the people I worked with. However, after a few weeks, one of the team members exhibited signs that – well, that perhaps that they were not quite the right fit for that particular position. However, eventually they were – um – (I have to be careful here – but think doves at a wedding). After that happened, something amazing occurred.

[WARNING – STICKY SWEET SYRUPYNESS LACED WITH PLENTY OF CHEESE AHEAD - BE PREPARED FOR FALLING SAP]

The team had solidified. A new event planner was brought in as I was promoted, and she turned out to be not just a perfect fit for the department, but someone who is quickly becoming a good friend. Another sales manager was brought in as another coworker was promoted to our director, and those changes could not have been better. We gelled as a department better than I have experienced since the time on the boats in England – maybe a little more so. We’re a solid team, and it shows.

Outside of our department, we have a stellar front office, a talented banquet team, and a banquet manager who can run circles around any banquet manager I’ve ever known. This guy is truly gifted. Then there’s the kitchen, who has stepped up their game and their menus with a new Executive Chef (that started the week before me) who is the most even-keeled, mild-mannered, pleasant, (if a little sarcastic) culinary talent I’ve seen. I have never once seen that guy yell or lose his cool in front of others. I’m not saying it doesn’t happen, but I’ve never seen it. And let me tell you, this food is amazing. It will lay to rest any preconceived ideas you may have about hotel food.

The restaurant staff is among the best I’ve worked with. It’s no wonder our scores are through the roof.

In a previous property, I worked under a General Manager who was a walking iron fist. He talked to people as if they were children, He humiliated department heads in front of their subordinates, and talked incessantly about how he studied other leaders, read books on leadership – (who, Machiavelli?) He bordered on completely dehumanizing at times, and voiced his political beliefs whenever he felt like it, in front of whomever he saw fit (Managing People 101 – don’t do that). He would yell at you with veins pumping in his forehead, and praise you in front of others when he found it politically advantageous. It was all very transparent, to pretty much everyone. It wasn’t respect he got from his team, it was fear. I saw two Executive Committee members in tears. I saw the most qualified, creative Event Manager with whom I have ever had the pleasure of working, nearly pull her hair out. It was a bad situation. To top it off, we rarely if ever made profit, and our guest satisfactions scores were consistently abysmal.

Let me compare that to the General Manager in Greenville. His door is literally always open, and when it’s closed, it’s for a meeting – and only for that amount of time. I can literally walk into his office and start talking away (a bad habit of mine) and he stops what he’s doing and listens. He’s respected across the hotel, and when he speaks, people listen. He commands the respect of the team by letting his feelings on a given situation be known without making anyone afraid of him. He gives constant feedback, both negative and positive, and in a way that lets you know that he truly understands the pulse of the hotel and the mood of the team. He is completely in touch, in every way. He’s open to new ideas, and solicits the creativity of the team and utilizes their input whenever possible. And here’s the thing – there’s no iron fist here, no one feels belittled or humiliated, and our satisfaction scores? As I mentioned before, they’re through the roof.

My department head, the Director of Sales, is incredible. She is a bit high-energy, perhaps a tad (see: majorly) ADD. She will text me at bizarre hours of the night – if I don’t respond, she doesn’t get upset, but she does look for a response around the time she thinks I should have woken up. This woman is working 24/7, and never asks anything of anyone that she isn’t prepared to do herself. Best of all, she’s become a friend as well. She is one of the best mentors I’ve had, as she truly understands the various nuances of her department. She has helped me to develop and foreword my career, and has done so as both a teacher and a peer. She is charismatic, has a wonderfully dark sense of humor, and genuinely cares for each member of our team. And if I have feedback on an opinion on which I differ? She listens to it, as she listens to all of us. Although we all understand that ultimately the big decisions are hers, we have never once felt as if we didn’t have a say in a given matter. We can give her our honest and frank opinions, and not feel that she will retaliate, and still have respect for her as our boss. Having managed a team, I can tell you that it is a rare and delicate balance – the difficulty of which those who have never managed people can never truly grasp.

Our controller is another great. This is not your typical bean counter. In fact, I’ve been living with him and his partner pretty much since I got here, and have gained two friends in the process. This is the first controller with whom I’ve worked who actually understands that he works in the hospitality industry. If you need money for something, he will ask the right questions, and then find a way to make it work. This is such a welcome change from the act of congress I used to have to wait for to get, say, pens. To top it off, I’ve never seen his door closed if he’s in the office.

The food and beverage director is as approachable as they come, and very much knows his field. He’s easy to work with (as long as he’s kept in the loop), and clearly has the respect and admiration of his team.

The housekeeping department is the friendliest, most cheerful group of rooms staff I’ve ever worked with. Along with the uniquely talented and colorful personalities of the housekeeping director and chief engineer, the rooms department is not the gloomy and downtrodden place I’ve seen in properties past.

I enjoy driving to work. I enjoy being there. And while I’ll never have a position that I enjoyed quite like the boats, this has been a very close second.

This property bent over backwards to keep me here when I was planning to return to Charleston several months ago. And though 2009 was probably one of the (if not THE) worst years of my life, the people at the Greenville Marriott got me through it, whether they knew that’s what they were doing or not. I lost a parent, I lost a partner. But as I get ready for my last full week before my transfer to Charleston, I realize now more than ever what I’m losing as I leave.

If the Charleston team is half as tightly-knit and talented as those in Greenville, I’ll be a lucky man. Back in the city that I love, but missing the colorful characters at the Greenville Marriott.

Thank you guys. I’ll miss all of you more than you know.

The Seven People You Meet At Work

2010-01-27T21:13:00.003-05:00

I know, I know - if I really wanted to allude to the book, it would be "the five people you meet at work." But having worked in various industries and in various capacities therein, I've narrowed down the list of common archetypes to no fewer than seven.

Now I want to make it clear, I absolutely adore pretty much everybody I work with (a first for me). In fact, my current team may be the most talented group of individuals I've ever had the pleasure to work with. They are so much more than the personality types I'm about to lay out. In fact, another first is that none of the below characteristics fit any of them very well. And to be fair, most of these traits are not even present in my current hotel. But my current property is the exception to the rule.

So to follow are the seven people you have, currently, or one day will work with. They exist in nearly every setting I've ever experienced, and I'm sure you know each and every one of them very well. Sometimes one person may fit more than one archetype, and sometimes two or more will fit the same one. But here they are, in no particular order:

1) The Soap Star

There is always at least one. Perhaps they were late to work because their neighbor was going into labor, about to give birth to their clandestine love child by way of emergency C-section in the back of their car. It may be that they "accidentally" hit reply-all to an email and revealed someone said something negative about someone else. Perhaps they are in tears over the fact that a client called, angry because what was promised was not delivered - through complete fluke, and absolutely no one's fault (unless of course fault lay in another department).

There is never a dull moment with the soap star. Not only do they have an completely fantastic, beyond-belief story for every mundane story you have, but they also know every interesting or curious facet of everyone else's lives. It may be that a story, when first relayed to them was in fact quite boring - but once it gets processed through the spin-cycle of the soap star's brain, every glitch becomes a catastrophe, every insignificant event becomes a juicy milestone.

The soap star can be a good friend to have, and usually means very well. But it's best to give them something to chew on, or they'll seek it out themselves. Give them something about you to harp on, and usually they don't look any further. It's best to stay on their "good side" though - or you will be shot through the spin-cycle yourself, when you least expect it.

2) The Silo

This person knows their job, and knows it well. They've probably been in their position for a long time - long enough to figure out how to avoid relying on others for anything at all, except when absolutely necessary. Although you can rely on them for pretty much anything, they would prefer not to have to trust you enough to actually need you for anything.

They will sit in their office or cubicle, and generally work very hard. They refuse to go on group outings unless they feel it's mandatory, and will participate in as few extra-work activities as possible. Their job is important to them, but so is leaving work on time, and leaving work at work - which is probably very healthy.

The silo will be your friend, but it takes time to cultivate that relationship.

3) The Yoda

The Yoda has done every job in the department, and in some cases nearly every job in the building. They do not take sides, and are proficient at putting out most fires, if they feel so inclined as to get involved in your hurdles that they see as minor speed humps.

The Yoda could in fact run the department, or the entire operation, but I have yet to meet a Yoda who does. They have settled into their role, and when at home, they are at home. If there is a real emergency at work after hours, trust that if they felt the need to come in, would have the entire matter settled in a matter of moments. The Yoda can at any time become the Chuck Norris of any emergency.

You can confide in them with any piece of information, and know that it does not go past their office. You can come to them for help for any problem at all, no matter how tiny or immeasurably complex and if they deem you worthy, will have the answer to you in one sentence or less. It will likely be a pearl of wisdom you will hang onto for years to come. The Yoda knows you will eventually pass that wisdom on. The Yoda probably knows to whom you will pass it.

4) The Dr. Peter

Dr. Laurence J. Peter proposed in is 1969 book "The Peter Principle," that "in a hierarchy, every employee tends to rise to his level of incompetence." There is always one who fits this to a tee. They did so very well at their previous positions, that now they are trusted and required to do something very new, a task in which they are totally unqualified.

Unfortunately, the rest of the department will do it for them, until the Dr. Peter is fired or they leave. I've been fortunate enough never to work with one for very long, but not too long ago, (depending on how you define too long), I was subject to one of these people. They made life miserable for everyone.

They rarely admit that they do not know how to do their job. In fact, if they'd genuinely ask for help, or be honest about being unsure of something and willing to learn, they would slowly gain the respect of their peers. But the Dr. Peter is so interested in appearing authoritative in spite of their obvious shortcomings that the team usually works around them rather than with them.

I've also had the joy of inheriting a Dr. Peter as an employee. This individual had been doing the same job for - a long time (to protect the guilty, I am not saying for how long), but evaded dismissal in very creative ways. They maintained a positive personal friendship with the powers that be, and worked their fear of change and love of nostalgia to their advantage. They also did as little as possible that would involve any sort of risk, stayed below the radar at all possible times, and avoided taking responsibility for pretty much anything, or taking ownership of any situation in which they might fail.

Dr. Peter is probably the most aggravating of all the workforce archetypes.

5) The Cheerleader

You know this one. They break a daily sweat to ensure they embody each personality trait corporate culture teaches. Usually they're internal marketers of some kind, but more often than not, they're transparent to not only their peers, but their bosses in their perpetual attempt to be the teacher's pet.

They're at every fundraiser. In fact, they usually volunteer to make the posters and fliers, and are on (of not the sole member of) the planning committee. They raise their voices in agreement so often during staff meetings, that you half expect an "amen" and "hallelujah" after each Power Point slide has been presented.

They make the t-shirts for the bowling teams. They volunteer to take on special projects, (not that this is bad - but they do it every time) and will work long hours to ensure someone is impressed.

I'm not saying everyone who buys into corporate culture and works extra hours on side projects is a "cheerleader." In fact, being a cheerleader can be a good thing - so long it's done for the right reasons, and they recognize those times when the parameters need to be stretched, and the rule book needs to either be closed or re-written. The workplace archetype of which I'm writing here, does not know this.

Think Rain Man with pom-poms and an employee handbook in their back pocket.

6) The Expert

My sister recently blogged about this person, who was partly the inspiration for this post.

The Expert has done your job. The Expert has done your previous job. The Expert has long since mastered the job into which you're moving. They know your neighbors, and have done their jobs too.

They are champion name-droppers.

The Expert will stop to give you unsolicited advice on the most random of topics, for no particular reason. When they close their door, you just know they are Googling the details to some debate or interesting discussion they overheard in the next office. But they will never tell you that when they later casually bring up the topic over lunch. In fact, they will likely tell you the topic in question was the subject of their third Masters dissertation.

The funny thing about The Expert? Every single one I've ever had the dubious thrill of working with has either been fired or their position has been made redundant.

It's always fun to wait for a topic you're very familiar with to come up and let them dig their own hole before you correct them. But then, you know they'll just Google it later and revisit the argument some other time.

7) The Robot

This is the perfect employee. They contain none of the characteristics listed above. In fact, they instantly recognize each one, but will never tell anyone what they've seen in these people. No - they are above that. But they will never tell you that either, because they are humble.

This person is either a robot or an alien - but they are decidedly not human. They excel at their job, and they would likely excel at yours. But they would never admit that.

They do the best of deeds under the radar, offer quiet help to those around them, and never take undue (if any) credit. They appreciate corporate culture but do not preach it. They listen to gossip, (because they listen to everyone), but do not repeat it.

The Yoda quietly watches them, somewhat enviously. This person will be or already is either in charge of the entire operation, or multiple operations. If you do a good job, they tell you. If you do a bad job, they have a way of telling you that you quite possibly are the most incompetent person on the planet, and you will thank them for the advice. You suspect that they are worshiped in remote jungle societies.

I've worked with one of these in every position, and have always looked up to them, as everyone does. But I've always been a little too impatient to be this perfect member of the workforce. Like I said - I don't think they're really human, having come from the same planet as Martha Stewart, Anderson Cooper, and Meryl Streep.

So concludes my list.

There are many, many more common traits among coworkers, but generally, those traits mesh with one of the above. As I said, usually they're mixed and matched - multiple traits for one person, or more than one person with a single trait.

All except of course the robot.

Writer's Block?

2010-01-26T21:57:00.001-05:00

I wasn't going to post tonight. But it's Tuesday. I post every night except Monday and Friday. Last week when I neglected to do so, I had the same feeling each day that you might get if you don't check your work email, forget to brush your teeth at night, or accidentally put on odd socks and realize it after you get to work. (Okay, maybe the last part is just me). But it feels like you forgot to do the one thing that you really should have done, consequence or not.

This blog has become compulsory. I realize that now. So at around 9:30, when I finally gave up my fight to have a night off, I couldn't settle on what to write about. I was going to rant about Andre Bauer, but I think there's enough of that already. Besides, he's been providing Sandlappers with water cooler jokes and eye-rolling quotes for years now - I don't think he's even begin to build his crescendo of absent-minded, asinine, thoughtless quibbles. I'll wait until he spews a really, REALLY good one - because he will.

So then I was going to lash Scott Brown. But then I kind of played those chips in Facebook earlier, and I'm not in the mood to rehash my rant. Besides, I have no desire to turn my laptop and this blog into a political soapbox - at least not every day.

Of course, eventually I'm going to write about being gay - I mean an entire entry, as I have some things I'd like to get off my chest. But then, I'm not keen on this blog being steered in the direction of the Ellen sitcom. I'll save it for another time.

But I couldn't not blog. I just couldn't. A friend of mind once made an analogy (though not referring to blogging) about biting into a golden apple and having your teeth caught in place. It feels like that. It's a nagging sensation that you can't escape.

Is it writer's block? I couldn't settle on a subject tonight, and every time I did, I shot down the idea before the first sentence was typed. Sure, I have plenty to argue about, plenty to rant about, but I'm not in a ranting mood. Besides, nobody wants to hear me gripe yet again.

My Unborn Child, (hereafter referred to as the D.F. - for Devil's Footprints) on the other hand, has begun to kick. It kicks hard. I'm waiting for several hours of alone time with which I can really start cranking it out, (as I need alone time to really write). But I've been squeezing some things in here and there. By here and there, I mean that at the end of each night, I've been pumping out ten to twenty pages. But I want hours - and hours - to really devote to it. The longer I write continuously, the better I'm able to put ideas into words. It's like when you haven't typed in weeks, but after a few hours, you're up to seventy or eighty words per minute.

So I thought about putting some of it on here. No, and huh uh. I started to, but for some reason I feel far more exposed when someone reads my fiction than I do as I write this blog. Somehow, I can put out in the internets what I was feeling when I lost a parent, or how I struggle with my identity - but when it comes to writing what Jamie Riley, David Easterly, and Nora Ramsey (three main characters in the D.F.) are up to, I clam up.

Maybe the D.F. is still incubating. Maybe I'm afraid that if I expose it to the world before it's ready, it will die, drowned in my self-consciousness. So why do I not mind writing about political situations of which I am only half-aware, about feelings that I wouldn't necessarily openly divulge to my closest friends without the application of much Chardonnay, and yet - I don't want to share a made-up story?

I'm not sure if this is writer's block, or my brain telling me that I need to focus on the D.F. and get it out of my head for good. I'm not sure if I get more out of writing fiction than non-fiction. I have no idea why I feel so much more vulnerable having anyone else read the D.F. than a personal blog I put out there for all to see.

I don't imagine I'll answer any of these questions soon, but one thing is certain: For all the catharsis and emotional release I get from writing five blog entries, I get twice as much from writing a single page of fiction. After a few hours of writing I feel immensely better, as if I've just had a marathon workout.

But I'll continue this blog. I'll write it five times per week as often as I can, and hope that eventually, maybe as I get better at it - I'll start to get the same release here.

Thanks for listening. I'm hoping my "block" is cured by tomorrow.

*Broward County, Florida Bail Bondsmen Thrive on Taxpayer Sacrifice

2010-01-24T11:50:00.004-05:00

With less than 5 percent of the world’s population, the United States has nearly a quarter of the world’s prisoners. We jail people for writing bad checks, driving with a suspended license and smoking marijuana. In most countries, offenses such as these would garner slap on the wrist, at most. When did we become so jail-happy? At four times our population, China - coming in second to the US in prison population, still only reaches 18% of American's prison rate.

And how much do we spend locking up everyone who steps just a little out of line? According to the United States Bureau of Justice Statistics (BJS) $68,747,203,000 was spent on corrections in 2006. That is twice the Gross Domestic Product of Kenya. The BJS reports: "The average annual operating cost per state inmate in 2001 was $22,650, or $62.05 per day; among facilities operated by the Federal Bureau of Prisons, it was $22,632 per inmate, or $62.01 per day."

Just a few years ago, Broward Country, Florida jails were so overpopulated, a judge referred to them as unconstitutional. The county was about to spend $70 million on a new jail, but instead decided to expand its pretrial release program. Broward County consequently saved $20 million a year, and an entire wing of their jail was closed.

Under the system, non-violent offenders would be released after arrest and monitored via call-ins or GPS monitoring device. It costs Broward County taxpayers $115 per day, per inmate, non-violent or not. Conversely, the pretrial release program costs the taxpayers about $6 per day per person. According to records, defendants still showed up for court, and they were able to see their families, maintain their lives and keep their jobs. It was a win-win for everyone - except the bail bondsmen.

So what did the bondsmen do? They lobbied. For a year, the bondsmen of Broward spent about $23,000 on the Broward County Council. $5000 alone was given to then-commissioner (and now Mayor) Ken Keechl, just five days before a vote that cut the program dramatically. Taxpayers in Broward are once again spending millions on incarceration. Non-violent offenders are losing their jobs, watching their lives fall apart over petty offenses. But for the bail bondsmen, I'm sure business is picking up again.

The bail bondsmen lobby is now working in states across the country to squash similar pretrial release programs, and they are having successes. I'm left to wonder if they even pretend to be doing this for anyone's well-being. Here is a business that preys on the downtrodden. A Florida county stepped in and did some good for a time, but that time is ending. The bondsmen are willing to sacrifice the good of the community at large so the desperate will open their wallets. To say this is outrageous is an understatement. But it was all done legally, if barely.

An industry is saving itself, but at what cost?

More Revengist Politics, and the Case Against Pelosi

2010-01-23T17:20:00.005-05:00

In response to a lost-cum-aborted argument over a few drinks when I was cornered about why it was I did not like Nancy Pelosi, I've done some research. I still don't like her. I like her even less now. I was aware of a few less flattering facts, and discovered a few more.

When I started my research, all I found at first were lists of reasons people hated Pelosi that included "she has lying eyes" and "she's a snake." These were not facts. And yet, even when I Googled "Nancy Pelosi Facts" these "facts" were little to no more factual. And then of course I stumbled upon op-eds and articles from both the extreme left and extreme right, neither of which are prone to fact, at least not in its pure form.

So I had to keep digging. I checked her voting records, and I have to say that I am in agreement with many of her stances - if I could believe for a minute that they really were her stances. Unfortunately, her vote is purely - and I mean PURELY Democratic. Not even necessarily liberal because she's liberal, but because clearly she fits the description of "rank-and-file."

Since January of 1989, she has sponsored 75 bills. 61 of these haven't made it out of committee. Now I really need to do some further research to make some comparisons, but is this average? I'll have to find out.

My initial reasons for disliking and distrusting her came shortly after she assumed her role. Mind you I really did like her at first. I was excited that a woman had been appointed Speaker of the House, and was happy to see a Democrat in a prominent position. At the time, I was even willing to ignore the fact that she voted for herself - the first Speaker to do so, when typically they either do not vote or simply mark "present."

I was no fan of Dubyah. I even thought he should have been arrested at one point. But when you have a lame duck president, coupled with a Republican minority, why, oh why, must we waste time bickering. There was work to be done. Much mess-cleaning to be attended to. And yet - it wasn't cleaned up.
Early in her new role, Pelosi pledged a "new spirit of cooperation in Congress." This quote appears within a year of stating about Dubyah - "he must be stopped." Sound familiar?

Not too long ago, I blogged about my dislike of revengist politics. So many bills have been blocked by the Republicans out of spite and bitter wound-licking. And yet looking back, it appears Pelosi did the very same thing. This is one of so many reasons why I can no longer associate myself with either major party.

Of course there was also the recent CIA debacle, in which Madame Speaker was cornered (after attacking the previous administration for torturing Gitmo and other detainees) when it was revealed that she was given a briefing in September of 2002 explaining the coercive measures used. She explained that she was told that the CIA and the Department of Justice reviewed the techniques and determined them legal. Okay, I have to point out that at least one of these agencies is not known for its forthright nature, though she claims to have been deceived by the briefing. Okay, let's give her that one - the facts were not all present in the briefing. It turns out that in 2003 she was implicitly informed of a detainee's waterboarding. No evidence exists for her objection.

In 2002, Pelosi attempted to block Dubyah from entering Iraq - most of her reasons were in fact valid. However, one such reason given was that Iraq assuredly had weapons of mass destruction, and that our troops would be put into danger. Why then, state later that "they had to make up that story about weapons of mass destruction because that was the only thing that would sell the American people." That statement may be true, who's to know? But you can't argue opposing facts to support your aim du jour and expect people to buy it.

We are in a mess, as a country. We have a broken two-party system and a stalled government that is more interested in revengist character assassinations than in actually getting anything done. The right has moved too far right and the left has moved too far left.

I am neither right nor left - [pointing my finger diagonally upward toward the southeast] - I'm over there.

Sometimes I Think I Can Cook - Holy Mole! Turkey Chili

2010-01-23T16:10:00.001-05:00

The first time I saw Giada use dark chocolate in a savory recipe, I was confounded. But as soon as I started researching and discovered Mole sauce, I was itching to try it out. The first time I tried it, I made a variation of spaghetti marinara, and it was - okay. So then I decided to go back to the basics, and try the Mole in its traditional form. I served it over baked chicken on farfalle- yummy. I realized I should have tried it in its pure form before mixing it into a recipe, and immediately knew when I tasted it that it was perfect to blend into my turkey chili recipe.

I also thought that since it's cold and/or rainy and/or snowy over much of the country, this was a perfect time to put in a warm, hearty recipe.

You'll need:

2 tbl Olive Oil (Don't use Extra Virgin if you use organic, as the olive bits will burn and you'll get bitter black bits)
1 lb. ground turkey
1 chopped red oinion
1 cup chicken stock
1 28 oz. can crushed tomatoes
1 14.5 oz. can diced tomatoes
1 16 oz. can kidney beans, drained
5 cloves minced garlic
2 tbl chili powder
1 tbl paprika
t tbl dark chocolate shavings, packed (90% cocoa or above)
1 tsp dried oregano
1 tsp cumin
t tsp black pepper
salt to taste

Sautee the garlic and onion in olive oil in a pot - as soon as the garlic turns just slightly golden, add the turkey and cook through, breaking up the turkey as you go along.

Pour in the stock, tomatoes, and stir until heated through. Let it come to a boil, then reduce to simmer. Add the chili powder, paprika, cumin and chocolate - stir through, then let simmer another five minutes.

Stir in the salt, pepper, and kidney beans, and let it simmer for ten minutes. Add the oregano, and let it simmer another five minutes. You're good to go!

(Hint - the later you add the oregano the better - as it cooks, it can take on a bitter taste - especially if you opt for fresh rather than dried, in which case add at the very end).

Serve with polenta or cornbread, and a Malbec.

Apologies

2010-01-21T10:43:00.000-05:00

Good Morning!

Last night I met some friends in Columbia for dinner and drinks, and then drove back up to Greenville. Tonight is our hotel's end-of-year party, and tomorrow I'll be driving to Summerville after work.

So, this week I'm kind of taking off of blogging until Saturday's recipe.

That being said, I was called out last night on why I can't stand Nancy Pelosi. Back when I called myself a Democrat, (no worries, I am most assuredly NOT Republican either) I was regularly embarrassed by Pelosi. But I haven't thought about her for so long that when asked for specifics, I completely blanked - remembering only her intent to ignore all the repairing of Bush's catastrophic presidency and instead pursue him legally. When cornered, I completely failed to support my own argument.

So, over the next few days, I'm going to be doing my research. Normally I'm able to back up my statements - but in this case I wasn't. This is not sitting well with me.

Therefore, my Sunday * this week is going to be replaced with what I find out, rediscover and ponder when it comes to Nancy Pelosi. I'm looking forward to this.

Shhh...

2010-01-19T20:04:00.001-05:00

I like Green Day.

I really liked Crystal Pepsi. And Velveeta. I claim to be a foodie, but I love a slice of cold Velveeta.

I like video games, I love going to the movies by myself, and I sing along to my iPod on road trips. Sometimes I turn the volume down a little to see how I sound. I don't care if the car beside me can see it - if they laugh, then I've made somebody smile. Go me.

I love little more than sitting on the sofa with a Jack and Coke in hand, a bowl of chips with some salsa in front of me and a set of Battlestae Galactica DVD's.
Sometimes I rock out to the Statler Brothers. I haven't quit smoking yet because I still enjoy smoking. I used to groan when Eric wanted to watch his soaps, but I got into a few of them. Actually, I started looking forward to a few of them. Even now I'll check the covers of the soap magazines while I'm in line at the supermarket just to see what's going on.

Yes, I have secrets, and the above are a few I don't mind sharing. Everybody has secrets. It's a part of life, a fact of the human condition. But when recently I discovered a blog entitled "Everyone Blogs," I had decidedly mixed feelings. This is a blog where, essentially, anonymous contributors publish secrets. Sometimes they're confessions, sometimes they're venting, sometimes they're lashing out. But nearly all of them have one thing in common - they're depressing as hell.

I read one or two entries, deciding that I would rather file this one away as a sad place to discuss sad situations. But I found it addictive, in that guilty way that one watches an automobile accident from the side of the road (and later lambastes the "rubberneckers). I found I could relate all too well to a few of these anonymous bloggers, and they reminded me of things I'd rather not think about, situations not entirely alien to me. I actually almost cried once, one post seemed so familiar. That was when I stopped reading and went on to view something else.

But later on I realized something - this is what writing is supposed to do. It's supposed to speak to us, not just on the surface but to those aspects of ourselves we'd rather not think about. It's supposed to lay all these troubles out, on the table for us to relish, to ponder. Good writing does this in the guise of characters, takes unsightly character flaws and paints them eloquently onto a canvass for you to look at long enough to not turn away when you realize you're staring into a mirror.

The writers on this blog were blogging anonymously, but they were still brave - brave enough to bring these secrets to the surface for others to see. They know that once something has been said it can't be unsaid, that once something has been seen, it can't be unseen. I suppose this is healthy - it's a way of dealing with these issues, a way of acknowledging the stigma of their mistakes without attaching the stigma to their person.

Partly I want to see a positive entry - and there are a few, though they usually involve sex. I suppose that is just another facet of the human condition, and an area of peoples' lives they don't feel comfortable sharing with everyone in an open fashion.

In this, maybe this blog is a healthy outlet for some. But there's another side to it. I like my secrets. I like having parts of myself that are mine, and mine alone. They're secrets because I keep them that way. Once I tell someone a secret, it's no longer a secret. Yes, there are some people I share some secrets with, and other people I share other secrets with. But, I know of no one in my life, past or present, that has been privy to absolutely everything. And I'm very comfortable with that. In fact, it makes me feel safe, guarded. Maybe one day I'll let the entire guard down for one person, but then - I think having these things inside of me makes me in part who I am.

So what are the reasons people keep secrets? They may be afraid of changing others' perceptions of them, but this is innately odd, since no one really knows what others' perceptions of them are. There's the protection of those around them from experiencing some negative emotions they'd rather no one else face, but that just assumes the other party is empathetic. Some people are far more empathetic than they're given credit for, and others far, far less. There's really no way to know, not really. Some people keep secrets for selfish reasons, the need to have that last bargaining chip in their back pocket. Some secrets are kept because of a promise made, to a brave soul who let one out in an act of honesty and trust.

Why do I keep mine? Again, quite simply - I like them. I like having them. I keep others' secrets as closely as I keep my own. Maybe this is selfish - in some respects it is. Are any of my secrets kept due to the reasons in the above paragraph? Maybe one or two. But if I told you that, then I might as well tell you everything, right?

But I'm not. My friends, my family, trust that I am who I say I am - and they're right to do so. One does not need to examine every piece of a puzzle to determine the picture. And as long as there isn't a completely different picture beneath the puzzle, one in which people can see through the missing pieces, then you are doing nothing wrong.

Here are a few more secrets. I'm putting them here because if I'm going to tell any secrets, it's these - and I'm going to do it with my face plastered on my profile picture.

Sometimes baking and cooking is pure therapy for me. Sometimes I do it to please people. I love pleasing people for several reasons - one is that I was picked on mercilessly as a small child, and crave the acceptance. Don't feel sorry for me - I don't. Just enjoy that cake, or be glad I've helped you out in some task or another. I spent much of my life turning myself into a freak - in this I gave people something to pick on, I claimed the freak for myself. I knew I was gay by the time my hair turned purple, and it was easier for me to be picked on for that reason - because I did it on purpose. I relished being different, or being different would have made me a hermit. I'm attracted to men, and pretty much only men, but I was in love with a woman once. Sometimes I'm afraid to tell my family that, or they might have false hope that I'll end up with a woman. Sometimes it hurts to know that is how some people in my family would rather see me - with a woman, or with no one at all - though they'd never tell me that, and I know ultimately they want me to be happy. Most of them don't care how I go about doing that. Sometimes I still hate myself a little for being gay, but I'm getting over it.

Okay, enough of that. And let me tell you that none of those things are complaints. They're not pleas for help. They are what they are. I am who I am. And secrets are a part of that. If you want to hear somebody whine, check out the above blog. Me, I'm done with whining, I have been for some time. But those are the secrets I want to share, and have no problem sharing. Maybe I'll vent a few more here and there, from time to time, but not all at once.

As my coworker and friend said to me in her first week, "I'm just acting normal so you won't think I'm completely out there. I like to dole out the crazy over time."

This was when I knew we'd be friends.

*Religion and Spirituality In The DotCom Age

2010-01-17T14:41:00.001-05:00

I realize there are live feeds of sermons going on, it's the natural progression from televangelism. I also realize there are numerous blogs, websites and myriad interactive online religious communities. For those who wish to practice their faith from home, or are otherwise required to do so for whatever reason, it's a wonderful thing. (You may not believe it based on previous posts, but I'm a proponent of people openly practicing their faith so long as their beliefs do not include infringing on others' rights, violently or otherwise).

But this is new. This is a story that at first made me laugh, and then made me scratch my head in disbelief. Apparently an Orthodox Jew in Brazil believed (or claimed to believe) that a Dybbuk had entered his body. His family contacted Rav Chaim Kanievsky, a well-known Kabbalist, in hopes of having an exorcism performed. The only problem was, Kanievsky was in Israel. So what was the solution? Attempt to perform the exorcism via Skype.

Kanievsky himself was skeptical, believing there was a critical need to actually be physically present. but he attempted the digital rite anyway. Check out the story and video here.

It seems the Brazilian man will now be traveling to Israel to have this done in person. I wonder if the airline will charge him for an additional passenger.

Oh yeah (almost forgot) - there were no reported sightings (that I could find) of Bubba the Brown Bear this week. Maybe he's moved on - somehow I'm sure he'll be returning.

Sometimes I Think I Can Cook - Tiramisu Cake

2010-01-16T16:06:00.002-05:00

I stumbled on this recipe a while back, and added my own twists to give it a little more "kick." I love mascarpone and have found it to be so versatile - you can blend it with Bailey's and sugar and pipe it into profiteroles, you can (obviously) make tiramisu, or you can use it as an ingredient for a savory spread. Make sure you get it without the Kahlua added, or you might have to adjust this recipe. I made this once with the "Tiramisu" mascarpone, and it's just not the same.

You might roll your eyes when you spot the first ingredient, but I'm all about not having to measure dry ingredients, sift, wipe paste off the counters, etc...

You'll need:

1 box Duncan Hines Classic White cake mix
1 16 oz. can cream cheese frosting
8 oz. package mascarpone cheese
3 squares baker's white chocolate
3 squares semi-sweet baker's chocolate
appx. 1 cup confectioner's sugar
3 egg whites
2 tbl vegetable oil
2/3 cup freshly-brewed coffee
2/3 cup water
20 oz. bottle of Kahlua
cocoa powder

Preheat the oven to 350F.

Flour two 8-inch pans. Blend water, coffee, and egg whites for about 20 seconds, then at low speed for about 2 minutes. Pour immediately into pans, and lightly "drop" onto the counter five or six times to release some of the trapped air. it will make for a more compact sponge. This will hold the Kahlua better, as you'll be drizzling it over the sponge later. The mascarpone mix is also very dense, and a heavier sponge will be far easier to ice.

Bake for about 25 minutes. While it's baking, mix about 1/4 to 1/3 cup Kahlua into the mascarpone. Beat on low with an electric mixer, slowly adding the confectioner's sugar until you get a slightly thicker-than-frosting consistency.

In another bowl, mix the frosting and another 1/4 cup Kahlua - add a little confectioner's sugar to that, and mix until it's smooth. Place both mixtures in the fridge.

When the cake is done, (the toothpick trick works, but I usually pat the top with my hand - it's obvious when it's done) turn them over onto cooling racks. While they're cooling, use a double-boiler or the microwave to melt the white chocolate. I would describe the process here, but just read the box. It won't mislead you. Once the cakes have had a chance to cool, (usually about fifteen minutes), flip them over and shave off the top with a long serrated knife, giving you a flat surface.

Place the first layer on a cake plate, and drizzle with Kahlua. Don't go crazy, just place your thumb over the top and give it a light sprinkle. The sponge will distribute it over time.

Take the mascarpone mix out the fridge and spread half the mix over the first layer, leaving about a half-inch from the edge clean. Drizzle the white chocolate over the mascarpone - don't cover all of it, just give it some lines - once it cools, this will give it a nice light crunch later.

After about five to ten minutes, place the second layer over the mascarpone and white chocolate. Drizzle with Kahlua again, and spread the other half of the mascarpone over it. Drizzle the remaining white chocolate over then, and place it in the freezer for about ten minutes. While it's cooling, melt the semi sweet baker's chocolate.

Take it out, then ice with the cream cheese mix. Drizzle with the semi-sweet chocolate, then dust with cocoa powder. Drizzle whatever remains of the white chocolate, and chill for at least four or five hours (overnight is best).

Serve with port or Banfi Rosa Regale. It might be tempting to serve with coffee, but if you do that, the coffee may just be a bit overwhelming.

Enjoy!

By the way - some die hard may notice that I didn't shave the edges - I don't tend to. Unless you're making petit fours, I don't see the point, and the edges are far easier to ice - plus, I for one like the texture.

This can be converted to cupcakes as well - just drizzle the Kahlua over each one, spread the mascarpone over the top, then drizzle with white or semi-sweet chocolate (or both) and ice once the chocolate has hardened.

Night Thought of a Tortoise

2010-01-14T19:07:00.004-05:00

NIGHT THOUGHT OF A TORTOISE SUFFERING FROM INSOMNIA ON A LAWN
The world is very flat--
There is no doubt of that!
-E.V. Rieu

The above is one of my favorite poems. (That's it in its entirety - concise, isn't it?) What it highlights is how everything in your reality is determined by your perspective. Two people who look at the same point in space at the same time must - as determined by the laws of physics - be looking at that point from two different angles. They will not see the same thing. That does not change the thing at which they're looking, nor does it make it more than one point - but each viewer has a different experience. Your perspective is your reality.

Yesterday morning I woke up dreading the looming weekly three-hour commute. Not the commute to Summerville mind you, but the commute back to Greenville. (Those who may just be tuning in, I split my time between Greenville and Summerville, South Carolina - about three hours away from each other). I dread it because for the past nine and a half years I've been living in permanent shift. Everything I've done has been temporary. In the past year alone I've called three cities in two states my home, (you could almost add a city and state to that, but it only lasted three weeks) and each with the mindset that it was temporary. While in Rhode Island I thought we were eventually moving to Charleston. While in Summerville caring for my Dad I thought perhaps we would move to Savannah - and later Charleston - then later Greenville. And then I became single, and everything changed - again.

Prior to that I was in DC, thinking I would soon be back to Charleston (prior to moving to Rhode Island of course) and in Charleston I wanted to go to Atlanta or DC. In Summerville (for a brief while anyway) I wanted, and was even making plans, to move to St Thomas. And before that, I had hopes of returning to England for a while, and while in England I thought constantly of going home (until the end, when I wanted to stay).

It would suffice to say that I'm ready to settle. I'm ready to build my life in one place, and travel whenever possible. The travel would be temporary part, not my home. And I'm ready for that place to either be Summerville or Charleston, or somewhere in the half-hour drive in between. So I dread the early-morning back to my temporary Greenville home, and look forward to the return to my Summerville home, even though the home itself is temporary - at least it's closer to where I want to be.

So I woke up yesterday already thinking of the return commute, days ahead, to where I already was. I was even thinking about how innately silly that was, when I opened my laptop and saw the devastation of Port au Prince unfold before my eyes. Suddenly all thoughts of what I was missing had vanished. My stomach turned as I saw ruined square miles and people reporting bodies lining the streets.

Flashing back to 2005, I was annoyed with being in a basement room outside DC, in a job I hated, with a psychotic room mate, when I woke up to see New Orleans under water. Once again, my life seemed very much okay.

Back on September 11th 2001, I woke up aggravated that the dishes were piled in the sink, that my room mate had been getting on my last nerve for weeks, that I lived in a dodgy (at best) neighborhood, and I was managing a steakhouse and bar for restaurateurs who had only ever owned and operated a butcher shop (another blog some day maybe). That day I drove over to my restaurant to get my paycheck. I had no idea what was happening, and once I got to the restaurant, I even thought the kitchen staff was having a laugh at my expense. Once again, my worries were nullified by the realization of so much pain and suffering going on elsewhere. That afternoon and into the night I sat at a bar in downtown Charleston with my room mate (not the one who annoyed me) drinking beer and watching CNN.

I do not have it bad. In fact, I'm pretty damn lucky. My gratitude for what I do have is only fortified by the knowledge that disaster could strike at any time - right where I'm sitting, typing this blog. Charleston could be hit by another devastating earthquake while I'm down there. A landslide could happen in the mountains on one my drives while I'm in Greenville. A plane could crash into this neighborhood right now. Someone could bomb my hotel. My nieces, nephew, sister, Mom, Bio-Dad, friends, could all be stricken with severe illness. Those are my worst fears - and yet, right now, none of that is happening.

So here I am, in my room, typing on my laptop, on my bed, with warm air flowing through the vents. I cannot complain.

So this, the first of my Almost-Friday gratitude posts, is about the big things for which I'm grateful. It's about not being the tortoise on the lawn. It's about not waiting for the next calamity to remind me that I have so much.

Synchronicity And The Devil's Footprints

2010-01-13T20:18:00.002-05:00

Sometime in the wee hours of the morning of February 9th 1855, in Devonshire, England, a set of hoof prints appeared in the snow. The prints extended from Exmouth, up to Topsham, and across the River Exe to Dawlish and Teignmouth. This was a track of over 100 miles. But that wasn't the unusual part. The trail of prints was reportedly unbroken. It went through gardens, up the walls of houses, over their rooftops, and back down again and on to the next property. The prints went to the banks of rivers, appearing on the other side. They literally went up the sides of fences and back down the other side. Apparently no other prints appeared near them. The phenomenon has become known as the Devil's Footprints, and was the inspiration for the title (and much of the plot) of my recently referred-to "Unborn Child," the story over which I've obsessed for over a decade. But that story was just the beginning. In fact, it wasn't the first story that got this ball rolling.

In 1930's Detroit, a man by the name of Joseph Figlock was walking by an apartment building when a baby fell out the window from above. Figlock caught the child, and both were unharmed. A year later, the same baby fell out the same window, and Figlock was again there to catch the child - and both were unharmed.

Nebraska, March 1st, 1950. Every member of a church choir was late to practice, all for different reasons. A gas explosion destroyed the church shortly before they arrived.

Jim Lewis and Jim Springer were twins, separated at birth, named by their adopted families independently. Both were trained in law enforcement. They each married a woman named Linda, and had a son each - James Alan and James Allen. They both had dogs named Toy, and before they were reunited, had divorced and remarried women named Betty.

London, November of 1971. A gifted architect, still recovering from a nervous breakdown, threw himself onto the tracks of an oncoming train. The train stopped before it could kill the man. This was not due to the conductor's quick timing - in fact, the conductor would not have had time to react in such a way. It turns out a passenger - on a complete whim and unsure why he did so - pulled the emergency cord, seconds before the architect took his leap.

Carl Jung wrote in The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche: “A young woman I was treating had, at a critical moment, a dream in which she was given a golden scarab. While she was telling me this dream I sat with my back to the closed window. Suddenly I heard a noise behind me, like a gentle tapping. I turned round and saw a flying insect knocking against the window-pane from outside. I opened the window and caught the creature in the air as it flew in. It was the nearest analogy to the golden scarab that one finds in our latitudes, a scarabaeid beetle, the common rose-chafer (Cetonia aurata) which contrary to its usual habits had evidently felt an urge to get into a dark room at this particular moment. I must admit that nothing like it ever happened to me before or since, and that the dream of the patient has remained unique in my experience.”

Google "synchronicity" and it's amazing what you can find. Of course, back in the late 90's, there was no Google (in today's form anyway) and I didn't have a computer - so I just kind of collected these stories. I found more and more of them, and was fascinated by each one. I understand that there are billions of people in this world, and the hundred monkeys will write a sonnet. But I was also looking into the theory of the cosmic trickster at this point.

Most major religions feature the trickster. Greek mythology's Prometheus always held fascination with me, stealing fire from the gods and giving it to humans. He, more than any other of the world's tricksters provided the most inspiration.

But what do the cosmic trickster, synchronicity and the Devil's Footprints all have in common? I happened on this one after the story had already taken shape and I was in England. I stumbled on the story of the Devil's Footprints while I was researching the Trickster in various religions. It was, one could say, a coincidence that I hit the wrong link on the search engine page. Before I could hit the back button I began reading on the incident in Devonshire, and a new cord was struck.

I immediately wondered what the consequences of such an event on these communities would have been at that time. Did a man, frightened back into religion suddenly start going to church and meet his future bride? If so, what became of his children and their children? Did an unknown journalist get a name for himself in writing about the hoof prints? Was a child forbidden to go outside and play the day after the events - thus keeping her from falling through thin ice on a nearby pond? What were all the effects of this one peculiar incident? There had to be many - every cause has an effect.

So I then began thinking about it in reverse. What are the causes of each event happening around us all the time? Think about where you work. Why do you work there? What prompted you to apply? Why did you go to school to work in this vocation? What was your inspiration? You can trace it all back to your birth, and your parents' conceiving of you - why did they do so on that night? How did they meet? Why did they live where they did?

Every event has a birth in a previous event. Such a massive network of events would eventually, following their leads, form larger and fewer branches. The branches converge at the base - the trunk - that itself can be traced to a seed, the birth of the universe itself.

And starting from the moment of the universe's creation - the instant the big bang began - each particle had a path written for it, based on its trajectory, itself written by the ambient temperature and the particles around it - themselves following the same rules. Each particle's path became the stuff that formed stars, and eventually - us. We are all made of the same thing, born of the same instant.

Is this an argument for preordained existence? I'm not really sure, as I go back and forth on that one. But it is an argument for the existence of a pattern in nature, and synchronicity as being part of a very real, unimaginably large-scale structure.

Everything you do - every action you take - affects the world. Every automobile accident that slows the travel of hundreds or thousands of individuals has somehow changed their lives. They were late for appointments, had time to ponder decisions. In fact, every time you take a step, the Earth itself moves - however immeasurably - in the opposite direction. It's the ripple of a small pebble in a lake that changes the shape of the entire surface.

A few people asked what this story I've obsessed over is about. Well, this is why it's so hard to explain. I'm trying to take the big picture and repaint a microcosmic version of it onto the canvass of a few lives.

The rotting wood in a forest, giving a home to millions of bacteria and hundreds of insects, was once a seed - itself possibly carried in the belly of the bird whose descendants will dine on those very insects and bacteria. I have no idea how to paint such an immeasurably large picture onto such a tiny canvass. There's no doubt that I cannot begin to capture its complexity and beauty. But I'm working on it anyway.

I'm Not Qualified To Review - Pretty Much Anything, On Second Thought

2010-01-12T19:24:00.000-05:00

The idea for Tuesdays (see Saturday's post) was to write a review - of anything, be it a restaurant, novel, film, anything at all.
Well, as much as I'd like to, I can't think of anything I'd like to review. The things I would like to review are books, movies, other creative work that I admire and respect. Well, that's such a subjective thing, and I don't imagine many (if any) people care to read once a week why Will Shealy likes something. (This is assuming of course this blog holds more than three peoples' interest - and that may be an overestimation). As far as what I don't like is concerned, I don't believe I'm nearly as skilled in the creative process of any medium to critique.
I like what I like, I don't like what I don't like. I'm happy to discuss these reasons among friends, but I don't feel qualified to write essays on them, at least not now.
So, I will spend the next week trying to think of something else with which to fill Tuesday's slot. Any ideas?

*Tahoe Area Bruin's Answer to Suburban Encroachment

2010-01-10T13:58:00.001-05:00

It's common knowledge that as sprawling McMansion complexes and strip malls move further and further into what's left of "undeveloped" land, the locals can get a little restless.

Last Summer I was walking down a trail (later I discovered it was a private trail, but that wasn't the only reason I never came back) and happened upon a gazebo overlooking a lake. It perched just above the water, and I could see fish, minnows, turtles, quite clearly beneath the surface.

I was minding my business, enjoying the rare quiet, when a moccasin side-wound its way just beneath the surface of the water, a couple of feet from where I was standing. It slowed down as I backed away, and as I snapped a few shots with my phone, it coiled back - even as it swam. (I previously didn't know snakes were capable of this kind of multi-tasking). I backed away onto the gazebo deck, and it continued to stare at me from under the water. Had it struck,it would have had to aim at me from between two foot-thick pieces of wood that made up the rail - however, anything with no arms or legs that can simultaneously tread water and coil to strike should not be underestimated. Just as I was working out my next move, (as if I'd gotten that far), it swam toward the bank.

I have no idea if it made its way onto land or swam off. It would suffice to say I went to some effort to avoid that area as I left.

Walking back to Mom's that day I encountered a deer, and later saw an alligator meander by me in the river alongside the trail. It was only a ten-minute walk. I felt like Rudy Mancke. Only I wasn't about to approach any of these creatures, who were living right next to a budding new housing development.

I was left to wonder where these animals would go when the houses came. After all, they were there first, though that's hardly a reason in the corporate world to give wildlife their space.

In fact, I would imagine that the new property owners and the local species may happen upon more than a few chance meetings. There may even be a subtle territorial dispute. The animals will not win. They'll be trapped and relocated at best, and at worst killed unceremoniously so the manicured grass will be safe and nature-free.
Surely there is bound to be wildlife out there that doesn't go quite so quietly. (Ever seen "Over The Hedge?" If not, see it soon).

That evening I relayed the story to my Mom's neighbors. It was then they informed me this was private land, and to be careful - as I could be arrested for trespassing. The irony was not lost on me.

Sure you hear stories of animals learning to "coexist" with humans (with or without human cooperation) in large cities perched near the wilderness. But what about here in the US, where urban sprawl is spilling uncontrollably into the landscape that drew people there to begin with?

Such a story surfaced this week, and I am very much pulling for the wildlife in this case.

The San Francisco Chronicle has reported that a brown bear, estimated at 700 lbs, has figured out how to break into homes and raid the fridge.
While no one has reportedly been killed by a brown bear in the past 100 years, the locals are terrified. When animal control is called and actually manages to approach the beast, it casually walks off.

Some have reported shooting the bear, which does not seem to have had an effect. In fact, these tales are corroborated by apparent scarring on the animal's face.
The citizens of Incline Village have come to call him "Bubba."

Since Bubba is a brown bear, he does not hibernate, and will continue to feed year-round. He has figured out when garbage pick-up days are, and walks around traps as if they're nuisances to be casually avoided.

"I have a refrigerator in the garage. He opened it up, drank a gallon of orange juice, opened the freezer above and munched two frozen pizzas and snacked on frozen chicken," Philpott said. "He broke all the shelves and racks out of the refrigerator, bit into some fruit punch and squirted it all over everywhere, then dragged the trash can outside and took a crap the size of a basketball on the front lawn." The Chronicle reports local Bill Philpott as saying. Apparently Philpott replaced the garage door a few months ago, and Bubba has already made light work of it.

I want to make one thing clear - I realize that with a booming population comes the need for housing. The only way around our population growth is controlled reproduction, which will not be a fact of life in this country. However, there must be a means of coexistence in place if we're to continue to enjoy our environment. That's an easy thing to say, I know. But it makes it no less true.

I want our suburbs to be safe for children - if an alligator were within ten feet of my nieces or nephew and I thought it was aggressive, I'm sure I would be looking for a way to kill it (as much as I love those animals). But the alligator and its ancestors were there long before any of us. Who are we to impose property rights? There must be a solution somewhere, though I can't claim to know what it is.

As far as Bubba is concerned, I don't imagine his outlook is too bright. I'll be "rooting" for him. I'll follow this story and let you know how it turns out.

Sometimes I Think I Can Cook - Baked Spinach And Artichoke Dip

2010-01-09T23:13:00.003-05:00

To follow is the first of a series of recipes I'm hoping to put out every Saturday. This is one of those recipes that's almost always a hit. I've varied on this a few times, but this formula seems to work best.

Anybody who knows me well will tell you that goat cheese is just about my favorite thing on Planet Earth. I put it in quiche, frittata, salads and sauces. I put it on steaks, in chicken, on sandwiches. As far as I'm concerned, it will go with anything (I'm staring with an arched eyebrow at my coffee as I type this).

To follow is my version of classic spinach and artichoke dip. I find the goat cheese adds a bite and creaminess that parmesan can't muster, so I've cut the parmesan - and added more garlic. There is - I repeat - there is no such thing as too much garlic, (so long as you don't have any appointments the rest of the day, and everyone around you is consuming just as much, or otherwise too drunk to notice your breath). This is not a good date food.

You'll need:

Two Tablespoons of Extra Virgin Olive Oil
Four Cloves of Garlic
1 Bag of Chopped Fresh Spinach
1 14 oz. Can of Artichoke Hearts
2 16 oz. Packages of Sour Cream
1/2 pint of heavy cream
8 oz. Cream Cheese
Half-log of Goat Cheese
1 1/2 (ish) Tablespoons of whole grain mustard
1/4 Cup Grated Parmesan
1/4 cup grated sharp cheddar cheese (sharper the better)
1 1/2 cup Panko Crumbs
Salt (optional)

Preheat the oven to 350F.

Mince the garlic and sautee' it in olve oil until it starts to slightly brown. Add the spinach and satuee until rich green and wilted. Set aside.

In a separate bowl, mix together the sour cream, heavy cream, cream cheese, goat cheese and mustard. (No, this is not health food - but then, would you be eating spinach and artichoke dip if you were on a diet?). Salt if you think it needs it, but keep in mind the parmesan will be on top.

Add the artichokes and spinach, and mix well. Pour it into a casserole dish, and bake for about fifteen minutes, or until it's bubbly around the edges. While it's baking, mix the parmesan, cheddar and panko.

Once your dip is bubbly, take it out and switch to broiler. Dust the top of the dip with the panko and cheese mix, and broil until it browns over.

I like to serve this with baked pita wedges. If you use anything salty to dip with, the salt kind of takes over.

Let me know what you think - enjoy!

Structure Might Be A Good Thing

2010-01-09T22:17:00.004-05:00

So I've decided to give this blog a sort of fluid structure. Fluid in that I may change it after a few weeks, but structured so that I might write more frequently. I found that when I was doing my five rants of the new year, I made myself sit down at the end of the day and write.

If my unborn child ever sees the light of day, it will be because I'm in practice.

So, here's how I'm going to start - I've picked the five days I'm most likely to write, and five topics that I think I can actually stick to. ("To" being a preposition. I'm letting it go).

Tuesdays - "Not Qualified To Review This"
I'm going to review things. It could be a movie, a book, or a blog. Or it might be a city I've visited, or an airline. It might be a restaurant, or a wine. It could be anything - and likely I am not qualified to give a full review, though I'm going to do it anyway.

Wednesdays - "Wild Card"
Here is my "out" to write anything that doesn't fall into the other categories.

Thursdays - "Almost-Fridays." Remember what I said about being determined to be more positive in 2010? Well I will be, for at least one day a week. Or at least for the amount of time it will take me to conceive and write out Thursday's blog. This is going to essentially be something I'm happy about. I'm going to be very careful not to turn it into an exercise in sarcasm. It will be something for which I'm grateful, pleased, amused - something that brings a smile to my face, and hopefully yours.

Saturdays - "Sometimes I Think I Can Cook"
I'm going to attempt put out a recipe every Saturday. I'll start with the five or six things I do really well, family favorites (i.e. Spice Cake, Drunken Taramisu Cake, Spinach and Goat Cheese Quiche, etc...) These are established recipes into which I've put my own spin. These can be food or cocktail recipes, sauces and dressings, whatever. I love, love, love food, so this one should be really easy to keep up.

Sundays - "*"
This is going to be about something that caught my attention that I think deserves a closer look, maybe a buried news story or an peculiar website.

Okay, here we go. If one or more of these busts, I'll replace it with something else. I think the point is now just to make myself write and write some more. I hope to at the very least be some decent entertainment - a time-killer worthy of killing time.

Enjoy!

Need Help!

2010-01-08T21:40:00.001-05:00

Hello fellow bloggers (blogites? blogans? citizens of the blogosphere? blogospherians? - I digress, as I do).

I would very much like to clean up the look of my page - archive by relevance, maybe brighten it up a bit. I have some ideas, but can anybody recommend a good source of codes? Preferably free, and preferably something that will not require my posting a big giant link to them on my page, one that in turn gives tracking cookies to everybody who pops in for a parusal.

If such a place exists, please let me know. I think this page could use some sprucin' up.

Other ideas I have - I think I'm going to do the daily themes - they will keep me posting, and maybe I won't go from the five rants of New Year's Eve to climate change in 2.5. Or at least if I do, you'll have a warning - such as - Tuesday.

So, I'll be thinking up some weekly gems for you to dig through, if you guys and gals can point me in the right direction for improving the look.

Do we have a deal?

An Inconvenient "?"

2010-01-05T22:05:00.004-05:00

Then

"Geologists Think The World May Be Frozen Up Again"

- New York Times, 1895

""Climate - The Heat May Be Off"

-Fortune Magazine, 1954

"A Major Cooling Widely Considered To Be Inevitable"

-New York Times, 1975

"Colder Winters Held Dawn Of New Ice Age"

- Washington Post, 1970

"As for the present cooling trend, a number of leading climatologists have

concluded that it is very bad news indeed."

- Fortune Magazine, 1974

"The discoveries of changes in the sun's heat and the southward advance of glaciers in recent years have given rise to conjectures of the possible advent of a new ice age."

-Time Magazine, 1923

"Climatological Cassandras are becoming increasingly apprehensive, for the weather aberrations they are studying may be the harbinger of another ice age."

-Time Magazine, 1974

"How long the current cooling trend continues is one of the most important problems of our civilization...the Earth could be plunged into a new ice age."

- Science Magazine, 1969

"The cooling since 1940 has been large enough and consistent enough that it will not be soon reversed."

-Science Magazine, 1975

"Scientists Says Arctic Ice Could Wipe Out Canada"

-Chicago Tribune, 1923

Now

"Past Hot Times Hold Few Reasons to Relax About New Warming"

-New York Times, 2005

"[S]cientists no longer doubt that global warming is happening, and almost nobody questions the fact that humans are at least partly responsible."

-Time Magazine, 2001

"Polar ice caps are melting faster than ever...by any measure, Earth is at the tipping point...the climate is crashing, and global warming is to blame..."

-Time Magazine, 2006

'Higher spring and summer temperatures and earlier snowmelt are extending the wildfire season and increasing the intensity of wildfires in the western United States."
-Science Magazine, 2006

"The polar ice caps are shrinking, as are glaciers and mountain snow pack around the world."
-Chicago Tribune, 2009

About a year ago my sister and I were having a glass of wine, and the topic of climate change was brought up. I mentioned how annoyed I was that any time a cold snap occurred, I inevitably heard people say "so much for global warming." I thought this was idiocy in the extreme. After all, climate and weather are two completely different things.

Well, Mandy made a comment about the fact that is wasn't proven. At this point I was pretty convinced that it all but had, and a few days later set out to find some articles to send her on the subject. I was astounded at what I found.

Well, I dropped it and never sent her the articles, as I got distracted (as I do) and forgot about it. However, I did find some compelling research supporting my argument - and some equally compelling evidence to the contrary.

What was fascinating to me was how convincing the argument was on both sides, and for the first time actually caused me to think about climate change as a question rather than a fact of life.

I am a liberal, on many issues. While reading up on this, especially over the past couple of days as I prepared to write this entry, it occurred to me that if “Dubya” had espoused the threat of global warming, I may have called some of the current conventional wisdom (no, that is not a redundancy) into question.

The fact is, conservatives read and follow conservative pundits. Liberals do the same on their end. So what we’re exposed to largely depends on, and is perpetuated by, our existing beliefs.

The more I dug, the bigger the question mark seemed to become. So many articles (if not most) that I found did in fact contain or reference raw data. But the facts that were backed up were intricately woven into the fabric of the article along with facts that were not.

Moreover, in multiple instances articles on both sides of the argument utilized the same raw data to support their respective arguments. In each case this happened, it practically nullified my confidence in the source study as a means to promote either stance.

What was really shown here, is that enough data can be effectively manipulated to accentuate whatever point it is you’re trying to make. In these cases, your perspective influences the outcome. This is much in the same way the perspective of a climate change denier (I use this term referencing CBS reporter Scott Pelley’s comparison of climate change skeptics to Holocaust deniers) reading more on the subject and picking out the articles that support their case.

Let’s say – for the sake of argument – (because I’m not taking a side here) that climate change is a very real, very imminent threat. What can we do about it? Many point to our failure to adhere to the Kyoto Protocol. Dr. James Hansen of NASA has estimated that the Kyoto Protocol would only affect temperatures by .13C by 2100, and that it would take 30 Kyotos to have an acceptable inpact on climate change.

Why so little impact? Well, one fun fact I turned up repeatedly is that 96.5% of all Carbon Dioxide emissions are from natural sources – water vapor, methane, (all mammals fart), volcanoes, even rotting vegetation, to name a very few sources. Mankind is directly responsible for about 3.5%. Only 0.6% of this comes from internal-combustion engines, meaning that if every car were to be plucked from the roads right now, it would have very little, if any substantive impact.

So why the impact in the other direction? Why have we seemingly caused so much of it? Well, here’s the question. If Carbon Dioxide levels cause global warming, then why did the Journal Science report recently that arctic ice cores record a shift in Carbon Dioxide after temperature fluxuations dating back thousands of years? Which is cause and which is effect?

By now you’re thinking that I could be attempting to make a case against climate change, and the human factor. That’s not the case.

I could reference the Oregon Petition, which boasts some 18,000 signatures from scientists around the world stating that there is no evidence to support man-made global warming theory. But then, I could also nitpick who those scientists are, and seek out motivation for signing such a petition.

All research is funded. Who pays the check can have a serious impact on the findings, or the interpretation of data. This is true on both sides of the argument. One has to think only a moment of the money that can be shifted one way or another to begin to doubt some findings.

One could say that the famous “hockey stick” graph, which “proved” carbon dioxide emissions were causing global warming, was erroneous – the use of proxies prior to 1850, the use of thermometers in city-centers that recorded urban heat island effects… Or, one could point out that the data has been scrutinized on both sides of the debate and both sides come up with their own predictable results.

It is practically indisputable that something is occurring. What that something is, and what is causing it, are still in question. Scientists who publicly protest the current climate change theory and its causes are systematically vilified.

So what is my conclusion? Well, I’m not going to conclude with my opinion. It wouldn’t change anything – most people who will read this have already formed their own opinion, which is not likely to change.

I challenge you though – if you believe climate change to be a real threat, research the arguments. Conversely, if you believe climate change to be a fear-mongering fad, research the case for it. The more you dig, the more interesting the debate becomes – in fact, the clearer it becomes that it is still a debate, it’s just more fashionable to accept the crisis.

Just please keep this in mind: nothing affects the emotional state of a populace or an individual (and therefore their actions) more potently and effectively than fear. I am not trying to persuade anyone in one direction or another, simply to point out the big neon question mark hanging over the issue. Try as we may to ignore it (on both sides of the argument), and as inconvenient as it may be to some – it’s still there. Let’s talk about it.

I Haven't Disappeared

2010-01-05T13:51:00.000-05:00

As much as I might try, I'm unable to write an entry every day. That being said, I am trying to write more often, if for no other reason than practice. But it's been a busy week, and when I write I really need to be alone, so please bear with me, I'm just waiting for a quiet time and place.
I am working on something though, that has actually required some research. Suffice to say, my next post is likely to annoy my more liberal friends, and just as likely will annoy my conservative friends. However, I think it's a topic that requires some real debate, all preconceptions aside (if that's possible).
Oh, and to Doc and Wah - I don't know when or if I'll be brave enough to post some of my Unborn Child here - maybe eventually!

I'll try to get something posted tonight or tomorrow if I can finish reading up on a few things.

My Unborn Child

2010-01-03T15:10:00.001-05:00

Eleven years ago I sat down in front of my room mate's computer and began conceiving a story. I even wrote about fifty pages, writing every night, only to forget about it when I moved to England. While I was there, my friend Mark let me borrow his old 386 after a drunk evening when I remembered the story, and told him about it. So once again I sat down to the story, and rewrote what I remembered of it, and added some things. It began to grow, to my surprise.

It was at this point that the story took on a name: The Devil's Footprints.
For the rest of my time in England I would go back to the story, drop it, then come back to it. The characters, though remaining the same in name, began to grow and take on lives of their own. It was while I was in England that for the first time something amazing and unexpected occurred - the story was changing as I was writing it. The characters almost seemed to act of their own accord.

It was at this point that I began reading the Dune series. I couldn't hep but think how wonderful it must have been for Frank Herbert to imagine, conceive, then give birth to his own universe. I enjoy the books surrounding the original series written by his son and a collaborator, but as entertaining as they are they lack the scope and vision of the originals. The depth they do contain was founded on the original idea. But I digress (as I do). The point is, I kept thinking of The Devil's Footprints as I read these books. So envious and enamored I was with Frank Herbert's sweeping vision, a world at once completely apart and exactly the same as ours. It was a funhouse mirror on our universe, one seen from a distance that puts our world in a new perspective by placing it 10,000 years in the future. I was then determined that one day I would let my own little universe out to let somebody else see it.

Fast forward a few years, and I was in Summerville, South Carolina working night audit at a plantation inn. The night audit would be done by midnight, leaving me with seven dark, quiet, lonely hours in the woods to essentially just be there if I were needed. I never was. So once again I picked up The Devil's Footprints right where I had left off. But this time I decided to begin outlining. I thought that by outlining, the synapses in my brain that represent each of these characters would stop veering off-path.

I began writing from the outline, and in each session the story seemed to take on its own life as I wrote it. More turmoil occurred in my life, and I set it down again, letting it collect dust in the back of my mind. I would never have suspected that it was still growing, becoming something of an unborn child.

Once I moved to DC, I began outlining again. I would walk around the monuments at night, go to the Smithsonian, wander, and think of the story - sometimes ending the day in a bar with a notebook and pen. Outlining was often the last thing I did before I went to sleep. At this point it was conceiving the story that became the fun part. It was as escapist as reading any novel ever had been.

So once again I set about writing it out. I've lost so many versions of the beginning of this story, that writing the first fifty pages had at this point been more clerical than creative. But here again, my life was uprooted and I found myself in Rhode Island.

In Rhode Island, Eric and I rented a house near Providence. This house had a back deck, and quickly I bought a table and some chairs, knowing that I had found a refuge for The Devil's Footprints to grow.
I spent so many hours those two and half years out there outlining, developing characters, creating maps (for my own use, to keep a consistent vision as this world grew). I made family trees, even wrote a few journal entries from the perspective of the main character. I have three notebooks in a box somewhere with the original outlines, and two or three binders still in Rhode Island with further outlines. (However, at this point I'm pretty much fine without them, I know the thing so well).

By my second year in Rhode Island I felt like it had become an obsession. I was writing as well as outlining, and probably wrote (if you include everything I ever deleted), around 350 pages, maybe more.
I find myself back in South Carolina now, dancing around the story, and still thinking about it all the time. I have ideas in mind for other stories, including one surrounding Summerville, stories that are not nearly as outlandish, and take place in the world as we know it, in the here and now. But as I sat down the other day to try to begin the story about Summerville, (after having done some light research), I realized that I couldn't write anything else until The Devil's Footprints is done.

It's become my favorite pet, this monkey sitting on my back. I hate it bitterly but love it. I can't write anything else until it's done, I realize that now.

As far as what I might do with it - who knows? At this point I don't care as much about that as I do completing this thing. I want to let it run its course and get the hell out of my system!
Sure, I have a few pipe dreams of publishing, but if I'm writing this for that, I think I might cheat myself, and the story. I need to let The Devil's Footprints unfold as it always has - on its own, my fingers the vessels.

Maybe I'll let my nephew Zach have it one day, (as my nieces are likely not as apt to enjoy this type of story. Aside from being a fantasy, it can at times get a little violent. Abby didn't even like the opening scene of Bolt). Maybe I should write it for him, and think only of his enjoyment when he gets older. In that I likely won't be as self-conscious and will love the process for what it is.

The Devil's Footprints is my unborn child. Only instead of nine months, I've been carrying this kicking, punching baby inside of me for eleven years. I think it's time to finally let it come on out.

I may ask some of you to help with the delivery. I might paste a few pages here from time to time and let you tell me what you think. Or I might ask your opinions, and maybe even ask for you to help in research. Though I don't think I need much in that respect, as I pretty much know the damn story from start to finish.
And it's grown. It's grown in scope, in number of characters, and in plot. I'm not even sure how I'm going to squeeze some of it in there, but there are things that must be squeezed in.

So here we go - here is my final new year's resolution - I am going to finish this damn thing, if for no other reason than so I can move onto other stories. It may give me the practice I need, and maybe I'll go back to it once and a while to polish it, help the child become an adult. And maybe then he will be ready for Zach.
As I close this post, I'm getting ready to start the process. No more hours and hours of outlining. It's time to start. Again. And finish.

Happy New Year everyone. Wish me luck.

These Are A Few Of My (least) Favorite Things

2009-12-31T14:31:00.003-05:00

Here we are – the last item on my list of peeves. Happy New Year’s Eve everyone – I have about ten more hours to freely be a snippy little brat. I plan to take full advantage of each one.

Volume 5: Six Things That Bug Me About Tourists

Gripe One: I would be out of work without them, and unfortunately I am one from time to time.

I want to hate them – I want to hate most of them. I do hate some of them. But until I can jettison myself completely from this industry, they will be the reason I get paid. They are my actual bosses, like it or not. And though I don’t deal directly with tourists as much as I used to, I do have to deal with those who coordinate their travel – or rather, those who get paid to coordinate their travel and have me do it.

If it weren’t for the tourists, there would be no hotels. If it weren’t for hotels, many psychotic people would be out of work. So as much as I want to hate many of them, I also have to be grudgingly grateful for them.

I also have to be one from time to time, as I love to travel whenever I can. I love seeing new places, I even get excited when going to a state I’ve never seen or know little about. Though you will never catch me with a neon Velcro fanny pack or a 35mm camera draped around my neck, and you will never see me with a fold-out map standing in an intersection, I am still, nevertheless, a tourist from time to time.

Gripe Two: Breakfast Monsters

After years of getting up at 4 or 5am and serving breakfast to tour groups, I have come to call one of my “favorite” groups of people Breakfast Monsters.

Early mornings tend to bring out the absolute worst in people. Add to the mix the fact that I’m still trying to wake up, take in my coffee, and deal with anywhere from 10 to 500 grumpy tourists, and you have a recipe for a fabulous morning.

I have actually heard people grunt as they shove their way through a buffet, mumble their order and generally just stare off into space. (A word to the wise - they glare at you if you interrupt them, so it's generally best to let them stare and just give them more coffee).

Then you have the bussed-in groups who have never really been in a hotel, have no idea what the difference between banquet and ala carte is, (wondering why they can’t get, say rockfish on demand – people, the kitchens only order what’s needed) and are generally exhausted. Those groups do not give people much in the way of free time, and make them get up very early in the morning.

One thing I will never miss about F&B are the breakfast monsters.

Gripe Three: American Tour Groups

Yes, I am an American. I am also a tourist from time to time. But working in England, the tour groups consisted of exactly the wrong people you would want representing our country – they are the people who, as I said yesterday, do a tour of Windsor Castle, have a cream tea, and pronounce that they have done Windsor.

While hosting an American tour group once a week on the boat, serving their lunch was always a frustrating experience. These groups would take literally twenty to thirty napkins from the buffet, pile their plate with food well beyond what they could possibly eat, so consequently much was thrown away. I never realized how wasteful our culture can be until I worked in tourism in another country.

I was always finding myself defending Americans, explaining that individual travelers and tour groups are different breeds. These were the ones who asked the worst questions (see “Gold Nametags Are All The Rage”).

However – they also were the best tippers. Always.

It’s an unfortunate fact that since I am not very loud by nature, detest McDonald’s, don’t drink a lot of beer, and don’t even understand American Football (let alone watch it), that most of my friends and coworkers assumed I was Canadian.

It’s not that I hate American tourists. It’s the loud tour groups snaking through the otherwise tranquil towns that really upset me – because they do not represent who we are.

I realize there are wonderful, educational tour groups out there. It’s just that once their accents are heard, everybody assumes they must be Canadian.

Grip Four: Whirlwind Excursions

Just as the castle-tour-cream tea group has done Windsor in a few hours, there are those who try to squeeze so much into their vacation, they essentially see and learn nothing.

When I was in St Thomas I discovered (to my dismay) the “shopping district” - not the real shopping district in downtown Charlotte Amalie – but the one fenced in, wrapped around the cruise ship port. This was what many, if not most visitors saw of St Thomas. They bought their inexpensive leather and jewelry, and never saw what a beautiful island and charming city was waiting for them beyond the tall cruise line gates. They were completely insulated from everything that's wonderful about that island, and let themselves be shown what some corporate travel company believed they wanted to see. As I consider travelling a spiritual experience on many levels, I consider what is done to these tourists a crime.

On so many of these cruises and tour groups, and in an over-itineraried (not sure that's a word, but I just coined it) vacation, you maybe see one attraction or a host of shops. Congratulations, you discovered local retail. You really don’t get to see the place or get to know its citizens. That takes time, and it takes wandering off the Main or High Streets and major thoroughfares. Sure, see a museum, I’m a big fan of museums. But make sure you get at least a little lost. Make sure you speak to someone. Make sure you ask for a recommendation or two. (Just think before you ask - see Gripe Six).

Otherwise, save yourself some time and go to Epcot – most countries are represented there, and you will find what you must be looking for if you really don’t care to know the soul of a place.

Gripe Five: Not Learning A Single Thing About Where You’re Going Before You Go

Sure, much can be said about having a clean slate while visiting a new place. My good friend Maria came to visit in Rhode Island and took me to a few towns about which I knew nothing, and I was very grateful for that. I hate that I had lived there for so long and had not realized how beautiful it really was.

But to plan a vacation and not bother to learn a thing about where you’re going robs you of the chance to look deeper into your destination. You can read all about a place and then see it first hand to give you a richer understanding of the locale. Otherwise, you’re the guy with a fanny pack and map in an intersection, picking museums at random.

Gripe Six: Obvious Tourists

There’s something about being a constant outsider, looking at the real living town around you as if you’re looking at it under glass in a museum that does both the tourist and the destination a grave injustice.

You’re in a community – a real place. You are not in a living museum. People call where you’re going their home. Please respect that. Feel free to look with wonder and awe. But there is a fine line between that and gawking.

Asking for directions is fine, but think before you ask. Look around you. If everything looks antiquated, you may not want to ask for directions to the historic district. And don’t ask generalized questions such as “where are the restaurants” or “where is the museum.” You won’t get an answer to your complete satisfaction.

Taking pictures is a must, wherever you go. But please do not take pictures of the locals for your own amusement. And if you do stop someone to take a picture of you and your companion(s), please do not ask for thirteen different angles and combinations of family members. It is not a wedding.

So there you have it my friends. I will now step down off my soap box and enjoy New Year’s Eve with a few good friends. I hope that now I’ve vented a little, I will be better company, and better prepared to make this resolution. As my sister said in her blog, I’m going to try not to sweat the small stuff. Maybe she and I can help each other with this.

I’m going to work on something positive to say tomorrow, to start this year off right.

2009, you will not be missed. Goodbye, and do not let the door hit your ass on the way out.

Re: Sunday's Rant

2009-12-30T15:10:00.002-05:00

I just returned to my desk, and check out what was waiting for me:

These Are A Few Of My (least) Favorite Things

2009-12-30T13:28:00.000-05:00

Counting down to the new year, here is number four of five sets of items that really get on my tits.

Volume 4: Five Myths About The English

To describe the English as a single people is daunting, if even possible. It’s far easier to describe what they’re not. The stereotype of the tea-drinking, horseback-riding socialite is as off as describing every American as a Disney-loving, burger-downing, beer-chugging, loud obnoxious American Football fanatic.

To follow are what I consider the five most egregious errors in American perception of the Brits.

Myth #1. All English People Are Polite

This one is probably the most laughable. The English are a far more cynical people as a general rule – and they do not bend over backwards mincing words and dancing around topics nearly as much as we Americans tend to.

In the US if you are overweight, you are: plus-sized, curvy, heavier, etc…
In England if you are overweight you are: Fat. Bulbous. Rotund. Pudgy.

The English tend to be far more direct, and as above, will think nothing of calling a spade a spade, as they say.

There seems to be a perception that rednecks are indigenous and located only in the US. There are rednecks everywhere, and you can find just as many at a truck stop in Mississippi as you can at a rugby match in a pub. I challenge you to point out the differences in attitude and disposition.

Myth #2. All English People Drink Tea

Well, many of them do. But the water is different there, and therefore the tea tastes totally different. The fact is, they look at tea as we look at coffee. And no, they do not drink it out of small doilied china. They drink it out of whatever’s handy. And no, they do not have crumpets and scones with each tea. Probably as many drink coffee as they do tea.

Myth #3. The English Accent

As in the Southern accent I mentioned a couple of days ago, there is no one single English accent. In fact, you might travel 20 minutes in another direction and encounter a very different dialect.

My Dad could discern where an English person was from, usually within 20 miles or so, after hearing a single sentence spoken. And no, they do not all speak “the Queen’s English.” In fact, if you think some of our accents can be grating, try listening to some of theirs.

The first time I heard a Brummie accent, I didn’t even recognize it as English.

Myth #4. The Food Is Terrible

I went to Chef’s school in England, and I can tell you categorically that this is flat wrong. Yes, there are a few English dishes that our palates may not be able to handle, as were not raised on these dishes. There’s Marmite, (a spread), which resembles axel grease in color, texture and smell. There’s black pudding, which is essentially congealed blood, and of course steak & kidney pie. But there are also some wonderful stews, desserts, sausages, soups, roasts, and sauces.

The Full English Breakfast, consisting of baked beans, stewed tomatoes, fried eggs, bacon, (real – or what we in the US call Canadian – bacon), sausage, and toast. There is nothing better for a hangover than the Full English Breakfast, which is for what I believe it was designed.

An argument can be made that curry, as we know it anyway, originated in England. There is nothing better than to walk out of a pub at midnight, having had way too many local beers, and get a doner kebab at a stand to accompany you on the stagger home.

Cornish Pasties, a meat and potato-filled puff pastry were designed for farmers to carry and eat while they worked. If you can find a real one, do not pass it up.

English food is – simply – wonderful. Designed to be hearty in the bitterly cold, damp English winters, you cannot go wrong (or rarely) with a pub dinner in the countryside. I challenge anyone who has never been to sample the food in England and come back to tell me it’s not good.

Myth #5. The English Have Bad Teeth.

Some do. But some do here as well. The cultures in the US and the UK are not entirely alien to each other – they’re at once similar and a world apart. But the aesthetic sense is very much the same. No, the NHS is not perfect, and yes, the NHS will just assume pull a tooth out as repair it (or so I’ve heard), but on the whole, English teeth are as straight and white as those in the US.

I have so much more to say on this topic, but for the sake of brevity I thought I’d narrow this down to what I believe to be the top five.

Some of these prejudices definitely go both ways. Ask some English people to draw a picture of the US, and you will notice Florida taking up about half the country. I was even told by a coworker there that the only way they go to the US is to fly directly into Disney World and fly directly back out. To me that’s just as obscene as Americans flying into London and back out, with nothing in between but London. Or the tour groups that stop in a place like Windsor and have a cream tea, see the castle and leave, and say they “did Windsor.”

You cannot get to know a place in a tour group. But that rant will wait for tomorrow, when I will go off on what ticks me off about tourists, (yes, I know they’re the reason I have a job, and I know I have been known to be one) and will complete my 2009 bitch session.

Ta!

These Are A Few Of My (least) Favorite Things

2009-12-29T16:40:00.001-05:00

To follow is rant #3 of five, leading into the New Year – for 2010 I have pledged not to let the little things bother me to the extent they do – but it’s still 2009, so I’m going to rant away.

Volume 3: Ten Annoying Things About Social Networks

1. Woot.

While this word seems to be working its way into our digital lexicon, it always reminds me of who I referred to as the “woo girls.” These are the college girls who stick their heads out of apartment windows, car windows, and over balconies, shrieking “woooo!” as if anyone really cared to know that they were drunk and attention-seeking.

Aside from this, what the hell does it mean?

2. Thread Jacking

Suppose you or someone else posts something about, say, their dog Beau. Maybe Beau learned to fetch. So someone posts “Beau learned to fetch today” on their status message. So let’s say now that the poster has 672 of their closest friends linked to them in Facebook. By the time the thread is over, the topic of discussion is either Hillary Clinton, God, or Obama.

There are people out there who do this intentionally. It can be found at the bottom of any news article with comment posting enabled, or any other online article. Shoved in the middle of the tangential threads are ads for Extenze and black market Viagra.

If you really want to see a prime thread jack, read one of Obama’s Facebook posts. By the time you’ve even gotten to it the discussion (which may have been about healthcare) is about whether Bush should have been impeached, or whether Sarah Palin’s imaginary death panels are part of a global conspiracy to propel Glen Beck to the presidency.

3. Fishing For Sympathetic Comments By Way Of Open-Ended Status Messages

“John Smith is downing a bottle of vodka while watching everything fall apart.”

Okay – well, assuming all of your 672 friends really want to know, you actually told them nothing here. You just told them you were drunk and feeling sorry for yourself. So you wait for the inevitable “what’s wrong honey” and “it’s not that bad – pick yourself up again.” In the end, absolutely nothing was said.

If something is really wrong, and you’re not looking for open-ended sympathy for a problem that nobody understands, simply pick up the phone or send a private message to somebody who may actually be able to help you, or at least lend a dedicated ear. Otherwise, you’ve just told the world that you’re unhappy for no particular reason.

4. I Don’t Care About Your Mafia Or Your Farm

As of this posting I am deleting Mafia Wars in an effort to stop getting so many gift invitations and updates on how much “money” my Mafia friends have. I am on Facebook to keep up with people I would not otherwise be in touch with on a regular basis. I am not on Facebook to rob a bank, plant a crop or purchase a small country. Stop asking me, please. Even though I’ve turned off status messages from certain people who seem to do nothing but this, I’m still getting requests and invitations.

As my friend Anna recently said on Facebook when prompted to help fertilize someone’s crops, “don’t bloody tempt me.”

5. Friending From Strangers

You and I happen to know the same person, or you’re on some narcissistic quest to have more Facebook friends than anyone else you know. Okay, fine – that does not mean that I care to have you on my list. If you have not heard from me, please do not request again. I probably will not change my mind.

If we know the same person and you think we may have something to talk about, send me a message first.

6. Slamming Your Current or Former Employer

Recently an associate was “released” (I prefer “released” to “fired” – “fired” sounds negative – when I hear “release” I think doves – but I digress). This former associate proceeded to get very nasty about our current property. It really made her look defensive and petty – which I guess she was. It’s just bad form. If your friends on Facebook are actually friends, odds are they will not assume you were fired – sorry, released – due to your own actions.

Saying something negative about your current employer can get you released as well. Things get out. People love to talk. Again – I highly recommend using private messages for situations such as these.

7. <3

It does not look like a heart. It looks like a butt.

8. Glittery, Sparkly Crap

If I log into a MySpace or Blogger page and the first thing I see are silly little bees sprinkling glitter on the page, or fireworks that would have looked at home on a circa 1986 Rainbow Bright Atari game, I will log off. I will log off immediately.

And while I’m guilty of throwing music out on my blog, you at least have the option of pausing, turning down the volume, or changing the song.

I promise to never do this to you. And your cursor will never become a dragonfly or pixie with a stardust trail while on my page.

9. Endless Forwards

Receiving a chain email that tells me that I will have my wishes granted within seven days of forwarding this message, or that I will get hit by a car if I don’t, is aggravating. But at least in my email account I can hit the “spam” button. Receiving this kind of thing in my Facebook inbox increases the annoyance by a factor of ten.

My typical response used to be to reply back to the person who sent it, and tell them they were thereby released from any magical obligation they fell victim to by opening the email, and they were thereby released from any future obligations they might have by opening future emails. They are then to reply to the person that sent it to them with the same message. This really didn’t work, but it was fun.

When receiving these messages in Facebook, a medium in which I feel I should receive little or no spam, I’m tempted to start unfriending.

Additionally, if you feel you absolutely must forward a Facebook message, (which takes some effort in the way of copying and pasting), PLEASE delete all the crap that includes everyone’s response who ever received it over the past several months. I do not want to scroll down a mile of forwarding info before I reach the meat of the message.

10. E-Signatures In Private Messages

I know who the message is from. If you’re in my Facebook list it means I know you. And I do not need to read your “motivational” quote each time you send me a message. Since there are no e-signatures in Facebook it means you’ve been copying and pasting it from your email.

Stop it.

Thanks for listening. Only two more rants to go, and then I will attempt to play nice. Sometimes. More often than now, anyway. Or at least I’ll make a valiant effort.

Will Shealy is: Logging off. Have a great night!

These Are a Few of My (least) Favorite Things

2009-12-28T19:27:00.003-05:00

Since my New Year's resolution is to stop letting my pet peeves get under my skin, to follow is day two (of five) of my soap box rants leading into the newer, happier, far less irritable 2010.

Volume Two: Four Annoying Misconceptions about South Carolina (and South Carolinians)

Myth #1: A Place Called Carolina

Let me start this one with a simple fact: South Carolina is a state. It is not a region of Carolina, as some from "off" seem to believe. The State of Carolina does not exist. There is South Carolina, and there is North Carolina. If you called South Carolina Fred, and North Carolina Ginger, it would be the same. I am not from Carolina. I was born and raised in South Carolina. If and when you ever meet someone from North Carolina or South Carolina, do not ask them about Carolina.

Myth #2: Southern Accents Are The Same, And They Denote Stupidity And/Or Laziness

Making an assumption when you hear a Southern accent that the speaker may not be as well-educated or well-traveled as most, is in itself a lazy way of thinking. It is simply the way they speak. And there is no one Southern accent. In fact, there is no one single South Carolina accent. I can often tell when speaking with someone of they're from the Midlands, the Lowcountry or the Upstate. They all have their own unique lingual flavors. My previous rant notwithstanding, an articulate Southern accent can be a charming thing to listen to. (Ending in a preposition there - I'm learning to accept it). The Huguenot influence on the Charleston accent alone is worth listening to, if you can find someone who still speaks it.

Has anyone ever listened to the horticulturalist Rowland Alston of Making It Grow? When recording shorts for ETV Public Radio, he frequently refers to "sol." The object to which he's referring (there's the preposition issue again) is actually "soil." Yet here is a professor from Clemson University, the host of his own gardening program. He gives lectures, teaches classes, and writes. He does all three quite well.

Had I made assumptions about peoples' intellect or how interesting they may or may not be when confronting the dialects of many Rhode Islanders or Londonders, I would not have come to know some truly incredible people.

Myth #3: South Carolina Is The Buckle On The Bible Belt

While it's true that South Carolina is the home of the tolerance vacuum that is Bob Jones University, it is also home to some 77 colleges and universities, only a handful of which are likely to tell you why and how you are going to Hell. Many of the rest, including the Citadel, College of Charleston, Furman University, University of South Carolina, and Celmson University have made pretty good names for themselves.

Columbia is actually one of the more liberal cities I've experienced. This includes Providence, and certainly includes Slough. It may seem like a small conservative Southern town at first glance, but one barely h as to scratch the surface to find a thriving set of subcultures. It's actually far more interesting a city than it was when I grew up.

Greenville, while certainly built on a conservative foundation, with its influx of foreign workers and peripheral business growth, is quickly becoming a far more diverse city than many I've seen (likely more of one than many inhabitants would like). While Charleston's growing population of students who choose to remain (who could not fall in love with that city) and the installation of the new Boeing facility, as well as the soon-to-be much larger GE wind turbine facility, Charleston is set to become a far more metropolitan area than even most South Carolinians would have ever predicted.

With the transplant population ready to explode, we can almost watch the percentage of Evangelicals shrink. I'm not saying anything bad about Christians in general, far from it. I'm not even saying anything negative about many evangelicals. I am however saying that Alabama should make some room in the very near future.

Besides, would the buckle on the Bible Belt ever produce the likes of Stephen Colbert?

Myth #4: South Carolina is a Racist, Bigoted State

Sadly, there are racists everywhere. But the fact that I was in the eighth grade before I realized racism was still an issue here should say something, and my mother did not raise a sheltered child. I'm sure she made a point of not having it brought up as an issue, and she has always been a proponent of diversity. She too, by the way, was born and raised in South Carolina.

Actually, I encountered far more aggressive racism in England that I ever saw growing up here. In fact, I even saw a bit more of it in New England than I've ever seen in Charleston. It's the perception of racism that maintains it as issue, and in itself perpetuates the myth and the fact. Put simply: if you raise an issue enough, existent or not (and I'm not saying it's non-existent, just not as prevalent as those in and outside the state would like to believe or would like us to believe), it becomes, or at the very least remains, a tangible issue. It's impossible to be color-blind if all you ever talk about is color.

As far as homosexuals are concerned - Columbia is one of the very few places I've ever felt comfortable showing any type of affection toward a member of the same sex in public. There are bars in Columbia that are proudly "mixed." And at the Pantheon Club in Charleston, a self-procalimed gay dance club, there are often as many straight men as gay. As industry grows and word of Charleston continues to get out (as much as that pains some of us), the openly gay population will continue to grow. Once again Alabama, watch out for some ex-pats.

I could easily go on. But it's cold out here, (we have Winter in South Carolina as well - but it's relegated to two or three months, between the hours of about 7pm and 8am). My fingers are numb, and I should stop before I continue to insult Alabama the way so many have done to us.

I'm sure it's a nice place.

These Are a Few of My (least) Favorite Things

2009-12-27T18:03:00.003-05:00

I'm making a New Year's Resolution this year to stop letting the petty things in life get under my skin like tiny shards of glass. I let so many little things irritate me that I feel it's become a distraction. So, I've decided that between now and the new year I'm going to rant. I'm going to take the opportunity to stand high and lofty on my digital soapbox and let spew a few things that bother me on a nearly daily basis. Sit back and enjoy.

Volume One: Twelve Common Abuses of Our Wonderful Language

I love the English language. This could be in part due to the fact that it's the only one I know. After all, anybody who hates their only verbal form of communication may have other issues they need to work through - but I do love words. I love the way they (if allowed) can work together to form a picture in a beautifully constructed sentence. I love the way they can change form and meaning if one simply places them in another context, or how spoken meaning of said words changes depending on which word is stressed. I love puns, I love poems, I love lyrics. I love my language, and am therefore very defensive of it.

It breaks my heart when I hear our language casually ripped apart - and with simple errors, errors that if you stand back and look at them you can see how they can ruin an otherwise wonderfully crafted sentence. Listed below are a few common (and most annoying) of crimes against English I hear on a daily basis.

1) Improper use of "myself"

There is a very well-respected, otherwise articulate individual at our hotel that does this on a nearly daily basis. He will say "Come see (insert name) or myself if you have any questions," etc.

If you do this, this is directed at you. Stop it. Look at the sentence and simply remove the inserted name, then read "come see myself if you have any questions." If you're still not seeing the issue, think of it this way: direct the sentence elsewhere, as in: "Go see Bob if you have any questions." Now remove Bob and replace with "himself." "Go see himself if you have any questions." Do you see now why it's so damn annoying?

2) Too, to, and two

The most common place I see this is on Facebook. I am going to lobby for a grammer-checker application for use in status boxes. This is really, truly, asinine. I'm just going to use one example, as it's the most common.

Too and to: Too - as in, "also," "as well," "in addition to." Most people actually don't put this one out of context - it's "to" that gets put in its place. So - if you want to say, "I will go too," that implies that you're going with someone, or are going as well. If you say "I want to go to," I'm just left wondering to where you would like to go.

Two: It's a number. It means one plus one. Nothing else. Please.

3) The misused apostrophe.

An apostrophe denotes ownership, not pluralization. There is the rare occasion when an apostrophe may be used to shorten a word, or represent multiple letters. For instance: I work daily with something called a BEO, standing for Banquet Event Order. What it is is not important right now - what is, is the fact that I often need to speak of them in multiples. For a while I was refusing to type "BEO's", as I would be lead to think "the BEO's what?" However, after researching this, I've discovered that when pluralizing acronyms, it's generally accepted to use the apostrophe.

Now for the inexcusable. Someone I know - and I will end it there becuase I really like this person - had a sign made for my sister's door - it reads: "The Vaughn's." Okay - the Vaughn's what? And is there only one Vaughn?

I see this on marquis signs, I see it printed. I see it commonly referring to a family name - why? Where did this get picked up? Please think before you print.

4) Linguistic redundancy.

To follow is a list of phrases that make me want to yell profanity.

-Eye sight

-Bread roll

-Foot bridge

-6AM in the morning

-Tuna fish

-Over exaggerating

-Accidental mistake (yes, I hear this often)

5) Multiple exclamation and question marks

One does the trick.

6) Its and It's.

"It's" means "It is," while "Its" denotes ownership. So quit getting it wrong. You look stupid. I understand the occasional type-o, I'm guilty of it myself, (note the usage of "myself" here), but when I see it in emails day - after day - after day, I tend to kick things.

7) The spelling of common items changing due to corporate labeling

For instance, "donuts." More than once has this been spelled this way to me. I recently saw it on a buffet label. And while we're talking about buffets, as a banquet manager I was once asked to bring out another dish of "McMuffins." They were English Muffins with eggs. We were in a Marriott, not a McDonald's - we did not provide "McMuffins."

8) Me and I

"Me and Joe went to the store." Let me pick this one apart slowly and painfully so you might understand my annoyance. Suppose we take Joe out of the equation. The sentence becomes "Me went to the store." You sound like a three year-old.

"James and me went to the store." Once again - "Me went to the store."

"Are you coming to the movie with Mark and I?" Reworded: "Are you coming to the movie with I?"

"Sarah, Michelle and me do not like grapes." Reworded (adjusted for tense): "Me does not like grapes."

If you're ever unsure, remove the additional subject and you have your answer. Otherwise, you really do sound idiotic.

9) They're, there and Their

Yes, I'm going there.

"They're" is a contraction of "they" and "are." "Their" is plural possessive - multiples showing ownership, as in - "their flowers." "There" is a preposition, or a description of location. Get it right.

10) Ain't and Y'all

There are those who believe the abomination that is "ain't" is officially working its way into our language. I will never, ever, ever use it. Never. Not if you paid me. (If you paid me I might. Might). Here's why I hate it:

This is supposedly a contraction of "are not," but if you were to apply this definition, it wouldn't be broad enough, as it's commonly used for "is not" as well. So this word would need to be the only contraction flexible enough to be unchanging given any context, singular or plural. English does not work this way, but if one were to apply rules to this accident of a word, it would still be misused. Trust me.

On the other hand, we have "y'all." I've actually made a few attempts over the past ten months back in South Carolina to use it, and while it still does not come out the same as it leaves my lips, (my lack of any particular accent makes it strange-sounding), when taken as a contraction of "you all", it makes an odd sort of sense. This one actually doesn't piss me off all that much.

11) Ending sentence in prepositions

I realize there's a growing consensus that this is okay. But I still find myself at times performing verbal acrobatics to get around it. Winston Churchill famously said that "ending a sentence in a preposition is something with which I will not put." Fair enough. It can make you sound a little like Yoda if you take the rule too seriously.

That being said, it still irks me somehow. In previous entries on this blog I've done this, and have to fight the urge to go back and correct. However, hearing someone ask me where something is "at" almost always causes my stomach to turn. No, I do not use the "behind the at" adage as a response, as sometimes I think this is reserved for users of "ain't." (Sorry to my dear family who do use this "corrective" phrase - and the word "ain't"). No, typically I either won't answer, or I'll fire a glance, either at them or when they can no longer see me.

12) The term "reverse racism"

Okay, I realize this is more specific, and may not belong here. But as long as I'm ranting, I'll bring this to the table.

Racism is racism. As a gay man, I can tell you that calling someone a reverse racist is the same as calling me a reverse sexual. It doesn't apply. Calling someone a reverse racist to me sounds as if they're anti-racist. Stop using that one. No, please.

13) Alot

It's two words. And it doesn't say a lot. Use it sparingly.

There are so, so many more. I may add to this as I think of it, but please, let me know what else you can think of. Misery loves company, fellow English lovers, so let me know what common crimes against the written or spoken word make you want to scream.

So ends my rant. For now.

About Face

2009-12-25T00:04:00.003-05:00

Usually I think very hard about what I'm going to write. I diagram, outline, brainstorm, and lay my thoughts and feelings out on paper to organize and make coherent before funneling them onto the monitor. But something is always lost in translation. Some nuance of emotion can never quite be translated and strung into a meaningful sentence. So I decided this time I would simply write what I'm thinking, as I think it, and hope that maybe what I'm feeling will take form in the written word. And maybe then I can look at it and figure it out for myself. Because I'm not exactly sure what I'm feeling.

My sister and my mother wrote two beautiful, but very different blogs today. Mandy wrote about what was lost and her reminders of last Christmas - when we knew our Dad would not be around for this one. She wrote about the last time we were able to really drink and laugh together, on her porch, freezing but letting the laughter and alcohol warm us. It was a welcome but fleeting relief, when we forgot about the chemo, the weight loss, the event we knew that would come, just didn't know it would be the following April.
She wrote about the mockingbird, the animal that's become a family symbol of the man we love so dearly and miss so terribly.

My mother however, wrote about looking forward, about how Christmases will still come as people come and go. She wrote about how life gives us the gifts we need to accept death.
I had a hard time reading my sister's latest entry, maybe because it just hits so close to home with me. It must have taken so much out of her to write it, so honest it was. Maybe it was so hard because I've still, no matter how hard I try not to, have been dealing with this the best way I know how - through distraction.

The last time I visited my Dad's grave, I sat in the grass and talked to him until the dam burst and my grief came rushing out. I thought I would never get back off the ground, and doubted I had the strength strength to do so. Couple this with the fact that I have left who I still think may have been the love of my life - or at least the first person I was ever truly in love with, and one moment I'm full of life, the next I feel numb. One moment I'm grateful for what I have, the next I'm staring off into space thinking about Rhode Island or England.

I left my partner back in February to come home to take care of our Dad while he was sick. I thought the separation would be temporary. When I first moved up to Rhode Island to be with my him, I was escaping. I was escaping a horrible job in DC - and into the arms of someone who loved me. Before that, I went to DC to escape a stagnant life in Charleston. Prior to Charleston I was in England, a place where I rushed to escape a similar stagnation in Columbia.

I've been obsessed with changing who I was at any given point in life. My hair has been black, blonde red, and every color in the spectrum in between. My face has been pierced, then left to heal. I've had glasses, then contacts, then glasses. I've gained weight, lost it, gained it, and lost it again. I've always been obsessed with being different - not from anyone around me, but from whomever I chose to be previously. I've left jobs as I've been promoted, left relationships undeveloped, left friendships when my friends needed me the most, never bringing anything to completion. I think I've always been so terrified of losing anything, I've let it go before I could experience what it was to really have it. Maybe the distance I've put between my family and me at times is a symptom of that. And now I hold them closer than ever because I cannot handle losing anything else, while I learn to live with the loss I've had this year.

So here I am, home because I chose to be home last Winter, to face my Dad's illness with him, and help my family take care of him. I did this after running further and further north, partly to escape coming out to my family, which proved to be at once easier than I thought and harder than I could imagine. I came out to them knowing I would not have the wife and kids my parents deserved after putting up with such an arrogant, rebellious child.

But when my Dad died, try as I may, everything I had ever run from seemed to come crashing into my backside as his death brought my life - and my running - to a sudden halt.

So now, this first Christmas without him, I find myself dealing with learning to live life while exorcising all the ghosts that seem to continue to catch up to me. I'm doing this while consciously leaving the person with whom I promised to spend the rest of my life. And my knee-jerk reaction? I'm thinking about a rooming list I need to get from a client, prospecting I need to do to make my goals. I'm thinking about my trip to DC to visit a couple of dear friends in late January. I'm thinking about everything but what needs to be dealt with - as I've always done.

So as I force myself to turn about face and close my eyes and let it come at me - all the things from which I've run - I'm finding the impact reshaping who I am. But it's forcing me to stop shutting it all out. I've opened the floodgates and let the waves crash into me, head on.

I had the opportunity to once again take a position in DC. I didn't pursue it. I've made the decision to stay home for once. I'll wait for it all to catch up to me, and I'll deal with it all, one item at a time.

Eventually I'll be able to call Rhode Island without crying - I'll have to. I owe him at the very least that much. As much as I don't believe my partner and I are right for each other, at least not right now, (and as I write that without the conviction I think should have, given my decision), I so badly want him in my life. I will call his beautiful family and maintain a relationship with them. I will visit my Dad's grave more often. I will pay off my debts, and I will stop running.

I have been at perhaps the lowest point in my life this year. What I've felt has not compared to anything I've ever experienced. It's as if I've stopped running long enough for the sand storm to catch up and scour my skin raw to the bone.

But what I've learned this year is not that despite the painful parts of life, I want to live. I've learned that I want to live.

I don't want to miss anything. I have so much to do yet. I have two nieces and a nephew to watch grow up. I have to make more money so I can spoil them as an uncle should. I want my own children. I want them to know their brilliant cousins and incredible, fiercely loving family. I want them to feel as lucky as I do, despite it what life throws their way. I want to teach them to turn about face and not make the mistakes I've made.

This year, as broke as I might be, I went a little overboard with the shopping. Because of what I've lost, I have a new appreciation for what I have. Any shopper's remorse I might have will be cured by huge blue eyes smiling through torn Christmas paper. It'll reinforce why I'm here, in South Carolina.

I love my job. Yep - I love it. It's been a very long time since I could really say that. I have amazing bosses and incredible coworkers. Yes, hospitality and I are going through a very extended, very messy divorce - but we're learning to live with each other for a while before it's finalized.

This Christmas my Dad's absence will be heavy. When we're all smiling, laughing, opening gifts and enjoying each others' company, it will be the elephant not in the room. I'll also wake up tomorrow morning thinking about someone in Rhode Island, and I'll go to bed tomorrow night thinking about him. I'll probably spend every day for a very long time wondering if I made the right decision.

But I'll also think about who's here. I'll hug my nieces and nephew a little tighter. I'll hug my Mom and sister and Bio-Dad a little more often. I will embrace what's here, because now more than ever I would love to realize how much I love something while I can still reach out and touch it.

For once I want to stop having one foot in Rhode Island and another foot in England, while admiring the world in front of me from a comfortable distance. It's what I've always done, and I think it's time to live and act here and now. It's time to end the permanent detour. If my Dad left me nothing else, if he never taught me anything else, it's just that - his last gift to me on the first Christmas without him.

Merry Christmas everyone. Hug your family. Love what you have.

Gold Name Tags Are All The Rage

2009-12-11T19:39:00.001-05:00

I was helping a group contact unload some gifts into the ballroom for a Christmas party this afternoon when a guest intercepted me and asked what I've been asked oh so many times while working in hotels - even back when I wore a uniform - "Do you work here?"

My knee-jerk response is to say "No, gold name tags are all the rage." I typically bite my tongue, (a skill in which anyone who's been in the hotel industry for any length of time has mastered), smile and say "yes." Or, if it's been a really bad day, "no" (and walk away with a satisfied smile).

I've heard it said that there are no stupid questions, only stupid people. Well, I disagree. There are both, in abundance. I realize that often these people were not necessarily stupid, however absolutely no thought was given to the question before their question was asked.

To follow is a small sampling of some of the interrogative gems I've collected over the years. First-listed is the response I would like to have made, (or may have, had I been that quick) followed by the approximate actual response.

Enjoy, and please feel free to share your own brushes with the dimly witted.

Asked while I stood behind what could not be mistaken for anything other than a hotel registration desk:

"Is this where we check in?"
No. For our amusement and yours, we have hidden the registration desk. It's a fun little game we like to play.
Actual response: "Yes, sir. It is."

Asked while I was guiding tours on the River Thames:

"Why did the royal family have [Windsor] Castle built on the flight path to Heathrow Airport?"
I'm sure that back in 1066 William the Conqueror executed someone for this severe lack of foresight.
Actual response: Blank stare to allow the other tourists to laugh. (Believe it or not - when I relayed this story, it appears it had been asked multiple times).

"Does this boat drop people off where it picks them up?"
No. We take you to London and leave you with a map and some bread crumbs.
Actual response: "Typically, yes."

"Does this boat go on the water here?"
No. You are looking at the rare but exciting levitating boat. Once all are boarded and securely in their seats, we take them on an aerial tour of the Thames Valley.
Actual response: "Typically, yes."

"Can you direct me toward Windsor Castle?" (Please keep in mind that Windsor Castle is on a hill, and is highly visible to anyone in the town, and neighboring towns).
You know, I'm really not sure. I've been meaning to go by and see what it looks like.
Actual response: (Point)

"How long is the half-hour tour?" (yes. really.)
Five hours sir, or if you pay double, overnight.
Actual response: "31 minutes."

"Is there a bar on the boat?"
"Yes."
"Do you serve alcohol?"
No. Soup only.
Actual response: "Yes, would you like another drink?" (I was a little bolder in my youth)

"Where do we buy tickets?"
In Paris - or, on Tuesdays in Southwest London.
Actual response: (Point at the VERY large, signed, ticket office ten feet away).

Asked while working in a downtown Charleston hotel:

"What happens to the city outside of tourist season?"
Well, we pack it into little boxes and ship it to Los Angeles. We keep it in the same warehouse as Williamsburg, Virginia.
Actual response: "It's much the same, with fewer people."

"What's East of Charleston?"
Iraq. Or, if you keep going for a while, Charleston again.
Actual response: "The Atlantic Ocean."

(Asked while a bellman drove a car into the garage across the street right in front of us)
"Do you valet?"
No. We will take your car and sell it on the black market. Oops, the secret it out.
Actual response: "Typically, yes."

Asked working at Middleton Place, a plantation and Inn near Charleston:

"Where do you keep the alligators?"
In the guest rooms. I'll make sure he's gone before you get there.
Actual response: "They do pretty well on their own."

"Were there slaves on this plantation?"
Nope. Back in the day it was full of Oompa Loompas.
Actual response: "Unfortunately, yes."

"Is the honeymoon suite an actual suite?"
It is in fact a parlor with two twin beds and an outhouse.
Actual response: "Not just in name only."

Though this was not a guest question, I have to mention it. I had just locked up the lodge, and saw a bobcat about ten feet from my car. I radioed the registration building, where my friend Amy was (unbeknown to me) checking in a couple of guests.
"Amy, come in."
"Go ahead Will."
"There's a bobcat about ten feet away from my car."
"Is he on the other side of your car from you?"
"For the moment."
"Walk up to your car very slowly."
"Working on that."
"Get in and lock the doors."
I could not help but laugh. "Are they good with car doors?"

Working in Tysons Corner, in a suburb of Washington, DC:

"Is this the Marriott?"
No. Not THE Marriott. That's somewhere else. This is just a decoy. Good, isn't it?
Actual response: (After glancing up at the VERY prominent glowing red Marriott sign on top of our tower). "Yes, sir."

"Are the White House and all the monuments and stuff within walking distance?"
Everything is in walking distance, eventually.
Actual response: "Unfortunately, no."

(Early in the morning, outside the restaurant, buffet in full view)
"Do you serve breakfast here?"
No. What you're smelling is actually a breakfast-scented spray we use in the lobby for a fresh morning atmosphere.
Actual response: "Yes."

Working in a Marriott in Providence, Rhode Island - standing in the very large parking lot:

"Can we park here?"
No. We ask our guests not to bring cars, or otherwise park at the mall.
Actual response: "Typically, yes."

"Do the elevators go all the way to the top?"
Yours don't. (Or) No. These only go up three floors, but the stairs are very nice.
Actual response: "Usually, yes."

(Asked by a guest arriving from New York)
"What time is it here?"
The same time in New York. Except on Tuesdays.
Actual response: (I told her the time, and she looked somewhat surprised, but didn't say another word. Some people travel so much they really do forget what city they're in, so this is almost forgivable.

(Pointing to the telephone on the concierge desk)
"Can I make calls on this phone?"
No, but isn't it pretty?
Actual response: "I believe you may."

(Group contact standing by several long tables full of chafing dishes and platters of cold items)
"Is this the buffet?"
No, but it sure looks a lot like one, don't you think?
Actual response: "Yes sir it is."

Working in a restaurant in Mount Pleasant, South Carolina:

"Are all the steaks made of beef?"
No, some are made of Plexiglas.
Actual response: "Typically, yes."

"What does La Casa Di Romanza mean?"
The house of meat.
Actual response: "The house of romance" (with restrained gag reflex)

"Is this your wine list?"
No, this is Cliff's Notes on Chaucer's Canterbury Tales.
Actual response: "I believe it is, yes."

While studying in culinary school, after class, in my chef's whites in a supermarket (our executive chef here at the Marriott Greenville recently experienced the same thing):

"Oh, are you a chef?"
No, why?
"Maybe one day."

Working as a corporate event planner in Greenville, South Carolina:

"Is your hotel near the beach?"
As compared to say, Kansas, yes.
Actual response: "We're only a few hours away from the nearest beach."

"Do your data projectors work well with laptops?"
No, we've had to have a few come-to-Jesus meetings. They're very mean projectors.
Actual response: "I've never had an issue that couldn't be easily resolved."

"Can we eat in the restaurant?"
Only on Tuesdays.
Actual response: "Yes, you certainly can."

(This group's meeting started at 7am)
"Can I get in the room at 6 to start setting up?"
No. We have an overnight event in that room, and they break half an hour before you. You may go in promptly at 7.
Actual response: "Yes, you can."

This could go on. And on. I get these types of questions all the time. I mean all the time. Almost every day, in fact. I look forward to going back to school and getting as far away from tourism and hospitality as I can - however this divorce (as mentioned in a previous blog) from hospitality is getting messier all the time. And if I do end up in public relations, I'm not sure how much better it will get.

There are stupid people everywhere. And they all keep finding me.

Silk-Shealy-Vaughn-Blanc-Eastman-Johnson-Bailey-Jenkins: My Family

2009-11-23T19:55:00.002-05:00

This will be the first Thanksgiving without my Dad. Not Bio-Dad mind you, but Brit-Dad. (For a full differentiation, see www.gamecockmama.blogspot.com, but Brit-Dad was my stepfather).

Among others, one of my best friends, Maria, and her brother and aunt will be joining us for Thanksgiving this year. Maria is Argentinian, and of course does not make the long trek to South America for an American holiday. Last year she joined us, and it is quickly becoming tradition for her to do so every year. Aside this from being an assurance that we actually see each other once a year, she has (as a few of my friends have) quickly become a part of the family. Maria was with us for Dad's last Thanksgiving, and was fortunate enough to get to know him a little before he died. Like everyone who met him, she was enamored by his quick wit, jovial disposition, and general ability to see the humorous side of any given situation, and poke fun at those who couldn't.

With everything that's happened in the past year (the death of my Dad, my divorce), I've really come to a new understanding of what family really is. Of course I will be saying nothing new here, and as cliche'd a time to discuss the meaning of family this may be, the cliche' makes the statement no less true.

My closest friends - Sam, Maria, Yarnell, have seen the absolute worst of me. They've seen me through the brightest and darkest times of my life over the past few years, and are still there. They have exhibited unconditional love, and that is the purest definition of family.

Those who know both my mother and me well will probably tell you that aside from looks (that are decidedly Shealy), I inherited everything from my mother. And with that side of the family, I have much in common. But here's the thing - I'm not blood-related to any of them (aside form of course my Mom and Bio-Sis). My mother was adopted, as were my two first cousins. My English family is technically related through marriage, and yet I could tell you a trait I share with each of them. From this family to the relationship I have with my closest friends, I can tell you that family has absolutely nothing to do with DNA.

My Dad was not my biological father (though I am in the process of building some of the relationship with Bio-Dad that I lacked growing up), but he was very much my father. He shaped who I am today in so many ways. I see him in me all the time, even sometimes when I glance in the mirror. He taught me to question everything, to challenge even the seemingly obvious. He taught me to scratch the surface of any situation, disregarding any assumed facts. He helped teach me by example to get over my shyness by not taking myself so seriously.

Don't get me wrong - I have plenty in common with the Shealys, aside from looks. I notice it whenever I'm around my aunts, or when my sister and I have our rare-but-wonderful times away from everybody else. But so much of my character comes from the Silk side, so much of my early molding comes from the Davis side, so many of my values come from the Johnson-Eastman-Blanc side, that I could never claim one particular family as my own.

But I am extraordinarily grateful for them to have claimed me.

Everyday Animosity

2009-11-18T20:16:00.001-05:00

Most of us consider ourselves nice people. Most of us - there are a few out there who take pride in their outward bitterness toward the world at large, but I believe they're in the minority. But they are there - they know who they are. I've planned their meetings.

But most of us really do believe we are nice people. By "most of us" I include the woman who, on the morning commute, pretends to not see me, or my signal as she continues up the road in the adjacent lane, about three miles per hour faster than me. "Most of us" includes the jerk who gets in my lane, right ahead of me, in the ever-persistent quest to just - be - one - more - car ahead. Really dude, you saved like a second in travel time.

"Most of us" includes the guy who cuts me off to steal the last empty pump at the gas station. It includes the man clearly yelling, veins-in-forehead visible, at the traffic light. Anger at an electric light. Really.

Unfortunately, this list also includes I - who swears at these people as I drive to work every morning. And yet the moment I step into work, I forget about all of it. None of these instances occur to me throughout the remainder of the day - not one. We all do this, on some level or another. Had we met any of these people in casual face-to-face conversation, there would be no rudeness, no glares, no finger gestures, as it's entirely unacceptable to do this when there are not two car windows separating you. It becomes socially awkward to vent your feelings honestly, however brash they may be, when out of the car.

But once out of the car, the animosity doesn't end. Workplace gossip, (telling someone something about someone else, just for the entertainment factor, completely disregarding the outcome), workplace politics, and the general smearing of the names of the people many of us see more than out own families - I don't get it. But I think it's a manifestation of the same road rage.

A guest who walks through the lobby - they may have a mullet, or their jeans may be exposing a quarter-moon, or they may simply look out of place, are relegated to a piece of walking entertainment value. I've been guilty of the quiet laughter as well - but lack of compassion is still a form of animosity.

Getting off the phone with a client and rolling eyes; sticking a middle finger at the wall when an annoying co-worker leaves the room; sending an email dripping in sarcasm from your perspective, syrupy sweet from that of the reader's. I've been guilty of some (okay, maybe all) of these things, but I know I'm not alone in this. I also know that when I see these people, I am genuinely happy to see them. I want to help them. I want to figure out how I can make their day, in some cases their life, a little easier.

And yet we return to the evening commute. We've forgotten all about the angers of the morning commute. And we find new ones. And we go home, and begin our evening rituals - cooking dinner, watching movies, working an hour longer, whatever they may be. And not once do we consider the levels of animosity we've exhibited. We don't consider the casual disdain of our fellow human beings as anything other than general annoyance.

We might have a glass of wine, then go to bed, and wake up - beginning the cycle anew.

Casual anger doesn't feel harmful. Not to ourselves, not to others. I would argue the contrary on both ends. These little episodes add up, make light work of eroding our basic human compassion.

We're so caught up in our little worlds being inconvenienced by the likes of others, we forget that they may be experiencing the same. My client rolls her eyes when she hangs up the phone with me. As I'm extending my middle finger to the empty doorway, my annoying co-worker is rolling their eyes, wishing they hadn't had to come talk to me. The aspiring gossip-columnist in the office secretly wonders what everyone has to say about him/her. The woman who didn't let me pass was so worried about a meeting she had that day, or the potential to be laid off, or the fight she had with her husband that morning, she was not remotely aware of a turn signal.

I'm not saying we should all stop, think, and find a way to play nice, both internally and externally. We're human, so it's just not going to happen - not all of the time.

But if just once a day, when you're tempted to act out in aggression, however inconsequential and meaningless it might seem to you, try - just for a moment - to understand your target's perspective.

We might actually get somewhere, and the morning commute could be just a little easier.

In Defense of Buffy

2009-11-12T20:12:00.003-05:00

"Tact is just not saying true stuff. I'll pass." – Buffy the Vampire Slayer

“Camp: The Lie That Tells The Truth” – Phillip Core

If somebody mentions “Buffy the Vampire Slayer,” what images immediately pop into your mind? If you’re flipping channels, and the info box at the bottom of the screen reads: “Buffy the Vampire Slayer,” do you even bother to watch it for five seconds? I couldn’t previously blame anyone for the likely answers to these two questions, (I couldn’t even get past the name of the show), but about five or six years ago, while having a beer after work, decided to leave the show on for a few minutes. I’ve never looked back.

Here is a well-written, thoughtful show that dealt candidly with alienation, addiction, self-destruction, suicide, loss, grief, homosexuality, and self-mutilation - wrapped in a package of a silly teen drama. It used allegory to deal with everything from homelessness and heroin addiction to puppy love and puberty.

It dealt with the most serious questions and sober answers of life, with flooring frankness and humor. Mostly though, I think its defining characteristic was its unwavering unpredictability. I doubt I’ll change anyone’s mind with this blog entry, but I intend to make a case for Buffy. Call me a nerd, but there was something more to this show than teen angst, fantasy storytelling or cliffhangers.

It was simply a show about people in high school and college, falling in love, becoming addicted to drugs, (allegorically magic), and living otherwise normal lives, in the normal Southern California town of Sunnydale – that was built on the mouth of Hell.

I’ll make my case first by listing the characters, and who they were throughout the seven years of the show. These are the reasons why it’s incredibly silly, completely absurd, and why I’m totally in love with it.

Buffy Summers: Wanted normalcy more than anything in the world; wanted to be a cheerleader, to go watch Disney on Ice with her father every year, go on shopping sprees , and sit on prom committees. But she was trapped by who she was. I know, you have your formula for any comic book hero. But then she killed her first love, later fell in love with someone without a soul, watched her mother die of a brain tumor, raised a sister who doubted her own existence (as did Buffy), then finally died and went to heaven. Only then, when she had her happy ending,her friends – who were trying help – ripped her out of paradise to come back and help them through their own personal hells.

Willow Rosenberg: Perfect student, perfect friend, devoted to everyone around her; secretly waited to come out of the closet as a lesbian, suffered from an addiction that ended up killing one character and nearly another. Eventually she tried to blow up the world.

Xander Harris: Referred to himself once as “The Zeppo” – the one who never contributed, never did anything, and lived in the shadows of great people around him. Eventually he got his eye gouged out, but still tried to stay behind and help. He was made Dracula’s slave, was raped by a praying mantis, and ultimately was engaged to a demon (in human form) who later tried to murder him after he left her at the altar.

Joyce Summers: Buffy's mother, when at the end of the second year of the show found out her daughter was the slayer, asked: “Have you ever tried not being a slayer?” It was a coming-out story far too many people have experienced. (Not the slayer part, I mean). Ultimately she was completely supportive of anything her monster-killing, vampire-loving, super-human daughter did. After five years on the show, she was killed – not by supernatural means, but by a brain tumor. There was absolutely nothing Buffy could do about it. The episode – titled “The Body” had no background music, just scene by scene of how Buffy was reacting to her mother’s sudden death (she had been treated for cancer, was out of the hospital, and was expected to be okay). In one scene it appeared Buffy, after discovering Joyce’s body, had managed to get her to breathe again, get paramedics to come help, get her mother to the hospital in an ambulance, and later embrace her in a hospital bed – only for the scene to cut abruptly back to Buffy staring at her mother’s body.

Dawn Summers: Buffy’s little sister appeared during the first episode of the fifth year. For three episodes, no explanation was given. Buffy had always been an only child. Only later does the viewer discover that Dawn had been created – along with everyone’s memories of her - just weeks prior. This was not a situation brought to us by Plot Convenience Playhouse. It was the introduction of a bratty teenage girl who, when discovering that she was not human, slashed herself with a knife in an attempt to discover if she felt any pain, if she would bleed like anyone else. It was Buffy’s job to protect her little sister, keep her from being killed. Buffy later killed herself to save her sister – hence the being dragged back from heaven bit I mentioned earlier. It was an extreme statement on the meaning of family, sacrifice, and who you are in spite of where you came from. It might be a simple lesson, but it was well-executed, if someone dramatically. Well, we are talking about Buffy.

Anya Jenkins: Former “vengeance demon,” spent a thousand years bringing justice to wronged women, only to have her powers stripped away and live like any other human. She was a child in some ways, re-learning what it’s like to be human, while retaining the wisdom (and sarcasm) of a thousand-year-old. She lived through (and partially caused) the Russian Revolution, and yet could not understand people on a basic human level. She eventually sacrificed herself saving one of the most seemingly irredeemable characters of the show – a character who had only really served as a running punchline.

Spike: A vampire without a soul, (as opposed to Angel, who had one), who eventually fell in love with Buffy. For five seasons he obsessed over her, which vampires I guess don’t do. They just maim kill people on this show. He tried to rape Buffy, and in self-hate went on a mission halfway around the world to restore his soul . The lesson here was that the act of doing it was enough. Again, simple, but a fun way to tell it. Spike eventually dies to save everyone.

Okay, I could go on, there are several more recurring characters, but these were the most important to the storyline.

Another thing Buffy had going for it was the dialogue. Here are some of my favorite quotes from the show:

"Buffy - love the hair. It just screams street urchin."

"Once again, the Hell mouth puts the special in special occasion."

"Sure, alternate realities. You could uh, could have like a world without shrimp. Or with, you know, nothing but shrimp. Just don't ask me to live there."

"I think it's the secret to getting you out of my mind. Putting you behind me. Behind me figuratively. I'm thinking face-to-face for the event itself"

"I Anya, promise to love you, to cherish you, to honor you, uh, but not to obey you, of course, because that's anachronistic and misogynistic and who do you think you are, like a sea captain or something?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Martha Stewart isn't a demon. She's a witch. Nobody could do that much decoupage without calling on the powers of darkness."

"People who think their problems are so huge craze me, like this time I sort of ran over this girl on her bike. It was the most traumatizing event of my life, and she's trying to make it about her leg. Like my pain meant nothing"

"Buffy, I'm here to kill you, not to judge you"

"Oh please. I don't mean to interrupt your downward mobility, but I just wanted to tell you that you won't be meeting Coach Foster, the woman with the chest hair, because gym was canceled due to the extreme dead guy in the locker."

"Where did you get that dress? This is a one-of-a-kind Todd Oldham. Do you know how much this dress cost? Is this a knock-off? This is a knock-off, isn't it? Some cheesy knock-off. This is exactly what happens when you sign these free trade agreements."

The list goes on –there are entire websites devoted to Buffy the Vampire Slayer quotes. No, really – Google it.So naturally, sometime well into the series, Buffy was getting some mixed reviews – many of them stating that its success was at least partially riding on its dialogue.The wr iters responded with “Hush.”

“Hush” was an episode about fairy-tale monsters robbing everyone in town of the ability to speak. Nearly the entire show was done without words. The episode was nominated for an Emmy (and in my opinion should have received it).

Without words, we are introduced to Tara, Willow’s long-time girlfriend – simultaneously discovering that Willow may be a lesbian. Anya and Xander fall more in love. Buffy’s non-vampire boyfriend discovers what she can do – and at the end of the episode, when everyone’s voice returns, nobody can think of a thing to say.

Two years later, the writers went in the opposite direction, and produced the musical episode, “Once More With Feeling.” The episode was complete with extras, elaborate singing and dancing numbers, and some actually pretty-okay music. Through the musical episode we find out that Buffy was not raised from the dead, but rather dragged out of heaven, and that her friends have destroyed her while trying to save her.

One of the lyrics from the songs of “Once More With Feeling:”

There was no pain, no fear no doubt,
'Til they pulled me out of Heaven.
So that's my refrain.
I live in Hell, 'cause I've been expelled from Heaven.
I think I was in Heaven.
So give me something to sing about!
Please, give me something!

I know I’m a dork. You probably figured that out by now. But I’m not an enormous fan of fantasy, and less of one when it comes to teen dramas. But this show was so much more than a teen drama.

I likely won’t convince anybody to give this show a second glance. In fact, you might have decided this is a silly blog entry on which to spend my time. Maybe it is.

In so many ways Buffy the Vampire Slayer was sophomoric and downright silly. But it never claimed to be anything else. In fact, it embraced it. It was honest with what it was, and in so doing, became far more than what could be expected.

I wish more television was that unpredictable.

Something Wicked This Way Comes

2009-10-19T17:01:00.004-04:00

The paranormal, the mysteries of life and the things that go "bump" have been known to keep me up at night. I know I'm not the only one, and while during the daylight hours I always think I was being silly the night before, the wee hours of the morning, when I've had little sleep, have a way of amplifying my fear while suspending my logic.

I knew I would want to tackle this subject eventually, and I thought that with Halloween looming, this would be as good a time as any.

I was married in Salem, Massachusetts. And though the historic witch trials only took up fifteen months of the city's nearly 384-year history, you would think it was all that had ever happened there. (Actually, the trials took place in neighboring town of Danvers). Don't get me wrong, there are a few museums and landmarks in Salem not devoted to the trials, (The House of the Seven Gables, Maritime Center, Pirate Museum, Peabody-Essex Museum), the town seems to be dedicated to the dark spot on its resume.

We were married in Salem mostly because it's a beautiful, surprisingly friendly (given its proximity to Boston) and liberal town. A gay marriage ceremony in the town square did not bring protests, or even a batted eyelid. But the place is dotted with magic shops, witch museums, haunted houses, ghost walks, and a statue of Elizabeth Montgomery in the town square. There's even a museum dedicated to Lizzie Bordon, which is odd, since the infamous ax murders took place in Fall River, 70 miles to the South. But these are things that bring in the money. These tourist traps are what make Salem a Halloween Mecca and a trip to Salem a veritable Hajj for Wiccans and their ilk.

Why does this otherwise beautiful town need to focus on a piece of history that could be considered shameful and embarrassing? Again - money talks. And why does the the lure of the supernatural draw so many visitors?

I've had my fair share of odd experiences, unexplainable events. I'm a jinx around electronics. Recently my password to our reservations system at work was expiring every hour or so, for no good reason. I didn't think much about it at the time, but the same thing has happened to my email accounts at work, my voice mail, and even the desktop to my computer. Coupled with my experiences of what some in the old south call a "hagging" (though I never saw the thing, as it really just consisted of my being awake but unable to move, and have since read up on many reasonable explanations), dreams that seem to come true during the day in one form or another, (though always in hindsight, and anything is open to interpretation) and just general weirdness that seems to surround me, I tend to raise an eyebrow when anything out of the ordinary occurs. My life has always been full of odd coincidences, feelings of not being alone, (again scientifically explainable), and just about a weekly bout of serious deja vu. But I don't obsess over them. Obsessing over these things will not solve their collective mystery. I've never found a reason for any of these things, and I likely never will. I'm not worried about it in the slightest. I kind of like not knowing when it comes to these things, at least not concretely.

But it's still fun to ponder the unexplainable from time to time. Why?

It's widely known that during times of strife and unrest people flock to the movies more often. Television programs like Heroes, Lost and Smallville do very well. More interestingly, programs that more closely resemble our lives, (relatively speaking of course) like Desperate Housewives, House, Brothers & Sisters, etc.. do equally well, if not better. They require less effort to engage, less suspension of reality. They allow escapism to be easy, make light work of taking us to another universe, just one that doesn't happen to be populated by aliens or ghosts, unless they choose to "jump the shark." We can escape into others' lives, and not feel like we're watching fantasy - though we are.

Is this a healthy outlet? It could be that by allowing ourselves to become absorbed in these very-recognizable universes such as Wisteria Lane, we subconsciously find solutions to our own real-life problems, as they're extrapolated into a preposterous situation in our 42" worlds. We crave the catharsis, the reaching of a conclusion to an impossible situation in an hour. We can easily become addicted to that catharsis when in life we haven't reached those solutions ourselves.

Some likely think their lives are too boring, or more seriously may be afraid to examine their own lives more closely. Dangerously, television can fill that gap nicely, if you let it.

What does this have to do with the obsession by some in the paranormal? Absolutely everything.

By focusing on life's mysteries, we suspend our own realities. Sci-fi, horror, fantasy, to some is what drinking is to others - holding the clutches of the real world at arm's length just long enough to get some sweet escapist relief. Eventually though, the movie ends and the lights come back on. You can buy another ticket and go back in for another feature, but the theater will have to eventually close.

This isn't always the case - there are countless aspiring Fox Mulders out in the world who really do wish to find the truth of these seemingly other-worldly events through observation, experimentation and analysis. Their motives may not be escapism, but then again, their motives may be no less than to reel their projected fantasy world into reality by using logic. Just a thought.

So why does all this hold my interest? Into which category to I belong? I think I need to know that there is more going on. This is by no means an uncommon need.

The incidents I mentioned in my life above, and maybe a little more, are enough to tell me that there is in fact much more to life than what we see. Maybe those bumps we hear in the night are knocks on our doors. Maybe if there are unknown intelligences 'out there,' our mere suspicion of their existence keeps some of us going through the darkest times of our lives.

I'm not going to delve into my personal belief system here, but when there are events in life that can't be explained, you can do one of three things: You can ignore and dismiss them, you can obsess over them and lose sleep over research, or you can simply go with your gut. The third option is where I fall. To me this makes the most sense - answer the questions of life's outer mysteries with your own inner ones. Isn't this why human intuition exists, to fill the gaps logic can't?

It's a pretty big world out there, and it's arrogance to believe we've done more than just begin to scratch the surface. Last week a mysterious ribbon of particles were discovered at the edge of our solar system, http://www.universetoday.com/2009/10/15/spacecraft-detects-mysterious-ribbon-at-edge-of-solar-system/heliosphere-2/which by the way, like the rest of the universe, is full of matter that we also can't explain or even identify http://imagine.gsfc.nasa.gov/docs/science/know_l1/dark_matter.html ). We can't even fully explain gravity. We haven't yet begun.

Bumps in the night should not surprise us.

Maybe that bump in the night is a knock at the door. Maybe it's a knock that comes late at night, in the darkest hour before the sun illuminates the real world in the morning. Maybe you answer the knock, and nobody is there.

And maybe the one who knocked just wanted to know if you were paying attention.

Happy Halloween!

Hospitality and Me: The Beginning of a Messy Divorce

2009-10-11T23:11:00.005-04:00

Dear John:

After fifteen years of our relationship and eight years of marriage, I regret to tell you, it’s finally over. For you I’ve been a front desk agent, bartender, night auditor, cook, tour guide, sales assistant, banquet manager, room service server, restaurant manager, concierge, and event planner. On two occasions I have worked twenty-four-hour straight shifts for you. I have sacrificed relationships, time with friends and countless holidays for you.

You have taught me life skills, work ethic and the value of diversity. You’ve tested the limits of my stamina and perseverance. You’ve shown me that when you feel have no more energy left to give, no more time, no more patience, that you’ve only begun to tap your inner resources.

You’ve taught me to deal with stress. You’ve taught me to juggle difficult clients, angry staff and a tight budget. You’ve taught me that your staff, your clients and your employers will grade you equally, and that each scorecard is as important as the other.

Despite all you’ve given me, I no longer love you. You deserve somebody who can give you the love I once did, and who truly wishes to be in this marriage. I no longer have the need for it, and feel it’s truly time for me to move on.

Warmest Regards,

William E. Shealy

Various Hotels, Usually Marriott International

DIRECT: 843-867-5309

Wshealy@frustrated.com

Visit Our Website! http://www.anyhotel.com/boredwithitall

Okay, so it’s been years coming. I’ve tried so many aspects of this business, and have found some grade of fulfillment or another in each of them – until now. I’ve decided that it’s finally time to move on. It wasn’t that it was an easy decision to make, either.

I’ve devoted so much time and energy, sacrificed more than I care to admit, to the pursuit of one day becoming a general manager and perhaps moving on to a corporate position. It was all simply because I knew this was an attainable goal, and with ach position I learned more – and yet always felt like I could be learning even more some place else, in another field. Walking out of various hotels at 2am, wondering what it would be like to actually go to work and leave while the sun was up, I thought I could finally find a life balance by changing fields within the field and become an event planner.

Now that I’m there, I’ve run into the same situation – a sort of boredom. Not the kind of boredom that equals not having enough to do, the kind that comes from wishing you were someplace else a little too much throughout the day. There’s a certain appeal to maintaining relationships the hotel has with its clients, to planning events, a certain creativity to working with banquets to pull off a wonderful event within the confines of a tight budget. But again – I feel like it’s wrong for me. I feel like I’m cheating myself, and my employer.

There’s also a certain dishonesty that revolves around being different people for different clients, to painting any picture in the light required to convince the clients that we are always exactly what they need. It’s fun – but I’ve been doing the same thing in one sense or another for way too long.

It’s time to move on.

But I still struggle with it. I love this business enough to have engaged in a serious debate over the past several months. Is it really me?

Several months ago, when I was deciding between a few different jobs, Bio-Dad suggested I write out a list of my likes and dislikes with each opportunity, so I might better see the positives and negatives on paper, and more clearly debate them. (I paraphrase his exact words). So I did that here – here are my results:

The Good:

1) Diversity! There is so much diversity in the workplace. In any hotel you’ll find about half the employees are from other states, other countries. It brings such a wonderful dynamic, to have so much perspective available to you for each decision. You find little racism, next to no xenophobia, so much acceptance of various backgrounds, that it’s very easy to be yourself, if only around your team.

2) It’s Rewarding. Particularly in events, you can see the fruit of your labors right in front of you. Be it with an event you’ve planned or set up, or the success of an associate you’ve trained and helped work through their individual challenges – your success is tangible and visible.

3) People. You cannot work in this industry unless you appreciate people. And if you do, it’s a wonderful place to be. There are countless opportunities to help people, to help show them their potential, to learn from people whose experiences are so much more vast than your own, that you cannot help but to grow. You grow from those you teach even more from those who are teaching you. You grow from getting to know your guests, you grow from learning to anticipate others’ needs. It’s a true, continuous learning environment. You learn and grow, or you get left behind.

4) Life Lessons! You are forced to develop a work ethic, to learn to juggle priorities, to sort said priorities, to succeed or fail with no middle ground. You learn to act creatively, to improvise, to be honest, to stand up for your successes and acknowledge your mistakes. In acknowledging your mistakes you learn to grow from them. If you don’t acknowledge your mistakes, someone else will. And you have to acknowledge them, and fix them fast. There’s no time for floundering when everything you do is on a timetable.

5) Days go by fast! If I’ve learned nothing else from hospitality, it’s this: give somebody one task and all day to do it, and it will likely get it done to your satisfaction. Give them ten things to do, and give them a time limit, and they will amaze you with the results. This goes both ways – I function better with a stopwatch now, and I’ve learned that most people, when presented with a hurdle, jump higher than when presented with a speed hump. Fifteen hours feels like eight. An hour feels like a few minutes. A week feels like a few days, and a year feels like a few months. Yes, the days fly by, and often way too fast.

6) The Food! Working in a hotel, it’s easy to get spoiled by the food. As I eat my grapefruits, pleaches, (yes, pleaches) and raw vegetables, undoing the damage of so many years of hotel food, I know that I ate better than most. I’ve sampled innumerable wedding cakes, delicate pastries, tailored oils, fine rare meats, exotic sauces, fruits from around the world. These, mind you, were mostly leftovers in the staff caff. We have better day-old leftovers than you might find in many excellent restaurants.

7) Creatvity. You have next to no storage space. You have a team making far less than you know they deserve. You have a laughable budget to give your team the tools they need to do their jobs, but your team rates you twice a year on your performance. You’re also rated monthly on your spending. And you have to make sure each guest is smiling when they walk out the door, because they rate you as well. In event planning, you have to work with the chef to create menus that are memorable, and yet inexpensive to produce. You have to decorate with old, oft-broken equipment. In catering you have to work with beat-up hot-boxes that work only with a dozen lit Sternos, out of a catering van that probably can’t be washed due to being held together by the dirt, (there’s an unwritten rule that catering vans must be dented, old, fuel-guzzling beasts. Oh, and they must have a rear door that does not open unless you hit it a certain way, kick the bumper at the right time, and simultaneously push a hidden lever on a door that’s about to rust out if its hinges). The plates must be chipped, and the silverware must need constant polishing. And not only does each event have to appear a shining, flawless, unique vision, but you have to ensure each associate is smiling as brightly as you, as hard as that may be. Yes, you have to be creative, and you have to be creative on a budget.

The Bad:

1) Angry Guests. You are a front desk agent. You come into work, clock in, arrive at the desk, and start to review your day ahead – suddenly a guest is screaming at you. Any onlooker will assume this is either a complete butthole, or that the hotel has royally screwed up. (Usually they assume the latter). You have to make it right, because it is your fault. It’s your fault, if for no other reason than your nametag has the hotel logo printed in the corner. The customer may not always be right, but they damn well better believe they are before the conversation is over. And even if it’s the fault some other associate (who may not even work there anymore), it’s your fault now. Any problem becomes your problem. Any negative situation is your doing in the eyes of the guest. Perception is reality. Some people come in angry. Some know that anger equals rewards points, free rooms, and the occasional meal. Some can never be pleased. But they have to appear to be, and even if you’re not, they have to believe you’re truly sorry. And you have to do something about it. There and then. On a budget.

2) Getting sick all the time! Hotels are breeding grounds for illness. Viruses are born on airplanes and mature in hotels. You shake hands constantly. You take money. You touch used linens. You pick up used glasses. You carry dirty plates. If there’s a new strain of flu, you will get it. If you hear someone talk about a nasty cold going around, you just hope you don’t get it before the next big event. Because you will get it. And you cannot miss work, so you will give it to your team. And later you will cover for them when they can't come in.

3) The Other Side of Diversity. You have to ensure that associates from various nationalities, religions, life experiences, work well together, because they do not do so naturally. You have to do this when they have not slept, have not had time for breaks, (though it’s the law they take them), and they have to work with an equally diverse clientele. Given enough sleep deprivation and stress, anyone’s maturity level becomes that of a three year-old. It’s your job to ensure they interact well before you end up in a meeting in human resources. Once again, if associates fight, it can be construed as your fault. Arguably, any negative situation can be diffused before it escalates. Therefore, if you don’t catch the lit fuse and snuff it before it reaches the gun powder – and you saw its ignition – (and even if you didn’t) it very much is your fault.

4) No Life. Working in hospitality is being married to hospitality. You do not leave until the job is done, period. Anything in your private life takes a back seat to your job. The moment it doesn’t, people notice, and people talk. Once again, perception is reality. You’re excellent at your job or you’re poor at it. If you’re mediocre, you don’t change positions, and if you don’t move up, you’re more likely to be laid off. If you’re still, you’re a sitting target, and if you leave early to catch dinner with family or go home for a holiday – and something goes wrong while you’re away, the question of why you were not there bounces around the hotel like a pinball. You simply have to be there.

5) From the outside, your job is easy. From the outside, people might ask: How hard is it to serve food to a group? How hard can it be to plan a meeting? A monkey can check guests in. I won’t even begin to touch this one, it’s a blog entry in itself.

6) The pay. Hotels are expensive to operate. It’s so prohibitively expensive to operate a full service property that sometimes I’m amazed prospective owners are interested in the business to begin with. I recently heard a couple pass an ATM machine in the lobby. The (presumable) husband said to the (presumable) wife, “they don’t miss a penny.” Well, he was right. Insurance, food cost, labor, maintenance, mortgage, marketing – all these things are more expensive than you can imagine. It’s no wonder salaries are lower than you might think.

7) The superficiality of it all. Front-of-house people need to be pretty. In event planning and sales, you need to be whoever your client thinks you should be. And it’s your job to figure that out pretty quickly. Smiling ear to ear during a crisis, kissing babies, stroking egos at client luncheons – you have to make it all look seamless, happy, and easy. If you don’t, you’re not doing your job. A guest should never see you sweat, or be distressed. If they do, you’re apparently disorganized and in the wrong field.

The bads outweigh the goods for me.

I have met so many wonderfully creative, talented people in this business. And if it’s their life’s goal to become a general manager of a full-service property, or to move up in their specific field, or just continue to master what they do, then that’s wonderful. Anyone who chooses a hospitality career for life should be applauded.

I am not one of those people. I said in a previous blog that I can do more in my life. This is not meant to demean those who are pursuing this career for life. Quite the contrary, I am in awe of them. Hospitality workers are among the most patient, people-loving people you can ever meet. If they’re not, they won’t be in the industry very long.

General managers who have worked their way up through the ranks are some of the most dynamic, intelligent, intuitive people you will ever meet. Servers who have waited banquet tables for decades are people you could teach anyone about patience, stamina, creativity, and discipline.

I will probably miss this business, but not for a while. I maintain a pipe dream that maybe one day Eric and I can open a B&B. I hope I can get plenty of rest between now and then.

Hospitality, I love you. But it’s time for me to move on.