It's old, actually, but I just tripped over it here
"I left my pipe in my center console with a bowl packed when I took my car to the shop, and when I picked it up the weed had been smoked, but my oil change was only half price."
Saturday, June 23, 2012
Monday, May 14, 2012
Mostly, It's a Guy Thing
This post was triggered by some events of yesterday and today. Unavoidably, it spills over into politics, but just a very little. You will be happy to know that you are not required to agree with me.
A friend was putting together a list of guitar recordings for a CD and solicited my assistance. (As a hobby, I have acquired 2,785 songs in mp3 format, nearly all from the period 1955 to 1969.) The CD was to be for a group of men.
I sent (emailed) her a list of roughly twenty numbers and sent her the ones she did not already have. Although the list was to be guitar rock, I included a couple of numbers that didn't *quite* fit, explaining why I did so. In particular, I said ". . . I added The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly because *every* guy likes it."
Today she provided the men with a preview of the list, along with some selections of her own. Her next email to me included this:
Along with The Good, the Bad & and the Ugly, Clint Eastwood's "man with no name" movies and his "Dirty Harry" movies have achieved cult status.
Why is that?
Herewith, an opinion. In those movies his characters were imbued with a sense of purpose, sometimes personal, sometimes official and personal. The actions he considered necessary to achieve that purpose were not always legal - some would say not always moral. But he always did what was necessary to achieve his purpose, and he was always capable of doing it. When necessary he did it without compunction and without regard for the niceties of the law, even as police detective Harry Callahan.
An example: In Dirty Harry, Detective Callahan had two concerns - the welfare of a kidnapped girl (young, perhaps ten or twelve years old) and the apprehension of the kidnapper. At one point he catches up with the kidnapper, there is some gunplay, and the kidnapper is lying on the ground, wounded in one leg. Dirty Harry is frantic to learn the fate of the girl, and questions the kidnapper, who begins sniveling about his rights. Harry grinds his heel into the leg wound and gets the information.
I saw this movie in a theater, and much of the crowd cheered this action. Liberal critics were horrified - horrified, I say, that Americans would cheer such a brutish action.
What the critics showed no horror about, and what was going on in America then and continues to go on in America today, is the way such criminals - murderers, kidnappers, rapists, child molesters, etc. are dealt with by the system. In the great majority of cases sentencing consists of a slap on the wrist. The killer or child molester is not a *bad* person, only a *sick* one. Many are back on the streets after serving a small portion of a long sentence, and many - particularly child molesters, who have an extremely high recidivism rate - repeat their crimes, adding to a long list of victims of previously convicted criminals.
In the real world, New York officials and liberal columnists were also horrified at the popular support for Bernard Goetz, who shot four thugs who tried to rob him on the subway. The thugs were black and the usual attempt was made to turn the issue into a racist crime. A jury, whose members rode the subway and six of whom had been victims of street crime, refused to convict Goetz of anything but possession of an unlicensed firearm.
Now in New York City the crime of possession of an unlicensed gun is roughly equivalent to the crime of spitting on the sidewalk, but the judge, apparently also horrified by the popular support, vindictively sentenced Goetz to six months in jail, a year of psychiatric treatment, a probationary period of five years, two hundred hours community service, and a five thousand dollar fine. On appeal, the sentence was reduced to one year with no probation.
Bernard Goetz was widely and wildly supported by the public because of his small time but real life Dirty Harry actions. Three things must be taken into consideration regarding the audience cheering when Harry Callahan ground his heel into the kidnapper's leg wound:
1. The audience knew that to Callahan the victim's welfare was more important than the "rights" or "rehabilitation" of the perpetrator.
2. The audience knew that in a similar situation in real life the kidnapper would one day be free to walk the streets and victimize someone ese.
3. It was a movie, and an emotional release.
As for The Outlaw Josey Wales, Blondie (The Good, the Bad & the Ugly), and the man with no name, well, they knew that when it comes to bad guys the only good one is a dead one.
A friend and I once attended a showing of 5 1/2 hours of Clint Eastwood spaghetti westerns: The Good, the Bad & the Ugly, A Fistful of Dollars, and For a Few Dollars More. About halfway through there was an intermission. The audience was overwhelmingly male, and we hit the sidewalk for a toke and some conversation. One man confessed that this was his 23rd viewing of The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. (The official running time of that one is two hours forty-one minutes.)
While the films themselves appeal predominantly to men, they also turned Clint Eastwood into a sex symbol of sorts, and grown women have been reduced to giggling girls in chance encounters with him.
"A good man always knows his limitations." - Magnum Force
"You don't listen, do you, asshole?" and "Well, do you, punk?" - Dirty Harry
"Smith, and Wesson, and me." and "Go ahead. Make my day." - Sudden Impact
"Dyin' ain't much of a living, boy." - The Outlaw Josey Wales
"You know, you're gonna look awfully silly with that knife sticking up your ass." - High Plains Drifter
A friend was putting together a list of guitar recordings for a CD and solicited my assistance. (As a hobby, I have acquired 2,785 songs in mp3 format, nearly all from the period 1955 to 1969.) The CD was to be for a group of men.
I sent (emailed) her a list of roughly twenty numbers and sent her the ones she did not already have. Although the list was to be guitar rock, I included a couple of numbers that didn't *quite* fit, explaining why I did so. In particular, I said ". . . I added The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly because *every* guy likes it."
Today she provided the men with a preview of the list, along with some selections of her own. Her next email to me included this:
Well! "I added The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly because *every* guy likes it." That explains why as I played the list they kept telling me we could sample and move thru the list till we got to *that* one which played 3 times. I kept saying..."Guys? Sample?? GUYS!?!?!?" HahahahaThe introduction of that song into a random gathering of men will produce an *instant* stillness and attentiveness, and no red-blooded, English speaking male on this planet has passed his majority without occasionally whistling a passage from that number. You know the passage I mean.
Along with The Good, the Bad & and the Ugly, Clint Eastwood's "man with no name" movies and his "Dirty Harry" movies have achieved cult status.
Why is that?
Herewith, an opinion. In those movies his characters were imbued with a sense of purpose, sometimes personal, sometimes official and personal. The actions he considered necessary to achieve that purpose were not always legal - some would say not always moral. But he always did what was necessary to achieve his purpose, and he was always capable of doing it. When necessary he did it without compunction and without regard for the niceties of the law, even as police detective Harry Callahan.
An example: In Dirty Harry, Detective Callahan had two concerns - the welfare of a kidnapped girl (young, perhaps ten or twelve years old) and the apprehension of the kidnapper. At one point he catches up with the kidnapper, there is some gunplay, and the kidnapper is lying on the ground, wounded in one leg. Dirty Harry is frantic to learn the fate of the girl, and questions the kidnapper, who begins sniveling about his rights. Harry grinds his heel into the leg wound and gets the information.
I saw this movie in a theater, and much of the crowd cheered this action. Liberal critics were horrified - horrified, I say, that Americans would cheer such a brutish action.
What the critics showed no horror about, and what was going on in America then and continues to go on in America today, is the way such criminals - murderers, kidnappers, rapists, child molesters, etc. are dealt with by the system. In the great majority of cases sentencing consists of a slap on the wrist. The killer or child molester is not a *bad* person, only a *sick* one. Many are back on the streets after serving a small portion of a long sentence, and many - particularly child molesters, who have an extremely high recidivism rate - repeat their crimes, adding to a long list of victims of previously convicted criminals.
In the real world, New York officials and liberal columnists were also horrified at the popular support for Bernard Goetz, who shot four thugs who tried to rob him on the subway. The thugs were black and the usual attempt was made to turn the issue into a racist crime. A jury, whose members rode the subway and six of whom had been victims of street crime, refused to convict Goetz of anything but possession of an unlicensed firearm.
Now in New York City the crime of possession of an unlicensed gun is roughly equivalent to the crime of spitting on the sidewalk, but the judge, apparently also horrified by the popular support, vindictively sentenced Goetz to six months in jail, a year of psychiatric treatment, a probationary period of five years, two hundred hours community service, and a five thousand dollar fine. On appeal, the sentence was reduced to one year with no probation.
Bernard Goetz was widely and wildly supported by the public because of his small time but real life Dirty Harry actions. Three things must be taken into consideration regarding the audience cheering when Harry Callahan ground his heel into the kidnapper's leg wound:
1. The audience knew that to Callahan the victim's welfare was more important than the "rights" or "rehabilitation" of the perpetrator.
2. The audience knew that in a similar situation in real life the kidnapper would one day be free to walk the streets and victimize someone ese.
3. It was a movie, and an emotional release.
As for The Outlaw Josey Wales, Blondie (The Good, the Bad & the Ugly), and the man with no name, well, they knew that when it comes to bad guys the only good one is a dead one.
A friend and I once attended a showing of 5 1/2 hours of Clint Eastwood spaghetti westerns: The Good, the Bad & the Ugly, A Fistful of Dollars, and For a Few Dollars More. About halfway through there was an intermission. The audience was overwhelmingly male, and we hit the sidewalk for a toke and some conversation. One man confessed that this was his 23rd viewing of The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. (The official running time of that one is two hours forty-one minutes.)
While the films themselves appeal predominantly to men, they also turned Clint Eastwood into a sex symbol of sorts, and grown women have been reduced to giggling girls in chance encounters with him.
"A good man always knows his limitations." - Magnum Force
"You don't listen, do you, asshole?" and "Well, do you, punk?" - Dirty Harry
"Smith, and Wesson, and me." and "Go ahead. Make my day." - Sudden Impact
"Dyin' ain't much of a living, boy." - The Outlaw Josey Wales
"You know, you're gonna look awfully silly with that knife sticking up your ass." - High Plains Drifter
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Regional Accents
For ten years, beginning with the day I entered the Army, I was part of a tossed salad of men of different backgrounds. Among those in their first - perhaps only - hitch there were enlistees and draftees, the latter being older as a class, and sometimes already established in their chosen professions. There were hustlers and slackers, guys who were friendly or remote, rednecks, hillbillies, optimists and pessimists, fast learners and slow learners, cowboys and city slickers, whites, blacks, Hispanics, and even a handful of Asians.
Prior to enlisting I had only set foot in Maine, New Hampshire, and Massachusetts. New Jersey, where I was sent for basic training, had existed only in books, movies, and geography classes. At seventeen I was provided with a whole new view of the population. In some cases differences in speech were much more striking than differences in appearance due to race.
For me the most difficult accents to understand were those of the Hispanics. The problem went away, but was fairly severe initially. (Here I might mention that my platoon sergeant in basic training was Puerto Rican, career infantry. He soon learned that I had enlisted for "Armor, Europe," and every morning greeted me with "Hendricks, djoo gonna *die* in a tank.")
I had a broad New England accent, which presented others with problems. The first time we were provided with an uncheduled period and were free to do whatever we desired (within the barracks), a number of guys broke out decks of cards and played poker, pinochle, spades, and other games. I asked several men whether they wanted to play hahts. Despite asking me about the game, none knew what I was talking about until I said "You know, the game where you try to avoid taking hahts or the queen of spades."
"Ohhhh, hearts."
"Listen to da boids."
"Those aren't boids, Smitty, those are birds."
"Chee, dey coitainly choip like boids."
*****Thrown in with a large group of strangers, most of us are chameleons to one extent or another. During ten years in the Army I lost most of my Boston accent. Most. When I got home my mother told me I sounded like a stranger, but every once in a while I say something with a hint of the old accent, and I can actually hear myself doing it.
Prior to enlisting I had only set foot in Maine, New Hampshire, and Massachusetts. New Jersey, where I was sent for basic training, had existed only in books, movies, and geography classes. At seventeen I was provided with a whole new view of the population. In some cases differences in speech were much more striking than differences in appearance due to race.
For me the most difficult accents to understand were those of the Hispanics. The problem went away, but was fairly severe initially. (Here I might mention that my platoon sergeant in basic training was Puerto Rican, career infantry. He soon learned that I had enlisted for "Armor, Europe," and every morning greeted me with "Hendricks, djoo gonna *die* in a tank.")
I had a broad New England accent, which presented others with problems. The first time we were provided with an uncheduled period and were free to do whatever we desired (within the barracks), a number of guys broke out decks of cards and played poker, pinochle, spades, and other games. I asked several men whether they wanted to play hahts. Despite asking me about the game, none knew what I was talking about until I said "You know, the game where you try to avoid taking hahts or the queen of spades."
"Ohhhh, hearts."
*****
In Vilseck, Germany, we had a Brooklynite, nicknamed Smitty. He was occasionally teased about his accent, which he accepted with good humor. One friend, Vernon, used to quote an imaginary conversation with Smitty:"Listen to da boids."
"Those aren't boids, Smitty, those are birds."
"Chee, dey coitainly choip like boids."
*****
Friday, February 3, 2012
One for the Old Folks
This song, Henry Clay Work's My Grandfather's Clock, is in its 136th year. I have a memory of my parents and grandparents singing it for me occasionally (more than sixty years ago), although only the first verse and the chorus.
Even then it had been around long enough to have picked up slight alterations in some quarters. For example, I learned "too tall for the shelf," which is what is sung in some recorded versions, but not the majority.
My grandfather's clock
Was too large for the shelf,
So it stood ninety years on the floor;
It was taller by half
Than the old man himself,
Though it weighed not a pennyweight more.
It was bought on the morn
Of the day that he was born,
And was always his treasure and pride;
But it stopped short
Never to go again,
When the old man died.
CHORUS:
Ninety years without slumbering,
Tick, tock, tick, tock,
His life seconds numbering,
Tick, tock, tick, tock,
It stopped short
Never to go again,
When the old man died.
In watching its pendulum
Swing to and fro,
Many hours had he spent while a boy;
And in childhood and manhood
The clock seemed to know,
And to share both his grief and his joy.
For it struck twenty-four
When he entered at the door,
With a blooming and beautiful bride;
But it stopped short
Never to go again,
When the old man died.
CHORUS
My grandfather said
That of those he could hire,
Not a servant so faithful he found;
For it wasted no time,
And had but one desire,
At the close of each week to be wound.
And it kept in its place,
Not a frown upon its face,
And its hands never hung by its side.
But it stopped short
Never to go again,
When the old man died.
CHORUS
It rang an alarm
In the dead of the night,
An alarm that for years had been dumb;
And we knew that his spirit
Was pluming for flight,
That his hour of departure had come.
Still the clock kept the time,
With a soft and muffled chime,
As we silently stood by his side.
But it stopped short
Never to go again,
When the old man died.
CHORUS
Even then it had been around long enough to have picked up slight alterations in some quarters. For example, I learned "too tall for the shelf," which is what is sung in some recorded versions, but not the majority.
My grandfather's clock
Was too large for the shelf,
So it stood ninety years on the floor;
It was taller by half
Than the old man himself,
Though it weighed not a pennyweight more.
It was bought on the morn
Of the day that he was born,
And was always his treasure and pride;
But it stopped short
Never to go again,
When the old man died.
CHORUS:
Ninety years without slumbering,
Tick, tock, tick, tock,
His life seconds numbering,
Tick, tock, tick, tock,
It stopped short
Never to go again,
When the old man died.
In watching its pendulum
Swing to and fro,
Many hours had he spent while a boy;
And in childhood and manhood
The clock seemed to know,
And to share both his grief and his joy.
For it struck twenty-four
When he entered at the door,
With a blooming and beautiful bride;
But it stopped short
Never to go again,
When the old man died.
CHORUS
My grandfather said
That of those he could hire,
Not a servant so faithful he found;
For it wasted no time,
And had but one desire,
At the close of each week to be wound.
And it kept in its place,
Not a frown upon its face,
And its hands never hung by its side.
But it stopped short
Never to go again,
When the old man died.
CHORUS
It rang an alarm
In the dead of the night,
An alarm that for years had been dumb;
And we knew that his spirit
Was pluming for flight,
That his hour of departure had come.
Still the clock kept the time,
With a soft and muffled chime,
As we silently stood by his side.
But it stopped short
Never to go again,
When the old man died.
CHORUS
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Family "Characters"
My parents divorced when I was in the sixth grade and a year or two later my father married a woman who had an adopted son and was caring for an infant girl, also not born to her. My father adopted the boy, Ryan, and he and his new wife, Pru, adopted the girl, Kat.
Kat was the first (and only) girl for my father, and he set about making her an idiot. At meal times she would be in her high chair and he would clown around with her, hunching his shoulders, rolling his eyes, making faces and strange noises, etc. She, of course, responded, and the two of them had a grand old time amusing each other.
Pru expressed a little concern about this, saying "You know, she's going to do all this when she's older." Dad was otherwise convinced and continued the march.
As Kat's very first day at school ended, Pru got a call from the teacher.
Teacher: "What is wrong with this child?"
Pru: "What do you mean?"
Teacher: "She squirms at her desk, she rolls her eyes, she laughs at inappropriate places, she falls out of her chair . . . ."
Pru: "I don't know. You'll have to ask her father."
Even today, Kat loves to laugh more than anyone else in the family. She is also odd in various ways. For example, she can't stand the sight of her own blood. If she cuts a finger she holds it with the other hand and walks with a limp.
On the plus side, she does a very convincing imitation of an ostrich.
*****
Pru had her own quirks. When the kids were in high school she and my father stayed together for them, I think, in a marriage more of convenience and accommodation than anything else.
Pru was involved in local activities - 4-H, that kind of thing - and Dad worked during the day and moonlighted a couple of nights a week playing an electric organ in a restaurant lounge, so they mostly went their own separate ways.
They lived in the boondocks in New Hampshire, in an area where newspapers were not delivered and people picked up their mail at a local Post Office branch in a general store.
One Sunday morning Dad got up ahead of Pru, put the coffee on and left the house for a quick drive to the store for the Sunday newspaper. When Pru got up he asked her "What happened to your truck?"
Pru: "What do you mean?"
Dad: "There are parallel scratches all along the hood and the top of the cab, and the windshield has so many cracks you can't see through it. I'm surprised it hasn't fallen out."
Pru: "I don't know. Someone must have backed into me in the parking lot."
And there the matter rested, but *that* line is a family classic.
Pru didn't drink at all, so family speculation is that she nodded off driving home and drifted off the road into the woods, acquiring the scratches from tree branches. But she must have driven the rest of the way home with her head out the window, because the windshield was absolutely opaque.
Kat was the first (and only) girl for my father, and he set about making her an idiot. At meal times she would be in her high chair and he would clown around with her, hunching his shoulders, rolling his eyes, making faces and strange noises, etc. She, of course, responded, and the two of them had a grand old time amusing each other.
Pru expressed a little concern about this, saying "You know, she's going to do all this when she's older." Dad was otherwise convinced and continued the march.
As Kat's very first day at school ended, Pru got a call from the teacher.
Teacher: "What is wrong with this child?"
Pru: "What do you mean?"
Teacher: "She squirms at her desk, she rolls her eyes, she laughs at inappropriate places, she falls out of her chair . . . ."
Pru: "I don't know. You'll have to ask her father."
Even today, Kat loves to laugh more than anyone else in the family. She is also odd in various ways. For example, she can't stand the sight of her own blood. If she cuts a finger she holds it with the other hand and walks with a limp.
On the plus side, she does a very convincing imitation of an ostrich.
Pru had her own quirks. When the kids were in high school she and my father stayed together for them, I think, in a marriage more of convenience and accommodation than anything else.
Pru was involved in local activities - 4-H, that kind of thing - and Dad worked during the day and moonlighted a couple of nights a week playing an electric organ in a restaurant lounge, so they mostly went their own separate ways.
They lived in the boondocks in New Hampshire, in an area where newspapers were not delivered and people picked up their mail at a local Post Office branch in a general store.
One Sunday morning Dad got up ahead of Pru, put the coffee on and left the house for a quick drive to the store for the Sunday newspaper. When Pru got up he asked her "What happened to your truck?"
Pru: "What do you mean?"
Dad: "There are parallel scratches all along the hood and the top of the cab, and the windshield has so many cracks you can't see through it. I'm surprised it hasn't fallen out."
Pru: "I don't know. Someone must have backed into me in the parking lot."
And there the matter rested, but *that* line is a family classic.
Pru didn't drink at all, so family speculation is that she nodded off driving home and drifted off the road into the woods, acquiring the scratches from tree branches. But she must have driven the rest of the way home with her head out the window, because the windshield was absolutely opaque.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
One New Year's Eve
A couple of minor incidents from around 1977 or 1978 have popped into my mind because of the holidays.
I had just moved to Revere, Massachusetts and spent a small fortune completely furnishing an apartment. Dee Dee and I were on the outs and I had no plans for New Year's Eve, so I decided to host a small family gathering.
Brother Billy was in the Navy and had returned to duty after Christmas, so the party consisted of my father and Carla, sister Kat and husband Peter, brother Ryan and wife Denise, and yours truly with Liz, a WAVE from the Portsmouth (NH) Navy Yard.
Everyone there smoked grass occasionally, so along with a fully stocked bar we were in the midst of a ton of snacks and a bag of grass, with rolling papers, a pipe, and a bong.
We had several hours of sitting around chatting, listening to music, having drinks, and having the occasional toke.
As midnight approached, someone suggested that we watch the Times Square ball being dropped and that *everyone* had to be stoned for that.
I turned the TV on and found the program, turned out the lights and lit some candles, and we passed the grass around. I had turned my father on the year before. To his dying day he insisted that marijuana had no effect on him. He probably believed it, but no one who had seen him smoke believed it. This night he agreed to try again, "Just to be sociable. It really doesn't do anything for me." Soon, however, he got his tang all tongueled up and was backing talkwards.
As the countdown at Times Square began, I ostentatiously looked at my watch and said "Now let's see if they're right."
Post-midnight everyone had the munchies again. WAVE Liz had baked and brought some oatmeal butterscotch cookies, and at some point brother Ryan bit into one.
Ryan: "Who made these?"
Liz: "I did. They're oatmeal butterscotch. Aren't they good?"
Ryan: "Gosh. Things with butterscotch sure are hard, aren't they?"
And Liz threw one at him.
*****
The "let's see if they're right" line above is one of the approaches I sometimes use to tease people, and I am reminded now that it is possible to overdo that.
Somewhere around that time my Assistant at work, David, and I went to Jacksonville, Florida on business. We stayed at the Hilton and met for breakfast. There were sugar shakers on the table and when coffee arrived I poured some sugar into mine. Setting the shaker down I said "Exactly two teaspoons."
David went berserk. "You don't know that! "You can't possibly know that that was exactly two teaspoons!"
Donnie: "David, I know that I can't be that precise. And I know that you know it. Why are you so upset that I said that?"
David: "It's not that you said that. It's the cumulative effect of all the things you have said before."
I had just moved to Revere, Massachusetts and spent a small fortune completely furnishing an apartment. Dee Dee and I were on the outs and I had no plans for New Year's Eve, so I decided to host a small family gathering.
Brother Billy was in the Navy and had returned to duty after Christmas, so the party consisted of my father and Carla, sister Kat and husband Peter, brother Ryan and wife Denise, and yours truly with Liz, a WAVE from the Portsmouth (NH) Navy Yard.
Everyone there smoked grass occasionally, so along with a fully stocked bar we were in the midst of a ton of snacks and a bag of grass, with rolling papers, a pipe, and a bong.
We had several hours of sitting around chatting, listening to music, having drinks, and having the occasional toke.
As midnight approached, someone suggested that we watch the Times Square ball being dropped and that *everyone* had to be stoned for that.
I turned the TV on and found the program, turned out the lights and lit some candles, and we passed the grass around. I had turned my father on the year before. To his dying day he insisted that marijuana had no effect on him. He probably believed it, but no one who had seen him smoke believed it. This night he agreed to try again, "Just to be sociable. It really doesn't do anything for me." Soon, however, he got his tang all tongueled up and was backing talkwards.
As the countdown at Times Square began, I ostentatiously looked at my watch and said "Now let's see if they're right."
Post-midnight everyone had the munchies again. WAVE Liz had baked and brought some oatmeal butterscotch cookies, and at some point brother Ryan bit into one.
Ryan: "Who made these?"
Liz: "I did. They're oatmeal butterscotch. Aren't they good?"
Ryan: "Gosh. Things with butterscotch sure are hard, aren't they?"
And Liz threw one at him.
The "let's see if they're right" line above is one of the approaches I sometimes use to tease people, and I am reminded now that it is possible to overdo that.
Somewhere around that time my Assistant at work, David, and I went to Jacksonville, Florida on business. We stayed at the Hilton and met for breakfast. There were sugar shakers on the table and when coffee arrived I poured some sugar into mine. Setting the shaker down I said "Exactly two teaspoons."
David went berserk. "You don't know that! "You can't possibly know that that was exactly two teaspoons!"
Donnie: "David, I know that I can't be that precise. And I know that you know it. Why are you so upset that I said that?"
David: "It's not that you said that. It's the cumulative effect of all the things you have said before."
Friday, December 9, 2011
A Voice from the Past
Well, not everyone I have known is busy dying. A friend and co-worker from the late nineties in Virginia - we'll call him Vic - has tracked me down some thirteen years after I left there.
We worked in a small company that provided data processing services for junk mailers direct marketers, nearly all of it on the fund raising side (charitable, political, etc.). Interesting stuff, although not as interesting as the catalog side of the industry.
We talked for some time, perhaps a half hour or so, I don't really know, on the phone and have exchanged a number of emails. Vic was in his late twenties when I knew him, single and hard partying, sometimes burning the candle at both ends, which is more easily done at that age.
Now he's a little north of forty, married, kids, dogs, the whole nine yards. I haven't said this to him (although he'll be reading this, I think), but he has matured greatly. I suppose we all do but it is not as noticeable with people one sees frequently as it is with someone out of touch for more than a decade, and the difference between someone in his twenties and that same person in his forties is dramatic.
We've been sharing memories and updating each other on what we know about friends and acquaintances. He's had to contribute more of that than I have, as over those thirteen years I've seen only two people we have in common.
We had another employee about Vic's age at the office, of Philippine extraction, whom Vic occasionally called "Secret Asian Man." For any youngsters reading this, that's a reference to the song Secret Agent Man, the theme song for a 1960's TV program, Secret Agent. Secret Asian Man is also married now.
Sharing memories is fun stuff.
We worked in a small company that provided data processing services for
We talked for some time, perhaps a half hour or so, I don't really know, on the phone and have exchanged a number of emails. Vic was in his late twenties when I knew him, single and hard partying, sometimes burning the candle at both ends, which is more easily done at that age.
Now he's a little north of forty, married, kids, dogs, the whole nine yards. I haven't said this to him (although he'll be reading this, I think), but he has matured greatly. I suppose we all do but it is not as noticeable with people one sees frequently as it is with someone out of touch for more than a decade, and the difference between someone in his twenties and that same person in his forties is dramatic.
We've been sharing memories and updating each other on what we know about friends and acquaintances. He's had to contribute more of that than I have, as over those thirteen years I've seen only two people we have in common.
We had another employee about Vic's age at the office, of Philippine extraction, whom Vic occasionally called "Secret Asian Man." For any youngsters reading this, that's a reference to the song Secret Agent Man, the theme song for a 1960's TV program, Secret Agent. Secret Asian Man is also married now.
Sharing memories is fun stuff.
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