Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Sticking it in My Ear
A couple of articles from the Guardian made me feel not so much nostalgic as old. I received my first Walkman back in 1980 as a parting gift from some of my work friends prior to heading up to Montreal for a year of fun, frustration, and changing career plans. It was one of the most thoughtful gifts I ever received and, at least at that time, one of the most expensive. $179!! And that was in 1980 US dollars which, these days, translates to enough to buy one of those mortgage loan cast-off houses.
Recording one's music for the playlists of those days took days, not minutes like the wet-behind-the-ears MP3ers. Yeah...and we walked uphill through 5 feet of snow in May to school as well. Those were the days when women were women and men wore mullets...which meant we were almost women. A selection of Guardian's reader's inclusions on their playlists had not one band I'd put on my cassettes. On the list I saw not one mention of Little Feat (w/ Lowell George), Springsteen, Hound Dog Taylor, or ZZ Top. Most of the dates listed were when I'd abandoned the Walkman and gone on to the Discman. I kept the Walkman around for a while, almost like a museum piece or a faded baseball card. It had worked when I packed it in some old socks in a drawer. A few years later, when I pulled it out just to test out the sound, like a rejected girlfriend, it chewed up a few tapes before buying the ghost.
More so than the innumerable eardrum shaking concerts I'd gone to, I'm sure the Walkman and then the Discman helped me down the road to (eventual, I'm sure) deafness. Both almost got me killed when I went skiing with them, as I took too well to the combination of sound and schuss and ignored Black Diamond signs, or worse, Black Diamond skiers. But I do not miss those black buds riding on and in my ear disintegrating my hearing while disintegrating themselves into their baser elements, leaving my ears coated with coal dust.
Nowadays, I protest vaguely at the iPod/MP3 sound quality and the long term damage of short term musical attention all the time wondering if all of this started going downhill with Mr. Sony's introduction of his clicky Walkman.
Labels: Canada, Gadgets, Manly Advice, r
Tuesday, March 02, 2010
Old School
Jonathan Lethem wrote this piece for the BBC back in 2002. As I drive to work, wait on line in stores, airports, and queues of indeterminate purpose, his bit repeats itself in my head. Is this attitude toward phones, cell or land-lines, a generational thing, a question of the presence (or non-presence) of manners and consideration, or and introvert/extroert thing?
I'm not sure. All I know is my attitude is fossilizing into one where I view the convenience of the cell phone as leaning most toward the person on the other end of the ghostly wire than to me; I carry (and pay for) a cell phone for someone else's desire for usage. A good friend has successfully snubbed the ownership of a cell phone by stating he's not yet seen the benefits of his peace being disturbed. I admire his resolve (and his monthly savings).
A short snippet from Mr. Lethem's piece:
"This shop owner insisted, as well, that we counterpersons observe a strict hierarchy as to the precedence of a real live customer, standing in front of us waiting to be served, over a caller on the telephone. Telephone customers, he explained, however preemptory and insistent, were to be considered as ghosts, non-entities, birds in the bush. They hadn’t made the commitment to appear in person in the shop, and so weren’t to be given any privileges to rival those customers who had. We shouldn’t ever make someone standing before us wait while we dealt with a telephone order; we were always to put calls on hold. I suppose this was where my notion of the morality of proximity was first instilled"
I'm not sure. All I know is my attitude is fossilizing into one where I view the convenience of the cell phone as leaning most toward the person on the other end of the ghostly wire than to me; I carry (and pay for) a cell phone for someone else's desire for usage. A good friend has successfully snubbed the ownership of a cell phone by stating he's not yet seen the benefits of his peace being disturbed. I admire his resolve (and his monthly savings).
A short snippet from Mr. Lethem's piece:
"This shop owner insisted, as well, that we counterpersons observe a strict hierarchy as to the precedence of a real live customer, standing in front of us waiting to be served, over a caller on the telephone. Telephone customers, he explained, however preemptory and insistent, were to be considered as ghosts, non-entities, birds in the bush. They hadn’t made the commitment to appear in person in the shop, and so weren’t to be given any privileges to rival those customers who had. We shouldn’t ever make someone standing before us wait while we dealt with a telephone order; we were always to put calls on hold. I suppose this was where my notion of the morality of proximity was first instilled"
Labels: Blogs, Manly Advice
Monday, December 28, 2009
A Gotta Have
The Carharrt J162 Waterproof Breathable Jacket
Why was I holding on to those hole-y jeans and shirts and flapping shoes? Because I was holding on to my self or, at least, my self-deluded semblance of self.
I'm having similar thoughts these days as regards a jacket I acquired back in early April, 2009. The weather in the Middle Atlantic states was measured in inches. Precipitation of all varieties and me with no jacket with water-proof qualities. Water-resistant, yes but the level of resistance was worn down quickly by the torrents of rain. So, with previous experience with Carhartt's products, I thought I'd give this jacket a try; the place I purchased it from had a generous return policy so risk was minimal (and the price wasn't bad ,$110 v $130 on Carharrt's own site).
It's December now and this jacket has been worn in the rain, the snow, the sleet, and even in those most vicious of conditions, the fashion standard capital, a.k.a. Paris. It came through with nary a scratch nor a leak nor a snear. Great stitiching, ample qty of pockets (all well-placed...though the jacket definitely leans toward right-handedness), taped seems, drawcorded hem, easy to clean fabric. Very important element was this jacket's design which made movement easy and unconstrained. I've worn this jacket most every day from April through May and then mid-September through December. The color and fabric condition have held up quite well; the black color gives the coat a "dressier" quality that broadens the scope of where you can wear the jacket.
And, as advertised, the jacket is most definitley water-proof.
So, I'm at a decision point. Do I buy another jacket as a backup, simply hanging it in the future wear closet? Or do I take my chances that this gem will not wear out or, if it does, the same model (and quality) is available? My "Click to Buy" finger is getting itchy; I'm reflecting on future happiness.
Labels: Domestic Burdens, Effluvia, Manly Advice
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Twiddling One's Thumbs Activity
This previous summer, I had a chance to realize one of my long-held dreams, which was to visit Lake Louise and its low-key spectacular hotel. Just in case I win the lottery or come into money from a relative I've never heard of, I decided to apply for the Fairmont Hotel card, so that the next time (I'm considering converting to Hinduism to ensure there's a next time, even if it's not in my current time) we go to Lake Louise, I'll be able to get a special rate.Well, Folks, the application only cost you the amount of time it takes to fill out, so if you feel like doing something that will keep your change in your pocket and yet give you a (perhaps false) sense of grandiosity, I suggest you get yourself one of these cards.
Why bother with another piece of plastic that you may never use?
Well, scroll down about half-way on the application and highlight the category "Title".
I've filled enough card applications in my lifetime such that filling another one is automaton-ish. Same old..same old. Well, Fairmont Hotel's stopped me in my tracks.
Who would have thought that I could title myself Prince, Archbishop, Viscount, Sultan, Prime Minister, Maestro, even Yg Di Pertuan Agung? I settled on "Count" as there's a barely tenuous grip my surname has on a self-annointed royal family back in the Old Country. My father, as a joke and as a term of endearment by his friends was nicknamed "Grof", Croatian for "Count". With his sense of self-inflicted humor, he was laughing somewhere as I hovered my mouse over and then clicked on "Count".
Can't wait to receive the plastic acknowledgement of my royal standing.
"Fairmont Chateau Lake Louise? Yes, please make a reservation for 2 for Count Darko....."
Labels: Life Decisions, Manly Advice, Road Trips, Vacations
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Sweet Somethings
In a recent NYT article on wig preparation and Sarah Palin, an item jumped out at me in all its hirsuteness. In discussing a cast member on "Saturday Night Live", the topic came up that"there probably isn’t a male analogue of Tina Fey to play Senator Joseph R. Biden Jr., not to mention the complications that could be involved in replicating his hair, which seems to be a particularly fraught piece of real estate.".A pang of empathy surged up my body and out through the remaining follicles on my head straining for purchase on my pate. ...a particularly fraught piece of real estate. I felt for the guy. Our state's very own senator and here he is in newsprint not getting respect for the planting and re-planting he had done quite a few years ago in attempts to densify the crop on his top.
Ah, how things can change in one's life. I sifted the remaining wisps on my own head and paused for one of those Mr. Mulliner reflections.
I started out as a blonde and bony kid who sported the popular buzz back in the day. Then, as my world mood darkened, so did my hair, to some combination of brown, red, and dirty blonde. The shortness lengthened to scary proportions that had neighbours locking their door and taking in the cat.
My overall appearance commenced with chubby cheeks (both areas) and then, with growth spurts, into your classic Slavic cheeks, wherein passers-by plied me with food to fill in the hallows of my face. My body type stayed fairly constant, a bit on the squirrely side, this all thanks to lack of a cornucopia of tv channels, tons of friends in the neighborhood to spend all hours of the day and night with, and a diet of three home-prepared meals.
Throughout my life, my temptations were minimal, not due to any religious nay-saying, but rather due to the preciousness of occasions where my temptations were in play. Certain toys, usually made either in Italy or Germany were temptations that later on morphed into albums and cd's. Books became a passion from early on, but were usually contained within the palaces of local libraries. It wasn't until after college that an accumulating nature took firm hold, a temptation that's now, I admit, a vice. There are more books in my house than I could ever possibly read, even if my wits were to stay within the confines of my head.
One temptation, however, has kept its place as the carrot I follow in my life.
Cake.
The loveliest of our mono-syllable words. Say it slowly and you are swallowing the last crumbs you've licked from your fork's tines. Say it quickly, and feel your ears prick up, as if to hear the gurgling of the icing in its slow melt down the coated sides of the cake.
It is the most soothing of drugs, even when ingested in the melee that is the last scene of a 4 yr old's party. Kids and cake, chocolate lipsticked drooping in chairs with fingers splayed and spiked with bits of cake innards. A mother's cleaning horror, this. But, the kids? The cake was working its way through their system, first introducing that thought that will follow them forever. I'm.....getting...older...
Depressing, no?
That's why there's cake. And that's why tv's should be turned off, kid's soccer/hockey/football/baseball games should be ignored, lawn care farmed out, and house repairs ignored. Cake should be re-introduced to your life's regimen.
By cake, and please excuse my elitism, I don't mean those bathtub sized monstrosities one is forced to partake of at the innumerable office birthday parties. Set up your standards!
Start with this simple question. Is there butter in the cake? 95% of the time, the answer is a quick "No" or a forever "uuuhhhhhhhhhhmmm", which is worse as the person has no clue what is in the cake.
No Butter. No buy cake. Simple. Cake is for the soul and the soul demands butter.
To save you some eating time, I strongly suggest that you seek out a true bakery. A bakery that bakes cakes. Not cakes, bread, rolls, pizza. No. A cake bakery, preferably (Notice: Political Incorrectness Alert), where the head baker is from Northern Italy, Austria, or certain Slavic countries. Sometimes, 2nd generation will suffice, but check to see that they have pasted pictures of their European ancestors on the door leading to the ovens. These are referred to as their "Baking Papers".
God has not been smiling down on my little state for a long time. It is to the USA what Newfoundland is to Canada, what Sicily is to Italy. Now, we have our senator only 50 or so days away form possibly being the elected VP of this country. Only 3-4 years ago, all the great cakes in our state were imported from Pennsylvania or New Jersey (o.k., save for the mighty fortress of culinary arts that is the DuPont Hotel...but their cake is still rather unreasonably priced).
But, now?
Wilmington has its own Sweet Somethings, a clean and delightful little paradise run by bakery chefs of Czech descent, whose birthday concoctions make aging a respectable pastime. A group of friends have been investing in their soul's pleasure with monthly visits to this emporium of butter, nuts, flour, and heat.
We are carefully working our way through The List, exercising caution to not overeating in pleasure and driven by fear that such a mecca in Wilmington could possibly go under before we made it to the final line, Assorted Mousses by the pound (No, Alcessa, not those kind of Mooses!)
n.b.: I previously blogged of the Infamous Frankopanska Torta of Crikvenica (Croatia) here. I am, yes, planning another pilgrimage, this time armed with a camera and a more open schedule.
Labels: Manly Advice, Reviews, Self-Therapy, Wilmington
Monday, September 08, 2008
I Have a TOTAL Lack of...
...Understanding regarding high finance. Today, at the London Stock Exchange, trading was temporarily suspended due to "some customers experienc(ing) problems, after double the number of shares traded on London in minutes after the market opened". The Times of London goes on to quote"One City insider said that traders will lose "millions and millions and millions" of commission on deals, adding that today's closedown is "very serious and disastrous"". All serious stuff, no? This ruckus is based around the US government bailout of the "dee-dee-dow monetary twins" of Frannie Mae and Freddy Mac. A serious failure by these two quasi private/pseudo government organizations, wouldn't you say? A serious keelhauling would be an understandable punishment for the captains at the helm of these two sinking ships, right?Nope.
Again, the Times notes "It emerged today that Daniel Mudd, the departing head of Fannie Mae and Richard Syron, who is set to leave Freddie Mac, will share in a combined payoff of $23 million (£13 million) when they leave the mortgage groups.
Mr Mudd is expected to receive $9.3 million in pay and retirement benefits under the terms of his contract, while Mr Syron could walk away with $14.1 million. ".
I particularly love the understated use of emerge, suggesting a wart or huge pimple suddenly appearing. But, for these two fine gentlemen, it is a wondrous wart filled with incredible amounts of cash. If only I could be stricken with such a rich malady... Wonder what other perks these failures will receive?
Labels: Effluvia, Manly Advice
Monday, June 16, 2008
A Call Out
The daughter, ever sly and humorous will be picking up a dog, a Westy to wit, shortly. The pup comes from a litter of 4, he being the 3rd one sold. The breeder sounds like a real character, a retired gentleman in northeastern PA who has a rambling old house that is the domain of 14 of these little energetic flashes of white fur. The last time we had pets in our dinky (Sub-Saharan word for "tight, small space") house was 15 years ago or so. A caged rat named Nicodemus, an animal whose name took longer to say than the poor animal lived. When the Ever-Loving wife and I first took up shared residence, I brought a Maine Coon-ish cat into our connubial bliss situation. He, poor guy, didn't last too much longer as his abundant hair, or rather, his abundant hair loss was a source of allergic reactions for our kids. In a cruel trick of timing, he was neutered the same day that our first-born arrived. Cats being such intelligent creatures, he always looked at my son with a scowlish look, convinced that his emasculation and my son's arrival was more than mere coincidence. So, off he went to another owner blessed with no aversion to cat dander.So, we haven't had an animal in our house in quite a while. We haven't been tied down by four legged beasts that would put a crimp in our imagined spontaneous & exciting lives. The kids are grown and we...have opted to burden ourselves with a wet-nosed tail-wagging bundle of joy. Who says you get smarter as you get older?
Oh, yeah. The name. I had mentioned the slyness of my daughter, right? She opted for the Nom du Chien of Barko. Yes, Barko, which coincidentally rhymes with Darko. Wonder who'll be coming when he's called?
Note Bene: My apologies in advance for sappy puppy photos that will most probably appear on this blog. I will provide advance warnings of these treacly pics whenever possible.
Labels: Domestic Burdens, Manly Advice, Self-Therapy
Monday, April 14, 2008
Why He'll Win in November
Continuing in my totally un-analytical prediction of the 2008 Election results, here's another reason McCain will be our oldest elected president. How do you teflonize yourself against the not-so-distant onslaught of economic woe? Well, just declare us in the Recession zone. If he wins, blame can't be put on him as he already pronounced "Bad Times Ahead". Heck, he may even make it another 2 terms for the 'pubs, since the self-evisceratin' Dems may still be at it in 2012. And, if things don't go well for China in this summer's Olympics, I think it'll be McCain who will benefit the most, irregardless as to the amount of China-bashing Mr. Obama or Ms. Clinton have done recently.
I'll be thinking of a Richardson candidacy in 2012, unless, Mr. Obama cleverly picks him for his VP in this coming election. Then, Mr. McCain may have a struggle on his hands unless Colin Powell comes out of his "former" state of being and validates a broader platform for the Arizona senator.
Now, all of that happening would make November 2008 truly interesting.
I'll be thinking of a Richardson candidacy in 2012, unless, Mr. Obama cleverly picks him for his VP in this coming election. Then, Mr. McCain may have a struggle on his hands unless Colin Powell comes out of his "former" state of being and validates a broader platform for the Arizona senator.
Now, all of that happening would make November 2008 truly interesting.
Labels: Life Decisions, Manly Advice
Friday, June 22, 2007
"May you live in interesting times!"
I've been using this alleged aged Chinese curse as a poorly construed version of an off-the-cuff comment to friends and acquaintances as commentary on our lives and, the key word, "interesting" for quite some time. Quite a lot of time, perhaps, as my mouthing of this phrase no longer results in a polite chuckle but more of a mare's harumph.
Now, come to find out, this phrase is neither Chinese, nor old. Funny how self-actualization takes place.
I resolve, this day forward, that any wise-acre phrase I mouth off will be labeled as either Croatian (my favorite note on this entry is "many (proverbs) are considered to be traditional so source cannot be determined") or Klingon. Not enough Croatians out there to second guess me and who the hell is going to believe if that race starts doubting my verbiage?
Now, come to find out, this phrase is neither Chinese, nor old. Funny how self-actualization takes place.
I resolve, this day forward, that any wise-acre phrase I mouth off will be labeled as either Croatian (my favorite note on this entry is "many (proverbs) are considered to be traditional so source cannot be determined") or Klingon. Not enough Croatians out there to second guess me and who the hell is going to believe if that race starts doubting my verbiage?
Labels: Manly Advice, Quirks
Monday, June 04, 2007
Lou! Not the Hat!?!!?
The denizens of the home dugout at Wrigley Field have been making all of the news programs this past weekend, so a trip over to Cubby Blue revealed Lou's Latest Escapdes and the Bout of Chicago.
Darn! I was hoping that Mr. Cubby Blue had actually drawn a scene of Lou in mid kick. Here's a shaky replay of Looooooou, picking on somebody not his size. As my son would have said, "Lou, come on, not the hat! Don't kick the hat!"
Darn! I was hoping that Mr. Cubby Blue had actually drawn a scene of Lou in mid kick. Here's a shaky replay of Looooooou, picking on somebody not his size. As my son would have said, "Lou, come on, not the hat! Don't kick the hat!"
Labels: Manly Advice
Thursday, May 03, 2007
Rosebud...
... was on Charles Foster Kane's mind at the moment of his demise. Poor guy, that sled was probably perpetually in his head, running the under current of those singularly best childhood memories, when life was not a burden but an assumed snow ball of eternal happiness. Yeah, Kane had his newspapers to allow espousal of his opinion. But his deep inner thoughts? No, blogging didn't exist back then, so we are left without his long drawn out thoughts of his beloved sleigh. A shame.
Luckily, with the Internet and blogging, modern versions of Rosebud are accompanied by detailed inner-sanctum treatises. Where Kane had his Rosebud, Whisky Prajer has his 1987 Fisher Hoo-koo-e-koo. Not content with one Rosebud, it seems Mr. WP also had a Garry and now he's thinking of this.
WP! You can't be creating childhood memories when you're not, well, not a child anymore. Stick to that green clunker you've got leaning on the side of your house like a well-snockered patron of McSorley's.
Luckily, with the Internet and blogging, modern versions of Rosebud are accompanied by detailed inner-sanctum treatises. Where Kane had his Rosebud, Whisky Prajer has his 1987 Fisher Hoo-koo-e-koo. Not content with one Rosebud, it seems Mr. WP also had a Garry and now he's thinking of this.
WP! You can't be creating childhood memories when you're not, well, not a child anymore. Stick to that green clunker you've got leaning on the side of your house like a well-snockered patron of McSorley's.
Labels: Manly Advice
Monday, April 09, 2007
Manly Advice #349
When planning any lengthy driving trips that would be incumbent with stop-overs at rest stations frequented by large, swarthy, spitting men with possible pre-Cambrian attitudes about what manliness does and does not entail, it is recommended that your vegetable of choice partaken of at the last meal before the trip is not that primitive-looking stalk known as asparagus. Things are dicey enough in a public facility what with the questionable colors on the wall, stall notations lacking in metaphors and literary allusions, and urinals challenging one's personal space feng shui without having to also concoct a rhetorical discourse to your fellow visitors on the olfactory issues possibly emanating from your body.
Especially when a long-haul truck-driver is parked next to your oh-too-close stall, humming a ditty and sniffing very loudly in your general direction.
A treatise on asparagus is not what he'll be attending his full displeasure on. No, not that. His attention will, my fellow gents, be paid to regaling loudly, I must add, to all of the other rest room standees of the malodorous emanations of your presence.
What started as a simple plan of relief when you pulled off of the highway will now result in a stroll down Junior High School Way. So, resist the temptation of the Asparagus Spear if it is the preservation of your shaky self-perception that is desired.
Especially when a long-haul truck-driver is parked next to your oh-too-close stall, humming a ditty and sniffing very loudly in your general direction.
A treatise on asparagus is not what he'll be attending his full displeasure on. No, not that. His attention will, my fellow gents, be paid to regaling loudly, I must add, to all of the other rest room standees of the malodorous emanations of your presence.
What started as a simple plan of relief when you pulled off of the highway will now result in a stroll down Junior High School Way. So, resist the temptation of the Asparagus Spear if it is the preservation of your shaky self-perception that is desired.
Labels: Manly Advice
