Size Matters

When I was a child, age in single digits, my Grandmother (paternal) would frequently drive from her home in Los Angeles to visit us.  Her days off were Tuesday and Wednesday.  She worked as a hostess/cashier for the Fred Harvey Company.  For those of you born after 1955, the Fred Harvey Company was a hospitality concern.  That is a phrase rarely heard these days, probably because civilization has decayed into an uncivilized state where the notion of hospitality has disappeared, but the hospitality industry was made up of hotels and restaurants. The Fred Harvey Company made its mark on American history by providing railroad hotels and restaurants along the passenger lines of the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe.  My grandmother, Lula Fifield (I know, Fifield is not my family name… another story for another time) worked at the Harvey House Restaurant situated in the Union Station passenger depot in downtown Los Angeles (yet more stories for other times). None of this history has anything to do with the subject matter at hand but as this looks to be a rather short narrative, I thought I’d fill space with something I find infinitely fascinating, my story.

As it happens, I am the only child of an only child (my father, in case you’re having trouble keeping up) and as you might expect, I was fawned over; spoiled might be a more accurate application of language.  As my maternal grandmother had some forty-odd grandchildren spread between Kansas, Colorado and California, and I fell somewhere within the anonymity of the younger half of that menagerie, I knew in which direction to turn for affectionate dotage.

It was during my younger years, before starting school, that I was able to work this status of favorite person in the whole world to my best advantage.  Now I’m not trying to paint myself as a greedy little bastard, but every child is somewhat mercenary in nature.  It was our practice during her visits to patronize the College Grove Shopping Center (many more stories from my college years are set in this locale, but first I have to work up the courage to share… violence is sometimes hard to describe to a genteel audience) for toy shopping and lunch.  I loved Grandma.

One of my favorite haunts (and therefore, my Grandma’s) was J.J. Newberry’s Department Store.  Newberry’s was a five and ten cent store, or more commonly, a five and dime.  No one ever referred to them as nickel and dime because that phrase is pejorative; go figure.   If you are too young to remember, five and dimes abounded.  Every little town had one and any large city had a plethora. One would believe, logically, that anything within offered for sale would be priced at either five cents or (wait for it…) ten cents; a child’s dream! Never finding the reason, I did learn that the name was as misnomer and very few (very few!) of the items I would be interested in were priced below a dollar. But I digress.  Newberry’s was the Cadillac of five and dimes.  It had three features ideally suited to the mercantile needs of the five-year-old: a large toy department; a cafeteria style restaurant; and a lunch counter with full soda-fountain accoutrements.

Grandma would arrive at our house in the late morning.  We would then travel to College Grove; mother didn’t drive so she welcomed the rare opportunity to shun the daily household chores.  And as the outings were financed by Grandma, mom turned a blind eye to the extravagant excess laid at the feet of her son.  Dad of course was at work and it was tacitly agreed that no reason existed to burden him with details of the day’s outing. The rigor was quite simple.  We would begin with lunch in the upstairs cafeteria.  Laid before the puckish masses was a cornucopia of tantalizing entrees and side dishes; turkey, roast beef, fried chicken, soups, stews and salads of all description.  I opted for spaghetti (c’mon, I was five years old!). But our lunch never included any selections from the lavish desert offerings.  If you haven’t guessed why by now, I’m sure you will figure it out later.

After lunch (my mother could drink more coffee that a dromedary camel could horde water… let’s go already!!!) we would ride the escalator to the lower level and take a stroll through dreamland.  Newberry’s toy department was four aisles deep and extended well over my head.  The contract was simple; I feigned familial fealty and Grandma would reward the faithful.  I had a pecuniary limit of five dollars, pre-tax.  Grandma was always rather silent on the subject of hereditary history but I suspected she was somehow a member of the Claus Clan.

I’m sure that upon returning to Los Angeles my grandmother would brag ad nauseum to her crones of the skill with which her golden grandchild examined every offering that Mattel, Marx and Hasbro had convinced Newberry’s to stock on its shelves.  Time stood still for me.  I recall that mother often excused herself to the ladies room to relieve the pressure on her bladder from that fifth cup of coffee.

Once all of the options had been considered and reconsidered, the latest addition to my collection of militaria, plastic firearms (these were the days before political correctness) or to-scale motor vehicles was paid for (Grandma had a BankAmericard, forerunner to today’s VISA, oooh!) we set our course for the lunch counter and the frozen treats there offered; the coup de gras as it were.

Now remember, I was all of five years old at this time and reading was still a blossoming skill set for me.  But any company that planned its geography in a way that juxtaposed the toy department and the soda fountain was savvy enough to post pictures of the ice cream offerings on the wall behind the lunch counter.  Every visit, I would point to the picture representing what was obviously the largest of their offerings, the three scoop banana split.  I had no other criteria to fill than it contained the greatest volume of ice cream. My mother would immediately counter, “You don’t need that, it’s too much ice cream for you.”  In a rare show of intergenerational collaboration, Grandma would add, “You wouldn’t like it anyway.”  Blocked again!

I am going to interrupt the flow of this narrative for a moment to explore an aspect of the darker side of parental practice; incontrovertible logic.  I’m sure every parent uses this tool at some time and it is cruelty at its worst, “You don’t need that.” or more fatal, “Do you really need that?”  Huh?  When did need enter into the discussion or anything a five year old wants?  There is no capacity for reasoning through cost/benefit for a kid!  “I want it! I desire it! I lust after it!  It was endorsed by Bugs Bunny!”  That is all the motivation needed.  How can you expect a self-centered, mal-formed ego to understand need?  Yet time and time again, the parent, in an attempt to teach temperance for worldly possessions (and keep the household solvent) lays down the logical trump card, “Do you really need that?  Really?” The child of course has no adequate response.  And in my case, cursed with naturally squinty eyes, the sad pout never worked. Children know in their hearts true happiness is not measured in scoops of ice cream.  Once again, I settled for the kid size hot-fudge sundae.

But finally, the day came, seated at the counter, atop the swiveling stool (ingenious!) I again asked for the banana split.  And once again my mother parried, “You don’t need that!”  Unexpectedly, my grandmother replied, “Aw, Rosemary, let him have one.  He won’t like it and he’ll get over it.”  Grandma loved me… or so I thought.

After what seemed a lifetime of anticipation, the jerk (I’m not being derisive here for you youngsters, that was the position title of those employed to make fountain treats, soda jerks) set before me a glorious concoction of dairy and confectionary delight.

‘‘Three scoops of ice cream!  And what was all this other stuff?”  I went exploring.  “Hey, this scoop is strawberry,  I don’t like strawberry… it’s the flavor found in Neapolitan ice cream that gets thrown out after the vanilla and chocolate are gone.  And this yellow gooey stuff.  Yuck!  It’s pineapple sauce.  Who would put pineapple sauce on strawberry ice cream?”  Moving on, “Vanilla, that’s good.  But every time I try to spoon some up, it slides into that awful pineapple sauce and that’s getting mixed up with the chocolate sauce.” My stomach was starting to recoil making it hard to swallow.

Okay, I’ll move on to the scoop of chocolate ice cream.  It is insulated from the pink and yellow effluent at the other end of the boat (that’s what you call a banana split dish; a boat) by the vanilla. But what is this white stuff blanketing my chocolate? It’s marshmallow cream.  White, flavorless, sweet, “It’s diluting the chocolate.  It is ruining the food of the gods!”  The whipped cream is running all over the place… the ice cream is melting into a mélange of colorless, flavorless goo. And the banana, it’s hard to cut with a spoon.  Fruit and goo were flying everywhere, “I don’t like this; it’s sticky!”

Dutifully, my mother grabbed me off the swiveling stool and marched me to the ladies room to recover her son from under the patina of milk, sugar and chocolate sauce.  This was too big a job for spit on a hanky! I looked back to see Grandma settling the bill with the soda jerk.  They seemed to be laughing at some shared joke.

***

This week’s punch line: “No, but he’s a dead ringer for his brother!”

 

Black Holes, N'est-ce pas

Some few days ago I was enjoying a new episode of How the Universe Works (Science Channel, check your local listings) that was offering the latest in academic guess work as pertains to black holes. Now don’t hit that “Delete” button yet!  This is not a pseudo-scientific discourse on the origin, nature or importance of black holes.  If, at this point, your finger is still hovering over the “Delete” button because you don’t know what a black hole is, I will explain it in one sentence and then move on to the true subject of this week’s missive.

A black hole is a region of spacetime from which gravity prevents anything, including light, from escaping. (Thank you, Wikipedia)

If you desire more information there exist any number of websites that will meet your need.  But again, the subject of the television show is not the subject or my rant.  The subject of my rant is the total breakdown of societal mores that is plaguing our civilization.

After Mike Rowe (narrator: girls, if you don’t know who this is, look him up… he is dreamy and has a butter-cream smooth voice… er, so I’ve been told) eloquently teased the next segment, the viewing public was treated to a commercial for Trojan “Vibrating Twister” Vibrator Intimate Massagers.  No, I kid you not.  Google it!  I’ll bet you get more websites than you did for “black hole”.

Now quit your snickering. Never mind the obvious unintended (I hope) convergence of deep space phenomenon known as a black “hole” and an instrument designed to “fill” one’s prurient cravings. That in itself is proof enough that our society is on the verge implosion. But this obviously adults-only product was being marketed to the audience of an educational program broadcast on an educational channel!

     “Hey dad, is it okay if I turn on the television?”

     “What are you going to watch, son?”  

     “The Science Channel dad, I’ve got to catch up on my astronomy knowledge.”

     “Go right ahead, son.” Thinking to himself, “What a good boy!”

 Then some time later, “Dad, where did the Trojans get batteries in the sixth century BC?”

I do hope I have not offended any of you with my choice of topic or the graphic descriptions of events as I witnessed them.  But this is just one example, albeit a good one, of the erosion of Americans’ sense of propriety.  Those of you who know me well can aver that I am not a Puritan.  I can share an off-color joke without blushing.  Given the appropriate motivation, I can lay down a blue streak of language that would offend a longshoreman.  Yes, I’ve even patronized the odd Gentlemen’s Club (sorry Mom, I was weak).  These evils, and others I have not explored, have existed as long as men (and women) have had libidos.  But as of late, it seems there is no shame associated with any behavior at all.  If one can imagine it, it’s acceptable (except racial slurs, of course) and free game for public demonstration or conversation.

I remember a day when men, real men, guarded their language in the presence of women and children.  And a father in situ would not hesitate to admonish a nearby offender that certain untoward behavior or language was not appropriate in front of children.  If the offender was not shamed into remedial action, it was quite possible fisticuffs would ensue.  But no longer; today the loose lipped scallywag would become the victim and in all likelihood the protective parent would be incarcerated for assault.  When did the magnetic field of propriety reverse itself and why wasn’t I consulted?

I am a student of history and passingly familiar with the content and intent of the Constitution.  I have read the Federalist! The right to freedom of expression guaranteed in the First Amendment exists to protect political speakers from reprisals by the majority or the government in power.  It was never intended by Messrs Hamilton, Madison, Jay and Morris to open the door for offensive behavior.

But in our confused time, the maxim is, “If you can say it, they must hear it?”  As I grow older, and hopefully wiser, my political leanings are turning more and more libertarian; but not libertine.  While I do not believe it is the role of government to police community behavior, for I find the longer I live the less capable government is of adequately policing anything, I do feel however that society can and must establish a reasonable standard for polite behavior.

This cannot be done using the force of government but must be accomplished through community peer pressure.  While we cannot adjudicate boorish behavior, in the past, those whose behavior offended the community standard were ostracized.

Another example: I have ceased attending films screened in commercial movie houses.  It offends me greatly when some fellow patron feels it is his duty to vocally share opinions on the progress of the film, idea for where to dine after the movie or random thought that mysteriously popped into their seemingly empty cranium.  I will not tolerate it!  It has been my practice to call to the offender’s attention to my unhappiness.  I am surprised at the number of mental deficients who do not comprehend, “Shush!” And when I am moved to elaborate with, “Shut the f*&$ up!, they have the chutzpah to feign offense. I can’t tell you the number of times I have been accused of rude behavior by an effusively chatty neighbor. In my younger days, I would actually physically challenge these miscreants to take subject discussion of polite behavior to the lobby.  No one eve accepted my challenge. But as I age (and not mellow), I have become increasingly concerned that my gantlet will be picked up an I will get my crotchety old ass kicked.  Sorry, Weinstein Company, you’ll have to wait until your blockbuster is released by Netflix to get my dollar.  

And yet another: Parking lots should be pedestrian friendly.  Speed Racer, keep your speed at a level where you can control the outcome of your control inputs.  Remember, speed is distance and distance is time; reaction time.  Keep your fellow citizens safe. And when parking, remember, your car is an excellent example of a parallelogram and as such should fit nicely between the parallel lines of a parking space.  If you think about that for just a minute, you’ll see that this is a system meant to work that way; one car, one space.  If you are driving a Ford F350 truck with duel rear wheels, park in the hinterlands and walk in.  I’m sure the exercise will help with that beer gut problem you’ve been worried about.  And you “Fire Lane” idlers… go find a parking place!

Okay, I don’t want this to get much longer… it would be rude of me to take up more than my fair share of your time bloviating on the current state of politeness.  But consider this: When contemplating your next course of action in any environment; stop, take a breath and look around.  Ask yourself, “How might my actions affect those around me?”  Think about how you would like to be treated and behave accordingly.  And if you can’t think of any way to modify your actions for the general benefit of a more polite society, move to Lakeside with the rest of the dirt people.

Mine is probably an unrealistic expectation.  In a world where community population is counted in millions, the establishment of a universal standard for polite behavior is not likely.  But if we begin teaching our children the niceties of polite society today, demonstrating through our own actions, perhaps in a few generations your great grand children will experience some modicum of civility.

*** 

And this week’s punch line is:  “It is! Wanna buy a toothbrush?”

 

The Zen of Mustachios

Most of you readers know me personally but only a handful of you have ever seen me completely shaved. Now don’t get overheated, I am referring strictly to my face. I will insert here that I do not understand nor endorse the current practice young adult males have adopted of shaving their bodies. In my young adult years, body hair was a source of pride, a sign of maturity and signaled sexual prowess.  Now it seems the desired norm is to look like a pre-pubescent girl.  If this applies to you, look back into your upbringing and try to discover where your parents went so tragically wrong; and for God’s sake, stop wearing tank tops and board shorts unless you’re at the beach.  You look like a bunch of sissy marys! I suppose my message is politically incorrect according to modern standards of acceptance and inclusion.  But mark this; when the apocalypse occurs and those of us who didn’t make the rapturous cut are scrambling for survival, I’m betting on cannibalism and it seems to me hair free will indicate savory tenderness.

I have been a member of the mustachios cult for essentially my whole adult life.  The last time I bared my upper lip was for a woman.  And the last time I stopped shaving my mustachios was for a woman; se la guerre! Men being men, they would be loathe to admit to it, but the motivation for most of our grooming and fashion choices are meant to be lures for women. Does the lion sport a mane to ward off the cold of the African Veldt?  Does the bull elephant grow massive tusks because it facilitates the grazing of grasses and leaves? Does the peacock annoy the hell out of us?  If you answered two out of those three question, “Hell no!” then you accept the hypothesis I am proffering.

Facial hair and its grooming is a very complex and, as shown by the number of men who completely screw it up, dicey undertaking.  We have established the central motivation as plumage to attract the female of the species.  But the universe of follicle farming is overrun with subtext:

The Acne Cover Up 

Most of us endured the humiliation of teen-age acne vulgaris during our horrific journey through puberty. It’s not bad enough we have to endure social awkwardness, at the same time we are cursed with oozing, dripping, glowering sores on our faces. Ironically, the same hormone that drives us to seek the attention of the opposite sex, testosterone, also fosters the outbreak of the facial scourge vernacularly referred to as zits. Some male adolescents opt to grow beards to cover their dermal shame. However, by my observation, the hopeful beard grower is often ill equipped to produce foliage dense enough at this age to camouflage his pimples, blackheads and cysts.  And the unfortunate result is a visage that suggests an even yuckier state of health than the acne alone. The same technique has been applied in attempts to cover the resultant post-pubescent pock marks, but with similar or lesser success.

The Ferret Face 

Not all of us (well, not all of you) are blessed with a Clark Kent chin.  Many men with a weaker jaw line will grow a beard, goatee or van dyke to enhance their facial profile.  If one has the proper density and hair type, this can be very effective.  Straight, easily groomed hair is best for this technique.  Curly, unruly whiskers will give the casual observer the impression a sea anemone has attached itself to your chin after escaping your mouth.  A word of caution; if you successfully employ this technique to enhance the masculine thrust of your mandibles it becomes a lifetime endeavor.  If you suddenly revert to your clean-shaven (un)natural state, you are likely to overhear whispered comments like, “I wonder what happened to Charlie this weekend; it looks like he fell down a flight of stairs and hit his chin on every step?  That’s what happens when cousins marry!”

The Monastic 

Some men grow beards with no thought to grooming.  During the Crusades, the Knights Templar of Jerusalem adopted a vanity (or rather non-vanity) standard which prohibited both the shaving of facial hair and the growing of head-borne tresses.  How this was to aid in the rescue of the Holy Land from the Saracens remains a mystery. They did however set up the first international banking system. Now remember, the Knights Templar were largely men of great wealth and stature who chose to eschew the temptations of the corporeal world in favor of spiritual strength.  As we now know, the plan did not work out so well.  Today we see this fashion sported most frequently among white supremacists and outlaw motorcycle gang members.

Professorial Pretense 

Middle-aged men hoping to displace some of the wear and tear of life’s journey will adopt a number of techniques in hopes of presenting a welcoming refuge of male maturity.  The hallmarks are: the Mazda Miata, the tweed jacket, Wayfarer sunglasses and the neatly trimmed and colored beard with mustache.  Just for Men is marketed for just these men.  The problem of course is the dilemma of how dark to go; too dark signals phony, too gray shouts geezer.  If you are hosting a party, you will want to invite several of these men to act as magnets for the women with daddy issues and clear the field for the men who can’t abide baby talk.

The Baseball Player 

The goatee: Grow up, shave; you didn’t make the Big Show; enough said.

But I digress.  The purpose of this missive is to explain my proclivity for mustachios. Let me put it simply; men of action wear mustachios.  Whether real or mythical, contemporary or historical, the heroic figures of our civilization sported lip hair. Derisive names such as caterpillar, cookie duster or flavor saver cannot detract from the enhanced masculinity resulting from the addition of a Fu Manchu.

If you have known me long enough to have accompanied my explorations via travelogue (http://dalesoutwesttravels.blogspot.com/) you know of my enchantment with the American West; its history, geography and culture.  Threaded through eighteenth century history is a common feature of the steely-eyed killer, the dispenser of justice, the protector of the pioneer; they hid their determined sneer below a well cultivated mustache: Wyatt Earp; “Doc” Holliday, Pat Garrett; “Kit” Carson and “Wild Bill” Hickok.  While I do not pretend to rise to the level of grit commonly possessed by these men, I aspire to exude the strength of character, the commitment to justice they shared as they walked through the West, leaving a trail of dead villains in their wakes.

But there is more than stolid determination behind the mustachios.  Mirth peeks out from around its tapered edges.  It teases us with the dilemma, “Is he smiling?” From the deadly serious to the dead pan, our cultural history is rife with funny men who cultivated hair on their upper lips.  And what am I if not a striving comic?  What do I see when I look at the faces of those who inspire my feeble efforts?  What is common among Groucho Marx, Charlie Chaplin, Ben Turpin, Ernie Kovacs, Oliver Hardy, John Cleese, Rip Taylor, Robert Benchley and Avery Schreiber?  Of course, it’s the moustache; the mark of the serious man who does not take the world too seriously!

Do you know any other scribe who could conflate gunfighters and comics? As evidence I offer you the 1972 made-for-TV movie, Evil Roy Slade starring John Astin.  According to Wikipedia it is available on DVD or Blue Ray Disc.  I found mine at Amazon.com for about ten bucks including shipping.  It will bring you at least ninety-seven minutes of belly laughs (per IMDB)

This brings us to today’s big announcement.  Beginning with this week’s blog, I will end each posting with the punch line of an iconic joke.  If you know the joke, you will recognize it immediately and may take some pride for doing so, and hopefully chuckle.  If you don’t, send me an e-mail and I will respond with the text of the entire joke.

* * *

And this week’s punch line is:  “I don’t know, but his face rings a bell!”

 

The Greatest Invention of My Lifetime, cont.

As reported in last week’s blog post, my life has been defined by a discernible lack of manual dexterity.  This shortcoming surfaced during my early education and followed me into my brief stint of public service.

During my twenties, my life goals changed and I completed a bachelor’s degree at the School of Business, San Diego State University.  Appropriately, I began the search for profitable employment.  This search began in 1981, the depth of the Carter Recession.  If you think things are dismal on the economic scene now, you should have been around then.  It took me, the holder of the most marketable degree among job seekers (of that era) ten months to find a job.

I was still relying on the trusty old Royal manual typewriter that my dad had acquired for me during my high-school days.  I had composed curriculum vitae of suitable style and purchased the services of a local office supply store to print several hundred copies, incrementally over time, to be used in my search.  Each Sunday, accompanied by my wife of the time, I would travel to my parents’ home for dinner. While the rest of the family socialized in the living room I would spend the afternoon, and sometimes late into the evening, composing individualized letters of introduction to accompany my résumé being submitted to prospective employers. Thankfully, by that time the miracle “correction tape” had been invented. While it was no indemnity against mistakes, it certainly improved the review and repair process. I cannot recollect the exact number of documents I prepared during this effort.  But I am sure I used enough watermark bond to send some logger’s children to college; probably to become a tree-hugging environmental biologist.

I eventually succeeded in securing employment with The Automobile Club of Southern California, an affiliate of AAA.  For those unfamiliar with this not-for-profit behemoth, it is a member owned motorists’ association that among other services (you’ve seen the maps, you’ve seen the tow-trucks) provides automobile insurance. I was assigned to their General Accounting Department in downtown Los Angeles.  It is a great organization.  They were a bit behind the times technologically speaking.  For the entire department, comprised of staff of perhaps thirty including managers, supervisors, clerks and professionals (that was me and my co-workers) there was one computer terminal.  It was used exclusively for information inquiries.  All data input was accomplished by submitting hand written coding sheets that were transported to the processing center in Orange County.  Two days later, the accountant responsible for creating the entries would receive the original documents and a computer printout that reported the data entered.  The accountant would then review the data for accuracy and advise the data processing staff that the effort was successful, or heaven forbid, of any errors that needed correction. It is interesting to note that the use of computerized business information technology was pioneered by the insurance industry.  We were not of pioneer stock.

This association lasted for just under two years until I could market myself for supervisory positions.  Another couple of years with a developer of computer operating systems prepared me for real management responsibility.  I landed at Brock Homes (eventually absorbed by The Ryland Group) and began to build a foundation for success.  Now with management responsibility, I found I needed to occasionally communicate in writing with persons outside of the company via that miracle of information dissemination, the letter.  Upon such occasions, I would use the typewriter provided for the accounts payable clerks use on the rare occasion they needed to issue a check between computerized check runs.  It was just sitting there most of the time.

On one occasion I was discovered by the Controller (my boss) laboring over a letter I was composing to some taxing agency.  She recommended that I hand write the letter and have one of the department secretaries produce the typed product.

“But I compose better at a keyboard than when writing long-hand.” I protested.  She determined that my preference did not outweigh the need to demonstrate proper professional decorum and thus I was banned from using the typewriter.  After all, this was the same woman, who in the presence of the entire clerical staff announced that it was not necessary for me to assist with the keying of journal entries during the crunch of month end.  It was beneath my station. I hated that woman!

After five years of indentured servitude (after all, they paid well) I recognized that I was never going to be promoted beyond my station of General Accounting Manager, when they told me I was never going to be promoted beyond General Accounting Manager.  It had something to do with Ryland being a CPA shop and I was not a CPA. I left Brock, Los Angeles and a stalled career to return to San Diego.

This occurred in 1991 in; you guessed it, the middle of the George H.W. Bush recession.  It took me about eight months to find a job.  During this time I used a Brother word processor that my Dad had acquired at some garage sale.  It looked a lot like a typewriter but had a small electronic screen at the top of the keyboard that would report the information you typed into memory.  Once entered, you could recall from memory the typed document and the machine would recreate it on paper.  This was a great step forward in the process of writing the individualized letters of transmittal that accompanied my résumés as only the address particulars had to be typed in for each.

Eventually I landed the job at Shea Homes for which I am famous. To summarize, my career there took off when I was given the opportunity to write the San Diego Division business plan for 1995. By this time, use of the desktop PC had bloomed in the business world.  One could see in real time which keystrokes were successful and which had gone awry. In addition, the era of desktop publishing had dawned allowing the ambitious author to monitor form as well as content.  Facilities for inserting photos and graphs and charts and tables were added to the suite of word processing software capabilities. It was an accountant’s dream; words and numbers!  It was one of the most challenging and rewarding assignments I ever undertook and it led to my eventual advancement into executive management. 

In the years since, tools have been added without which I would not be able to dazzle my reading audience today.  Not only have we sophists experienced the benefits of spell check, but built in artificial intelligence has given us the best of grammar, usage, diction and syntax.  Those of you who know me well will not be shocked but for those of you new to my communications, I don’t really talk this way.  I wave my hands over the magic keyboard and the jumble of thoughts is marked with red, green and blue underscoring, each offering admirable suggestions that make my prose seem elegant.

Readers, I cannot deny credit where it is due.  I offer homage to the greatest invention of my lifetime, the word processor!  Huzzah!

The Greatest Invention of My Lifetime

You have more than likely encountered a statistic which proposes that the sum of all human knowledge doubles every five years (or, insert whatever number the uninformed bloviater used while trying to astound you with his absolute command of fantastical facts).  The truth is, this oft used shock statement is an erroneous distortion of Moore’s Law which derives from an observation by Gordon E. Moore, co-founder of Intel, that over the history of computing hardware, the number of transistors on integrated circuits doubles approximately every two years. It has become a standard maxim used to forecast computing business growth. It in no way attempts to quantify the future occurrence of spontaneous cranium explosions brought on by the need to assimilate ever more information about the world in which we live. Nobody really knows the rate at which human knowledge doubles because there is no way to quantify said subject. But this has absolutely nothing to do with the subject of this post.  I just like to occasionally demonstrate the great heights to which my Wikipedia information theft skill set has risen.

I was born into modest means.  My parents were somewhat typical members of what has come to be known as the Greatest Generation. Thank you Mr. Brokaw for setting a standard so high that no future generation will ever hope to surpass it! Is it any wonder that we seem, as a civilization, to have eschewed individual brilliance for common inclusion?

“Oh yes, they were the Greatest Generation…ever! No doubt; no need for us to strive for personal accomplishment.  Yes, it’s quite obvious that our best option is to huddle together in egalitarian delusion hoping, praying that our trophies and parchments that celebrate participation piled against the gate as a barrier will dissuade the barbarians from their attempts to open the portal and just go away to leave us to our conformist lives!” But I digress.

My love affair with keyboards began early.  I remember, when a small child, I was the proud owner of a toy piano.  No cheap instrument this, as it had real flats and sharps… not the painted on black stripes of inferior types.  I guess I was enthralled with the power of being able to manipulate the keys thereby producing the respondent musical tone.  From then on, whenever in the presence of piano (or organ, or any keyboard instrument) I would begin banging away.  Mind you, I had (and continue to have) absolutely no musical talent.  But I loved the tactile feel of cause and effect.  The affinity for pushing buttons in order to elicit a response has stayed with me, both literally and figuratively throughout my life. I apologize to any of you that might have been a victim of this particular proclivity.  

As part of my eighth-grade experience, I spent a small bit of time with my future high-school counselor mapping out a curriculum best suited to my talents and dreams. I believe he was happy to be meeting with the graduating class of Santa Sophia Academy as there were only forty of us compared to the public junior high across the street which seemed to be populated by uncounted thousands.  Perhaps that is why he spent our entire session with his head resting on his hand with his eyes closed; shaking it silently with every question I posed.  “Yes, Dale.  The school cafeteria will offer a fish option on Fridays. Now let’s get back to your selection of classes for ninth grade.”

In completing the pre-interview paper work I had indicated that I wished to be enrolled in the college prep curriculum and also try out for the freshman football team. This elicited yet another head shake and the revelation that I had better attend summer school. One reason was the tacit understanding the football players enroll in summer P.E. en masse to ensure proper conditioning for the upcoming season.  There were only two types of students enrolled in summer school P.E. Football players and students who had failed P.E. during the previous school year.  That in itself is an interesting story but best left for a future post. The second was a recommendation I sign up for pre-algebra as my standardized testing scores indicated a less than stellar grasp of that mysterious wisdom known as math.

Jump to the summer session between my freshman and sophomore years.  I once again enrolled in P.E., having successfully made the frosh football team and was subsequently invited to join the junior varsity the following year.  Having no academic shortcomings to repair and being too young to qualify for driver’s education, I opted, with a number of my teammates to enroll in typing as it sounded to be an easy grade and would likely not require the intellectual absorption of any new material. Picture if you will a class populated half by young female students with little chance of being accepted to college hoping to learn a marketable skill and half by oversized jocks looking for an air-conditioned refuge in which to avoid real academic exposure.

Of course the women, hoping to build that marketable skill set, and pulled by the magnetic charm of the teacher, a man with a chiseled jaw and sparkling smile, opted to occupy the seats in the front of the classroom where the electric type writers were located.  The football players, by habit, stationed themselves in the back of the room where they could make their snarky comments and apply as little effort as possible. We were assigned manual machines. Each day I would pound mercilessly on the battered Olympia, extolling the virtues of the jumping quick brown fox and deriding the lazy dog. After eight weeks of intensive practice I achieved a blistering speed of twenty-five words per minute. I was awarded a “C”.

My father, eager to assist in my academic success, plunged head-first into the effort of acquiring a machine on which I could improve my newly acquired skills.  As was his wont, he scoured the “thrifty ads” of the local newspaper: “Two lines for two weeks for two dollars!” Eventually he hunted up a used Royal manual that looked like a movie prop from His Girl Friday (Columbia Pictures, 1940, Howard Hawks directing). It must have had a twenty pound trigger pull which I am sure contributed to the chronic pain I experience in my knuckles as old age rears its head. The beast got me through high school and two rounds of college.

When I was nineteen years of age, I was hired by the San Diego County Sheriff’s Department as a Sheriff’s Cadet. It was a position most closely paralleled to a paid internship in the private sector.  It involved mostly clerical responsibilities.  (For exposure to the more interesting elements of this employment, see my previous blog posts: A Rip in the Fabric of Society and Keyless Entry.)  One of the requirements for this plumb job was an achieved typing speed of twenty-five words per minute.  To my great relief, I was never subjected to a typing test during the selection process.  I am certain my skills had eroded significantly since my high-school typing class.

I recall on one occasion, when the office secretary was absent, the Poway office sergeant asked me to type a letter he had composed to certain department higher-ups. Now for you youngsters out there, this was 1974; long before personal computers, the internet and e-mail had not yet been conceived, much less invented. As this document was official in nature I took the responsibility very seriously.  I lined up the letterhead pages and carbon paper very carefully. I painstakingly corrected every error through all four copies using that newly introduced miracle of written communication, White Out.  It took me four hours to complete the single page memo. When presented to the Sergeant for his review and signature, his only comment was, “Why didn’t you use the photocopier for the CCs (Carbon Copies for you digital age youngsters), Cadet?”

Later in my short career with the Sheriff’s Department, I was assigned to the central office Communication Center.  This facility was the nerve center of patrol where calls from distressed citizens were received and Deputies in the field were dispatched to their aid by way of radio transmitter.  Typically, much of the staff was comprised of older career Deputies waiting for retirement, disciplinary transfers or the walking wounded unfit for any but the lightest duty.  The level of enthusiasm among the denizens was such that when the Sergeant had to take a nature break, the deputies would roll their eyes in the direction of the Cadet to indicate he should take over the dispatch chair.  That’s right citizens of old; there were times when the ultimate responsibility for assigning assets to meet the needs of a terrorized public was in the hands of a twenty-year-old screw up.

One of the responsibilities of the com-center was inter-departmental communication of warrant abstract information to other California law enforcement agencies. For the civilians out there; briefly this means that when cops outside of San Diego County had apprehended a suspect and found that there was an outstanding warrant for his arrest originating from us, they would request the issue of a formal warrant abstract be transmitted via the statewide arcane computer system before they would “book” the fugitive.

Now it just so happened that the county employed a rather comely young female civilian clerk during regular business hours to respond to these warrant requests.  As our shifts overlapped in the afternoon I thought it my duty to learn as much about this communication process as possible in the furtherance of my value to the taxpayers so I spent any time I could under her tutelage. That made me the afterhours expert for operation of the teletype based system.  The process was simple. When a request was received, the required information was retrieved from the records department staffed 24/7 on the mezzanine floor above.  It was delivered to me via the vacuum powered tube system that served the facility.  Once in hand, I would look up the precise addressing protocol recorded in the three-ring binder on the teletype operators’ desk. I would fire up the teletype and key in the information.  This demanded absolute precision as any error would kick back the communication as undeliverable. Due to the state of communication pipelines of the day and the limited capacity, the systems would time out after just a few minutes and close your window.  To avoid this, abstract transmissions, instead of being entered into the communication line live, were first typed onto a punch tape to be fed into a reader that entered the data much faster than one could type.  So, the operator would key the data into a coding machine resulting in a series of holes being punched into a tape that could not be read by humans.  The tape would then be fed into a reader that could enter the data into the system within the time limits allowed and voila! Or rather, I would get a kickback message advising me that my attempt was unsuccessful and I should try again.

I don’t believe I ever successfully transmitted a warrant abstract in my brief career.  But, the commitment level of the Deputies assigned to the communications center being what it was, they let me keep trying until the day I was promoted to Deputy and transferred to the jail.  Hopefully no serial killers were ever released on my watch.  The curse of keyboard technology followed my into my business career… to be continued!

 

 

 

 

Lessons Learned

In my lifetime I have been places, seen things and met people.  When, as I have, one spends time among men who have chosen a life of action, one encounters some interesting personalities.  I have known soldiers and sailors and cops and real estate sales professionals.  All have their stories.  And it’s the stories that count.  As wisdom is gained, the sage listener learns to cull the cream from the crap.  So many stories told by self-described men of the world have the ring of made-for-television movie plots. Some, if one knows what to listen for, are much repeated legends altered in detail to suit the ego of the raconteur. At age twenty, we all have a naivety for such drama.  By forty, we begin to realize that if everyone who claims to have been there had, there wouldn’t be enough stretcher bearers to carry out the dead.

Rarely, luckily, one stumbles on the real deal; the guy who was there. The guy! In my case, I had the great fortune over several years to be in audience when Armadillo was holding court in some dimly lit dive bar or presiding over a late-night meeting under the low-sodium glare of a Winchell’s parking lot.

Armadillo (pronounced Arr-maw-dee-o, except in Texas where it’s Arr-mah-dill-ah) is the moniker I assign to a great adventurer.  I’m not even sure I was ever privy to his real name.  But he held himself out as a member of the clandestine services; sometimes patriot; sometimes mercenary; sometimes entrepreneur.  He had always been in the thick of the hot spot of the day. And the stories he did tell.  Most men would blush to report such wild adventures knowing they did not display the aura that accompanies such credentials.

While Armadillo’s stories were wild and wooly, challenging the credulity of his audience, he always finished each one with a lesson learned, as if it were a homily for survival. I would never presume to relate his stories.  They belong to him.  The rest of us have not earned the right.  But I believe it to be a duty of honor to pass along the wisdom he shared.

So today, I offer you what I can remember of his lessons.  I don’t know where he is presently but I’m sure it’s somewhere the bullets are flying or the daggers are being bared. And I know he’ll survive because of the lessons learned.

·         A pistol in the waistband is worth an arsenal in the trunk.

·         Sometimes the cause of death is a failure to accurately calculate probabilities.

·         The dark side of the moon isn’t, sometimes perspective should be ignored.

·         Self-worth carries no collateral, achievement increases personal capital.

·         Practice, practice, practice.

·         A flat tire is the result of a hole and gravity working in concert, the trick is to know which can be fixed and which must be lived with.

·         The single most missed luxury commodity when abroad is American toilet paper.

·         Peanut butter is a nutritionally balanced meal.

·         The perceived interest displayed by a woman is most likely inversely related to the actual interest generated by a woman.

·         Stainless steel isn’t.

·         Thirty rolls of toilet paper, in a household of one, will last four to six months, give or take, dependent on the fiber content of the local cuisine.

·         A tattoo makes a body instantly identifiable, surviving loved ones appreciate that.

·         Practice some more.

·         Fire fighters have counter-intuitive logic; who else runs into a burning building?

·         One roll of toilet paper carried afield will last one day less than the duration of the deployment.

·         If you can see them, they’ve probably been watching you for some time.

·         Identify the most talented sniper in the theater, buy him a drink, and make him your friend.

·         The memory you carry of a woman improves over time, or worsens; honestly speaking.

·         Trade your pemmican for beef-jerky before the newbies learn what pemmican is.

·         Never plan for a cold drop in an Indian Casino! Never!

·          .45acp… because shooting twice is just silly.

·         Job one; take care of your feet.

·         Floss daily, brush often.

·         Just when a woman tells you that you’re the man she’s always been looking for is time to get lost.

·         I don’t know which is worse; a skittish helicopter pilot, or a confident one.

·         If you want a volunteer, ask a fire fighter.

·         Never put off until tomorrow what you can get someone else to do today.

Cats or Dogs?

“There are two kinds of people in the world, those who believe there are two kinds of people in the world and those who don’t” – Robert Benchley

“There are three kinds of people in the world: those that can count and those that can’t.” – Anon.

It has oft been said that there are two kinds of people in the world; cat people and dog people. There are some that would argue one can feel equal affection or aversion to both species of domesticated critter but they will get no consideration here.

We have all been acquainted with an eccentric aunt or crazy neighbor who has an excessive retinue of feline friends oft referred to by the owner as “family”. They are generally somewhat retiring and reclusive in their habits. In extreme cases, the cats may be dressed in theme costume and use to play out some elaborate historical pageant. Upon learning of such a relation’s demise and that we were lucky enough to fall heir to the dearly departed’s home we offer, “Eew!”

 Our lives have probably been enriched as well by the committed dog enthusiast. They are never satisfied with one or two, but must own a pack.  It is not unusual to encounter a dog lover that has a breed affinity that ups their price and lowers their likely longevity due to in-breeding. Some take the opposite extreme and companion up with a tea-cup this or that which is destined to spend its life being carried around in an oversized purse that in bygone day was referred to as a courier’s satchel. I believe these are really cat people but cannot stomach the litter box regimen. And let us not ignore the little beasties that ride in the crook of their all-to-macho owners elbow as he motors his Ford F-.250 down the avenue (off-road edition, of course).

Yes, ours is a culture that clearly defines itself by pet affiliation.  This started my wondering about other cultures and how their relationships with furry friends might render some clue as to their philosophy.

In provinces in south-eastern China some people consider cat flesh a good warming food during winter months. It is estimated that around four million cats are eaten in China every year. However, in northern China eating cat is not considered acceptable. With absolutely no data to judge the tension generated by such a cultural divide, I speculate this could be the undercurrent that forces a future civil war. Or perhaps the neighboring Mongols have trapped all of the cats for use as tent material.

Native Americans encountered by Lewis’ and Clark’s Corps of Discovery offered the explorers dog meat as a delicacy.  It is reported by Stephen Ambrose in his biography of Meriwether Lewis, Undaunted Courage (Simon & Schuster, 1996) that various tribes offered to trade for Capt. Lewis’ Newfoundland Dog, Seaman, with culinary intent. Capt. Lewis declined the offers in favor of canine affection.  There is no opinion stated that said attempts at barter had any bearing on Capt. Lewis’ eventual suicide.

While the southern Chinese enjoy cat and the western Indians (American) preferred dog, the rural Swiss are more liberal in their epicurean pursuits and delight in the consumption of both kittens and puppies. I would offer that this practice of inclusiveness demonstrates the strong commitment to neutrality that defines Switzerland’s long-held political philosophy.

So how do you see yourself? Are you a cat lover of a dog fancier?  Let us know.  And if you have a favorite recipe you would like to share, you have my e-mail!