The Oregon Ducks opened their 2008 football season before a raucous capacity crowd of 58,778, mauling an undermanned Washington Husky squad 44-10 in Autzen Stadium. Jake Locker performed like Morgan Freeman in a slasher film, delivering a solid and credible performance, but the cast, script and direction around him were all inadequate.
I watched the game from the nose bleed seats with my brothers Mike and Roger and we had a great time. Mike is a charming and sociable man and made friends with all of our neighbors in spite of being the only Husky fan in our section, a sea of Nike clad green and yellow crazies standing and screaming at the top of their lungs on every defensive play. The home crowd sits silent for the offense until the play is over. Mike made good-natured bets and jokes with our neighbors and won them over the same way he wins over small children and old ladies and women of every age--he's just that outgoing and good humored, quite a contrast to his two grumpy and introverted brothers.
Between plays we talked pleasantly about the game and the strategy, updating Mike of what we knew of the news of the teams, injured players and position battles. He lives in San Diego and doesn't get enough Northwest football news. We had time to retell a few stories about our absent brother, Frank, the handsome and successful one, who always had a scheme or an angle growing up, how he conned his two younger brothers into working on his paper route for free with Tom Sawyer-like depictions of its glories, the story he made up when his friend fell through the ceiling while my parents were away, tanning on the roof to get ready for outings on his ski boat (he had a ski boat and a big flashy truck by the time he was 19--even then the boy was going places and knew his way around a buck.) There were other stories when didn't get to, how he used to sneak girls into his room through the window, stories we'll tell the next time we get together and he fails to show up. It's dangerous to be absent in a large family with a long collective memory. Invariably you will be the topic of conversation and good-natured character assassination.
There are certain foods that just go with certain settings. I had a plump sausage dog and a bag of kettlekorn for dinner, shared the kettlekorn with Roger, munching nervously as the game progressed. The second quarter was tense and anxious. Locker got going and the Ducks couldn't stop him; he ran and passed at will, aided by ticky-tack penalties and key scrambles on third and long. The Oregon offense sputtered, starting quarterback Justin Roper mysteriously absent. The murmurs in the crowd were that it was another of Coach Belotti's aggravating rotations, until the news filtered through that Roper was hurt. This time the experiment with the third and fourth-string quarterbacks was born of necessity, and worked to perfection in the second half, when the Ducks rose up with 34 unanswered points.
I wish my smart, funny and beautiful daughter Stephanie could have been there to witness this dominating performance, especially after her Beavers fell flat on their face with bonehead mistakes on Thursday. Maybe she would come over to the green side and leave the clutches of the evil Beaver Nation. That's probably too much to hope for, but a father always hopes for the best for his children, in spite of how far they stray from the true path.
In other football news, the highly successful cheaters from USC ran roughshod over Virginia 52-7, the Trojans getting a star-quality performance from new quarterback Mark Sanchez, a part-time starter in '07, handed the keys to the Trojan Porsche after the graduation of John David Booty. The Trojans look loaded again, and why shouldn't they be, with 200 Division One athletes to recruit each year within 50 miles of campus, a movie-star handsome head coach with a full head of tousled grey hair, and a phalanx of illegal agents and overzealous boosters armed with cash to refuel that finely-tuned Trojan war machine, season after season. But I'm not bitter, except about the full head of hair. Come October, we'll lace it up and take our chances in the Coliseum. I hope our young quarterbacks are veterans by then, because on that day we'll be the outmanned team facing the raucous home crowd. Sports are funny that way.
The surprise appearance came on Friday. I was working out at the Mall 205 Bally's, feeling blue and depressed over Marie's last terse email and the apparent complete collapse of our marriage, drowning my sorrows in sweat, when she walked in looking better than anybody has a right to be in the black stretch workout pants I bought her a week or two before, looking twice as good as women half her age in her workout gear, her hair up and gym bag in her hand. Just this week Vice Presidential candidate Joe Biden got some flack for introducing his wife as "drop dead gorgeous" but I think every man should feel that way about the woman he loves.
I still feel that longing and desire for her, but standing there in front of the water fountain we had a tense moment. What was she doing here? I asked. Why hadn't I returned her text messages or her calls? she said. I left my phone at home this morning, forgot it on the desk. She accepted the explanation, knowing how absent-minded I am. After some bickering we decided to work out, and gradually warmed to each other, me half-aroused just watching her doing situps. Afterward we went to Boss Hawg's for ribeyes, mashed potatoes and broccoli, and talked more seriously and constructively about reconciling than we have in months. In the message I missed she explained that she was more hurt than angry. I was stunned to see her. She's a fiery and difficult woman, but what incredible heart and courage she has. I need to make some money. I want my wife back, and she wants me. How's that for a fourth-quarter comeback?
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Thursday, August 28, 2008
A Miracle Comeback Falls Short
I've had a great week bonding with my men friends and comforting myself with food, but I've gained ten pounds in a week. I've got to get back on track, back to disciplined and mindful eating and good choices, and get back on my bike and away from the table. I'm starting to feel slack and blobby and I don't like it.
Tonight I met Doug at a Pub in West Linn called Little Cooperstown, chosen because it was roughly halfway between my house and his. We had a bottle of 2004 Rodney Strong Merlot, a nice reliable wine, salads and a quesadilla, and watched the football season opener for his team, the Oregon State Beavers. We chatted and watched the game. Doug talked about the remainder of his life and what he could do to make it more interesting and fun. He likes the European habit of making an occasion of dinner and spicing it with long conversation, a gathering of lively and engaged people. He's always admired people who have traveled and learned other languages. "Let's move to France and live in the country," he said, with his great booming laugh. A ridiculous idea, but most good ideas start with the consideration of a few ridiculous ones.
Victims of a handful of their own bonehead mistakes, the Beavers were down by 16 with six minutes to play but didn't give up. The drove 98 yards for a touchdown, then Lyle Moavao threaded a pass to Sean Morales for a two-point conversion to close it to eight. The defense rose up and got them the ball back with just under two minutes to play and they drove again, reaching the Stanford ten and completing a underneath pass on 3rd and five, the OSU receiver finding running room, heading for the sideline, met by two defenders at the two, reaching for the end zone and...fumbling the ball into the end zone for a touchback with 57 seconds to play. Stanford ball, by rule. An agonizing end to a noble but uneven effort, the Beavers now 0-1 and having to travel to Penn State next week to play the nationally ranked Nittany Lions before a hostile crowd of a 100,000.
It was a pleasure to visit with Doug and enjoy the food and wine. There were no earth-shattering discoveries or revelations, no memorable witticisms or meaningful moments. Just good company and an enjoyable evening. More than enough compensation for our labors. More than enough reason to do it again.
Marie left two terse and angry messages on my voicemail this afternoon, delivered when she must have known I'd be working, delivered so that they'd be waiting for me when I got off work, in the afternoon drive time position most coveted by radio disc jockeys and advertisers. She wanted the last word and the last rant. The sound of her harshest and most distant voice was painful. I only listened to half of each message, enough to get the gist. It wasn't the way I wanted to remember her, and it isn't the way I want to think about myself. For the time being I'd like to remember and think as little as possible. I need more friends who enjoy a bottle of wine and conversation about not much at all, folks who desire to live like Europeans with two hour dinners and plenty of time to talk.
I want to work out hard tomorrow, because I have a craving for a nice piece of marionberry pie. With ice cream even, if I do a good hour on the elliptical machine.
For now I'm tired and need to go to bed. It's early for me, only 11:30. I'll sleep deeply and dream of nothing, and right now that is just right.
Tonight I met Doug at a Pub in West Linn called Little Cooperstown, chosen because it was roughly halfway between my house and his. We had a bottle of 2004 Rodney Strong Merlot, a nice reliable wine, salads and a quesadilla, and watched the football season opener for his team, the Oregon State Beavers. We chatted and watched the game. Doug talked about the remainder of his life and what he could do to make it more interesting and fun. He likes the European habit of making an occasion of dinner and spicing it with long conversation, a gathering of lively and engaged people. He's always admired people who have traveled and learned other languages. "Let's move to France and live in the country," he said, with his great booming laugh. A ridiculous idea, but most good ideas start with the consideration of a few ridiculous ones.
Victims of a handful of their own bonehead mistakes, the Beavers were down by 16 with six minutes to play but didn't give up. The drove 98 yards for a touchdown, then Lyle Moavao threaded a pass to Sean Morales for a two-point conversion to close it to eight. The defense rose up and got them the ball back with just under two minutes to play and they drove again, reaching the Stanford ten and completing a underneath pass on 3rd and five, the OSU receiver finding running room, heading for the sideline, met by two defenders at the two, reaching for the end zone and...fumbling the ball into the end zone for a touchback with 57 seconds to play. Stanford ball, by rule. An agonizing end to a noble but uneven effort, the Beavers now 0-1 and having to travel to Penn State next week to play the nationally ranked Nittany Lions before a hostile crowd of a 100,000.
It was a pleasure to visit with Doug and enjoy the food and wine. There were no earth-shattering discoveries or revelations, no memorable witticisms or meaningful moments. Just good company and an enjoyable evening. More than enough compensation for our labors. More than enough reason to do it again.
Marie left two terse and angry messages on my voicemail this afternoon, delivered when she must have known I'd be working, delivered so that they'd be waiting for me when I got off work, in the afternoon drive time position most coveted by radio disc jockeys and advertisers. She wanted the last word and the last rant. The sound of her harshest and most distant voice was painful. I only listened to half of each message, enough to get the gist. It wasn't the way I wanted to remember her, and it isn't the way I want to think about myself. For the time being I'd like to remember and think as little as possible. I need more friends who enjoy a bottle of wine and conversation about not much at all, folks who desire to live like Europeans with two hour dinners and plenty of time to talk.
I want to work out hard tomorrow, because I have a craving for a nice piece of marionberry pie. With ice cream even, if I do a good hour on the elliptical machine.
For now I'm tired and need to go to bed. It's early for me, only 11:30. I'll sleep deeply and dream of nothing, and right now that is just right.
Asking the Wrong Question
Are you seeing anyone else? is the wrong question.
If you have reached a place where you feel such a fundamental uncertainty about where you stand in a relationship, if you are that skittish and insecure and unfulfilled, it's too late to be asking.
The better question is, is this relationship a healthy and whole and fulfilling part of my life? Does this person make me feel better about myself, or worse? Do I like myself more when I'm around them? Do I feel trust, companionship and warmth in their presence? Am I optimistic and confident and encouraged when we spend time together? Do we spend enough time together? Are we growing? Are we meeting one another's needs? Do we trust each other? Do we heal and increase each other? Does the presence of the other bring me closer to God and the best that is within me, or do I feel fear and anxiety and frustration? Will they come when I call? Are they happy and eager to hear from me?
Tonight I worked out and played a little poker and had dinner with my roommates. We had the 7.95 steak special at Boss Hawg's just up the street from our place, mashed potatoes and broccoli and a 10 ounce rib eye, a fine meal in good company. We talked a little about girls and Richard and Doug talked about wanting to meet someone nice, to be connected to someone. I enjoyed my steak and their company. It isn't time for me to meet anyone right now. I nodded and smiled with them at their frustrations and their hopes. Richard described his ideal girl. "A nice woman, over fifty. Someone who knows where she has going and has something going for her." He had a nice, realistic vision of the woman he wanted to meet, and I have no doubt he'll find her. He's a solid, sensitive, interesting guy with a good sense of humor and stories to tell. It will be enjoyable to encourage and observe his progress. It's a good household we have here. Four considerate, mature working guys who pay their share and clean the bathroom sink, and no drama. I'm happy enough. The steak was cooked perfectly and I had a good workout after work. Tomorrow I'm watching the OSU football game with Doug, the season opener at Stanford.
I think Gretchen is mistaken about the dropped calls. Dropped calls have a distinct sound and handset display. "Call failed." "No network." The problem with my phone is real, but so are the problems of communication that plague us even when the phone works. I believe Marie when she tells me she isn't dating anyone else. But she isn't dating me either. She doesn't come to see me, and she doesn't invite me to come to see her. Too much hurt has happened. Love doesn't live here anymore.
So now the right question is, how do I heal, grow and accept? She was the most beautiful and memorable woman I've ever known. But we're not together anymore.
If you have reached a place where you feel such a fundamental uncertainty about where you stand in a relationship, if you are that skittish and insecure and unfulfilled, it's too late to be asking.
The better question is, is this relationship a healthy and whole and fulfilling part of my life? Does this person make me feel better about myself, or worse? Do I like myself more when I'm around them? Do I feel trust, companionship and warmth in their presence? Am I optimistic and confident and encouraged when we spend time together? Do we spend enough time together? Are we growing? Are we meeting one another's needs? Do we trust each other? Do we heal and increase each other? Does the presence of the other bring me closer to God and the best that is within me, or do I feel fear and anxiety and frustration? Will they come when I call? Are they happy and eager to hear from me?
Tonight I worked out and played a little poker and had dinner with my roommates. We had the 7.95 steak special at Boss Hawg's just up the street from our place, mashed potatoes and broccoli and a 10 ounce rib eye, a fine meal in good company. We talked a little about girls and Richard and Doug talked about wanting to meet someone nice, to be connected to someone. I enjoyed my steak and their company. It isn't time for me to meet anyone right now. I nodded and smiled with them at their frustrations and their hopes. Richard described his ideal girl. "A nice woman, over fifty. Someone who knows where she has going and has something going for her." He had a nice, realistic vision of the woman he wanted to meet, and I have no doubt he'll find her. He's a solid, sensitive, interesting guy with a good sense of humor and stories to tell. It will be enjoyable to encourage and observe his progress. It's a good household we have here. Four considerate, mature working guys who pay their share and clean the bathroom sink, and no drama. I'm happy enough. The steak was cooked perfectly and I had a good workout after work. Tomorrow I'm watching the OSU football game with Doug, the season opener at Stanford.
I think Gretchen is mistaken about the dropped calls. Dropped calls have a distinct sound and handset display. "Call failed." "No network." The problem with my phone is real, but so are the problems of communication that plague us even when the phone works. I believe Marie when she tells me she isn't dating anyone else. But she isn't dating me either. She doesn't come to see me, and she doesn't invite me to come to see her. Too much hurt has happened. Love doesn't live here anymore.
So now the right question is, how do I heal, grow and accept? She was the most beautiful and memorable woman I've ever known. But we're not together anymore.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
The Women Speak Their Mind
Note: The blog has never shied away from the truth, or at least as much of the truth as I knew and understood at any given moment. I received two very pointed and insightful emails today, the first from my daughter Stephanie and the second from my friend Gretchen. I am printing them whole and unedited, because that's what we do here. We tell the story, even when it is a little messy. I'll post my reply after the poker game breaks up.
Stephanie has left a new comment on your post "Messages in a Cyber Bottle":
Dad--
This may sound bad and I hope you don't take it the wrong way but you and Marie remind me a little of Ross and Rachel from Friends. I don't know if you ever watched the show but there was a time when they took "a break" and Ross had a one night stand. The next morning Rachel came to Ross and said she wanted to get back together (I realize of course that your and Marie's break has been longer than one night but bare with me here). Anyway, they got back together but Rachel later found out about the Ross' big night and they broke up again. He claimed it was ok because they were "on a break", but she said on a break implied that they were still working on things and therefore he shouldn't have been free to see other people. I think that if you and Marie never discussed seeing other people she would be VERY wrong for doing so. You are under the assumption that you are working on things and by all accounts you are trying very hard at it. I think that if she was seeing someone else, even if it's not serious, she should be adult enough to tell you (even if T-mobile drops the call there are other means of communicating) and stop leading you on. If she is moving on with her life, she should allow you to do the same and not keep your hopes up and drag you along. Anyway just my thoughts, I hope I didn't sound as harsh as I think I did.
Me
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Gretchen has left a new comment on your post "Messages in a Cyber Bottle":
As I have read your blog you repeatly mention the dropped calls with T-mobile and it seems it is always at very crucial times in conversations with Marie. I know that all cell services have some dropped calls but you seem to have many. A few weeks ago I was having trouble with a higher than normal number of dropped calls (I am also with T-mobile) over a couple of days. I stopped by a T-mobile store they replaced my SIM card, problem solved. I am back to just the occasional dropped call. I thought maybe the problem was worse when you were staying at your sister's because of their location. I can't but help wonder if Marie is actually ending some calls and letting you think they are dropped. Just a thought. I don't want you to hurt more than you already do but you have to think about it.
It is probably better if you don't post this comment because I certainly don't want to offend Marie or make things worse for you with my comments.
I pray that if you and Marie are meant to be together it will happen.
I think is simply time to show up at her door with flowers and suitcase in hand and ask if you can come home. I know you keep saying it is very complicated and you have many unresolved issues but enough is enough. Simply ask if you can come home to her and work on your issues together while living together as husband and wife.
Gretchen
Stephanie has left a new comment on your post "Messages in a Cyber Bottle":
Dad--
This may sound bad and I hope you don't take it the wrong way but you and Marie remind me a little of Ross and Rachel from Friends. I don't know if you ever watched the show but there was a time when they took "a break" and Ross had a one night stand. The next morning Rachel came to Ross and said she wanted to get back together (I realize of course that your and Marie's break has been longer than one night but bare with me here). Anyway, they got back together but Rachel later found out about the Ross' big night and they broke up again. He claimed it was ok because they were "on a break", but she said on a break implied that they were still working on things and therefore he shouldn't have been free to see other people. I think that if you and Marie never discussed seeing other people she would be VERY wrong for doing so. You are under the assumption that you are working on things and by all accounts you are trying very hard at it. I think that if she was seeing someone else, even if it's not serious, she should be adult enough to tell you (even if T-mobile drops the call there are other means of communicating) and stop leading you on. If she is moving on with her life, she should allow you to do the same and not keep your hopes up and drag you along. Anyway just my thoughts, I hope I didn't sound as harsh as I think I did.
Me
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Gretchen has left a new comment on your post "Messages in a Cyber Bottle":
As I have read your blog you repeatly mention the dropped calls with T-mobile and it seems it is always at very crucial times in conversations with Marie. I know that all cell services have some dropped calls but you seem to have many. A few weeks ago I was having trouble with a higher than normal number of dropped calls (I am also with T-mobile) over a couple of days. I stopped by a T-mobile store they replaced my SIM card, problem solved. I am back to just the occasional dropped call. I thought maybe the problem was worse when you were staying at your sister's because of their location. I can't but help wonder if Marie is actually ending some calls and letting you think they are dropped. Just a thought. I don't want you to hurt more than you already do but you have to think about it.
It is probably better if you don't post this comment because I certainly don't want to offend Marie or make things worse for you with my comments.
I pray that if you and Marie are meant to be together it will happen.
I think is simply time to show up at her door with flowers and suitcase in hand and ask if you can come home. I know you keep saying it is very complicated and you have many unresolved issues but enough is enough. Simply ask if you can come home to her and work on your issues together while living together as husband and wife.
Gretchen
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Messages in a Cyber Bottle
From: Dale Newton
To: marie brittain
Funny stuff. How are you doing? I got your text late last night about Ashley snapping... Are you okay?
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From: marie brittain
To: Dale Newton
She calmed down, ( I sent you a text earlier...) I definitely need to get myself in a more positive position so I am not at her mercy.
Sorry I missed out on the truffles. Damn it... FFFFF....
Some of the comments on the blog make me sad. I used to be your new possibility and fresh start. You wrote me many notes with content similar to the Robert Browning poem. We were supposed to grow old together and make the last part of our lives the best part. Remember the Don Henley song "On My Wedding Day" ? It played before I walked down the isle to you and made you cry. Part of the lyrics were: What makes us different from all the rest? Maybe nothing, maybe nothing at all but I pray we are the lucky ones, I pray we never fall. Maybe nothing indeed...
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glad she calmed down. take care. it's always good to hear from you.
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That's it? No comment on what I wrote to you? Why are Brad, Gretchen and Steffs comments so worthy of a reply and mine are not?
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I'm at work right now. I write longer answers when I'm at home.
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Marie,
I would have loved to have grown old with you. I would have loved to be with you and have your company and companionship. I miss you every day. But you and I fell, and fell repeatedly, and so far we haven't made it back to our feet.
If I could be with you I would buy you truffles every day. I've filled the world wide web with my longing and desire for you. You're still not convinced, and we are still apart. I grieve for you and miss you. I wish things were different, with all of my heart.
Dale
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From: marie brittain
To: Dale Newton
Thank you...
Have you met, or are you interested or seeing someone else?
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From: Dale Newton
To: marie brittain
no, no and no.
Have you?
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
(end of messages)
About 11:30 I called Marie and asked her. T-mobile dropped the call.
To: marie brittain
Funny stuff. How are you doing? I got your text late last night about Ashley snapping... Are you okay?
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
From: marie brittain
To: Dale Newton
She calmed down, ( I sent you a text earlier...) I definitely need to get myself in a more positive position so I am not at her mercy.
Sorry I missed out on the truffles. Damn it... FFFFF....
Some of the comments on the blog make me sad. I used to be your new possibility and fresh start. You wrote me many notes with content similar to the Robert Browning poem. We were supposed to grow old together and make the last part of our lives the best part. Remember the Don Henley song "On My Wedding Day" ? It played before I walked down the isle to you and made you cry. Part of the lyrics were: What makes us different from all the rest? Maybe nothing, maybe nothing at all but I pray we are the lucky ones, I pray we never fall. Maybe nothing indeed...
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
glad she calmed down. take care. it's always good to hear from you.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
That's it? No comment on what I wrote to you? Why are Brad, Gretchen and Steffs comments so worthy of a reply and mine are not?
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I'm at work right now. I write longer answers when I'm at home.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Marie,
I would have loved to have grown old with you. I would have loved to be with you and have your company and companionship. I miss you every day. But you and I fell, and fell repeatedly, and so far we haven't made it back to our feet.
If I could be with you I would buy you truffles every day. I've filled the world wide web with my longing and desire for you. You're still not convinced, and we are still apart. I grieve for you and miss you. I wish things were different, with all of my heart.
Dale
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
From: marie brittain
To: Dale Newton
Thank you...
Have you met, or are you interested or seeing someone else?
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
From: Dale Newton
To: marie brittain
no, no and no.
Have you?
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
(end of messages)
About 11:30 I called Marie and asked her. T-mobile dropped the call.
Monday, August 25, 2008
From Now On I'm Buying Truffles for Myself
Marie cancelled our meeting. I was on the train headed downtown when my phone rang. I glanced at the display and it was her number. "Hot Mrs. Newton" it said. A nickname from happier times. "Do you get my message?" I hadn't. "I called you to ask if we could push the time back. I don't feel very well." I told her I was already on the train, but it was all right, we didn't have to meet today. We had a short, tense conversation on the phone and I got off at Hollywood station and walked over to see what was playing at the Hollywood Theater. "My Winnipeg" was on the bill but not for a couple of hours. I decided to go home. I'd bought a little package of chocolate truffles for Marie and decided to eat them myself, sitting on the bench waiting for the train, reading the Sunday paper.
I got a lot done Sunday. Cleaned the bathroom, vacuumed my room, washed and folded and put away three loads of laundry, got the car washed and vacuumed and changed the oil, took a two hour nap. I took myself out to dinner at Calamity Jae's, watched the ninth inning of the Dodgers and Phillies and had the steak and fish special. It was a good, restful, productive day.
For seven solid months I've wooed and pursued Marie and tried to make amends for our troubles, and I've written several thousand words in praise of her. It's just not going to happen. She's hurt that I left and will never get over that, and the issues that led to the crazy fighting and shouting have never been resolved. I'm here and she's across town, and it's no better than even money that she will answer the phone when I call her or return it on the same day. In seven short years I will be 60. Autumn has closed in, but that isn't the worst thing or the most defining thing. Every day is an opportunity, a choice, a hope, or a surrender. Robert Browning wrote,
I'm not afraid of what lies ahead of me. Every age and moment of life has its compensations and joys and comforts. I think my greatest gift as a human being is the ability to see the worth and joy of small things, a three dollar tin of chocolate truffles, a cleansing workout, two hours in good company. I don't need a lot, or even want a lot. I just want to get along and live and learn a little, have a few hours of reflection, a little something to enjoy and look forward to. This weekend is the Duck-Husky game with my family. When I finish here I have a $3 poker game and a small chance to win $500 if all the cards fall right and I avoid rashness in the first two hours. You have to stay alive as long as you can, give yourself a chance to get lucky. I've already been lucky. For 33 months I made love to Marie Annette George, and it was an amazing moment in an amazing life.
I got a lot done Sunday. Cleaned the bathroom, vacuumed my room, washed and folded and put away three loads of laundry, got the car washed and vacuumed and changed the oil, took a two hour nap. I took myself out to dinner at Calamity Jae's, watched the ninth inning of the Dodgers and Phillies and had the steak and fish special. It was a good, restful, productive day.
For seven solid months I've wooed and pursued Marie and tried to make amends for our troubles, and I've written several thousand words in praise of her. It's just not going to happen. She's hurt that I left and will never get over that, and the issues that led to the crazy fighting and shouting have never been resolved. I'm here and she's across town, and it's no better than even money that she will answer the phone when I call her or return it on the same day. In seven short years I will be 60. Autumn has closed in, but that isn't the worst thing or the most defining thing. Every day is an opportunity, a choice, a hope, or a surrender. Robert Browning wrote,
“Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, the last of life, for which the first was made. Our times are in his hand who saith, 'A whole I planned, youth shows but half; Trust God: See all, nor be afraid!'”
I'm not afraid of what lies ahead of me. Every age and moment of life has its compensations and joys and comforts. I think my greatest gift as a human being is the ability to see the worth and joy of small things, a three dollar tin of chocolate truffles, a cleansing workout, two hours in good company. I don't need a lot, or even want a lot. I just want to get along and live and learn a little, have a few hours of reflection, a little something to enjoy and look forward to. This weekend is the Duck-Husky game with my family. When I finish here I have a $3 poker game and a small chance to win $500 if all the cards fall right and I avoid rashness in the first two hours. You have to stay alive as long as you can, give yourself a chance to get lucky. I've already been lucky. For 33 months I made love to Marie Annette George, and it was an amazing moment in an amazing life.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Autumn Closing In
Last night I was tending bar at the cowboy event, the wrap party for the Ross Coleman Invitational, and a red-haired woman stepped up to the bar and ordered a Budweiser. I tilted the cup and tapped her beer, and when I turned back to the counter she said, "What's your name?" Dale, I answered. "I'm your ex-wife's boss," she said. Oh really, I shot back, which one? I have several. Do you work for the county? (my last ex-wife Nancy works for Clackamas County, and this event being outside of Molalla that made the most sense.) "No, Marie, I work for Safeway." We talked for a moment longer and she left with her beer. "Good luck," she said.
This got the wheels in my head spinning. I have always been sensitive to inferences, probably far too sensitive. Apparently Marie and I are far farther along in our estrangement than I thought. Her immediate supervisor introduces herself to me as my ex-wife's boss. Apparently she knows something I don't, or observes something I don't have the opportunity to observe. Maybe Marie is dating the Budweiser rep. Wouldn't that be ironic? Her parting phrase, "good luck" really hung in the air. It isn't something you normally say to someone you just met, unless you feel they need it. The whole exchange left me quite troubled. My spidey sense was tingling a mile a minute.
After I finished my shift I called Marie and she didn't answer. I left a mournful voice message describing the exchange with her boss. "What's going on?" I asked, "Is there something I should know?" By this time it was after 11. Around 12:30 she sent me a text. "Please call me in the morning," it said.
This morning I cleaned the bathroom and started the laundry and had a mixing bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. I made the call and got voicemail again and left a truncated message. "You asked me to call so I did. Have a good morning." Thirty minutes later I get another text. "Can you meet me this afternoon?" it said. "Where and when." I replied. Another message: "Any place. I could head over that way." I suggested the park outside Luis Palau's Cityfest, where the spirit of God would be strongest. She hasn't answered yet.
I think my wife is arranging a meeting to tell me she is no longer my wife. This is sad but not unexpected: we've been separated for six months. It hurts all over again. My perception of things was that we were still talking and there was still hope. It's good to have your perceptions corrected when they are fundamentally false.
In seven years I will be sixty years old. And breaking up is still hard to do. This morning when I woke up I was hearing an old Bob Seeger song in my head:
This got the wheels in my head spinning. I have always been sensitive to inferences, probably far too sensitive. Apparently Marie and I are far farther along in our estrangement than I thought. Her immediate supervisor introduces herself to me as my ex-wife's boss. Apparently she knows something I don't, or observes something I don't have the opportunity to observe. Maybe Marie is dating the Budweiser rep. Wouldn't that be ironic? Her parting phrase, "good luck" really hung in the air. It isn't something you normally say to someone you just met, unless you feel they need it. The whole exchange left me quite troubled. My spidey sense was tingling a mile a minute.
After I finished my shift I called Marie and she didn't answer. I left a mournful voice message describing the exchange with her boss. "What's going on?" I asked, "Is there something I should know?" By this time it was after 11. Around 12:30 she sent me a text. "Please call me in the morning," it said.
This morning I cleaned the bathroom and started the laundry and had a mixing bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. I made the call and got voicemail again and left a truncated message. "You asked me to call so I did. Have a good morning." Thirty minutes later I get another text. "Can you meet me this afternoon?" it said. "Where and when." I replied. Another message: "Any place. I could head over that way." I suggested the park outside Luis Palau's Cityfest, where the spirit of God would be strongest. She hasn't answered yet.
I think my wife is arranging a meeting to tell me she is no longer my wife. This is sad but not unexpected: we've been separated for six months. It hurts all over again. My perception of things was that we were still talking and there was still hope. It's good to have your perceptions corrected when they are fundamentally false.
In seven years I will be sixty years old. And breaking up is still hard to do. This morning when I woke up I was hearing an old Bob Seeger song in my head:
I awoke last night to the sound of thunder
How far off I sat and wondered
Started humming a song from 1962
Aint it funny how the night moves
When you just don't seem to have as much to lose
Strange how the night moves
With autumn closing in
Saturday, August 23, 2008
A Dot-dot-dot Morning...
....No time to explain, let me sum up...Nate Costa, the Ducks' starting quarterback, tweaked his knee near the end of Thursday's practice. It has diminished my appetitite for everything, including sex and chocolate, but I would not refuse a visit from The Girl in the Red Dress. The MRI results come back Monday, but all the murmurs are subdued....I celebrated payday last night with a good workout and a visit to the teriyaki restaurant....lost 5.50 playing poker, played in two tournaments and busted out in both, losing with pocket queens all in before the flop versus pocket eights (he rivered a one-card running straight draw) in the first and then in the second, short-stacked 80 left before the money, I had to move in with pocket fours. (Sooner or later, you have to take a stand). The small blind called me down with a suited king-jack, a mediocre hand to call for half your stack, but he turned a zzxx%!&! jack and I was busted and disgusted. Nothing I could do, unless I was the Amazing Kreskin or could go back in time...Went to bed early; I was tired and it clearly wasn't my night, and The Girl in the Red Dress wasn't going to call...It turns out there's a bank just a block up the street from my house, the Riverview Community Bank, with personal service and a small-town attitude, in business here in the Portland area since 1923. When I get my poker check on Wednesday I'm going to stop by and visit. Their website says they'll make it easy to switch with their customized "switch kit." It will give me great pleasure to fire my bank. I may even print out a pink slip...Doug called me this morning. Gretchen and Victoria are busy with girl things like school shopping and his son Tucker borrowed his car, so he is stranded at home. I'm going to throw the bike into the back seat of the Vista Cruiser and we're going for a ride and a lunch. I'll shower at the gym in Wilsonville, poke my head in the door to say hi to Roger and head out to Mo-lalla to tend bar for the Cowboy party...It will be a grand but busy day...I hope Costa has his knee on ice, and the other Ducks are buckling their chinstraps. The season opens in a week...May God give you blessings today, and may you be awake enough to receive them with thankfulness....
Friday, August 22, 2008
Marie Sends an Email
I love your blog. It makes me feel close to you. I think it is cool that you have some loyal readers. Fun! Hope the bank thing works itself out soon... Talk to you soon. Take care.
Marie
Marie
America's Long National Nightmare is Over (for now): the bank sends an email
Dear Mr. Newton,
Good morning! I wanted to let you know that your ATM dispute has been completed in your favor. The overdraft fees have been credited back to your account. You had a $50.00 transaction post to your account yesterday with a negative balance. As such, you will be charged another overdraft fee today. I will monitor your account and refund that fee for you.
I am sorry for the inconvenience this matter has caused. If you have any additional questions or concerns, please let me know.
Sincerely,
Dawn Denney
Email Operations Management Team
U.S. Bank 24-Hour Banking and Financial Sales
Good morning! I wanted to let you know that your ATM dispute has been completed in your favor. The overdraft fees have been credited back to your account. You had a $50.00 transaction post to your account yesterday with a negative balance. As such, you will be charged another overdraft fee today. I will monitor your account and refund that fee for you.
I am sorry for the inconvenience this matter has caused. If you have any additional questions or concerns, please let me know.
Sincerely,
Dawn Denney
Email Operations Management Team
U.S. Bank 24-Hour Banking and Financial Sales
Switching Things Up
I am a creature of habit and routine, and most of time that works just fine for me. I could easily eat the same foods every week, wear the same seven tee shirts in rotation, go to work, work out and play poker, write a little, walk up to the McDonald's for a hot fudge sundae, and never think twice about doing anything different, meeting anyone new, or going anyplace else. Men as a species are often this way. Oh, there are the adventuresome types you meet who are always bragging about the places they've been and the mountains they've scaled, but guys like that have merely made a routine out of novelty and often lack the ability to be content where they are. It makes me nervous just being around them.
Give me someone who is settled and boring, like Doug. I trust him. A man doesn't need impressive friends. He needs reliable and loyal ones. You can sit down with a good man and talk and share a game and a bottle of wine, not see one another due to changing fortunes or the ill winds of circumstance for twenty years, have the opportunity to meet again through God's good graces, and the conversation will flow like you never left one another's side: "How you been, man?" In ten minutes you will both be laughing at your same stupid jokes. That's the beauty of being boring and predictable and wasting hours talking about PAC-10 football. We're guys. It's what we do.
The devotion to routine is comforting and grounding, but we have to be careful. Once in a while it can settle in your stomach like a heavy meal and weigh you down to the point of immobility. Doing the same things and sitting in the same chair and ignoring the larger world around you can become a cocoon, a thick outer layer of insulation that turns you into a grubbing worm, an eating and sleeping organism, a shell of the glorious creation you were meant to be. Occasionally you have to deliberately bust out of the routine, take stock or take flight.
Tonight was a night like that. I deliberately did everything backwards. After work I called Marie as I often do, just to check in and hear how she's doing. Her youngest daughter Austin is home from a trip to Washington D.C. and they were catching up. Austin had a wonderful time and was full of stories. She took a beautiful picture of the Washington Monument at night, had a manicure at their hotel, given to her by a woman who had done Beyonce's nails the week before. Austin is an amazement, bright and independent and wickedly funny She's going places in this world, and it will be interesting to see how far she flies. The sky is not the limit; I'm certain she'll orbit the earth one day if she wants to.
We had a nice talk and it was a perfect summer evening in Portland, pleasant and sunny and mild after three days of cloudiness and gloom, and I had the sense of the whole evening in front of me and no desire to go to the gym. Maybe I was giving in to laziness, but as I left the parking lot and reached Cornfoot Road I turned left instead of right. Thursday morning the bank finally got their foot off my neck and returned my money, and now I could buy something again. I decided to celebrate by going to the grocery store. I took the back way home and stopped at Albertson's at Prescott and Cully Boulevard, bought fruit and roast turkey and albacore tuna, a dark Hershey bar and some swiss cheese and fresh bread. I spent about $47 altogether, delighted to have several bags of groceries and blueberries to eat by the handful. I wanted to ride my bike to work tomorrow so I swung back by the office to put some of the food away their but everything was locked up. I'd never been there after hours; I didn't realize they closed it like that but I guess it makes sense. I hope I didn't trip any secret alarms or hidden cameras--I was just trying to put away my tuna and bananas. No doubt I will get a memo. I am always getting a memo about something. The flood of emails never ends. But I did get a 96 on my CSR II test yesterday. I would have been happy to squeak by with a C.
It was too late to deliver groceries but still only 6:30-7 o'clock. I decided to chip and pitch and putt at Colwood for a while. I holed out two chips, and the last shot I took was a nice 50-yard pitch that arced softly in the air, bounced twice and settled about three feet from the hole. I had one practice ball left a few feet further out but I decided to pick it up. Shooting baskets, practicing golf or clearing up old customer files, always quit on a good one. Leave yourself with a feeling of success. Always. It can be pretty elusive in other areas of life, so exercise your control over these.
I got home around eight, and decided to take a nap. Didn't play a single hand or write a single line, full knowing the nap might turn into extended nights sleep. Woke up at four with a cramp in my leg and staggered to the kitchen for a palmful of mustard. I was back in my routine. It was right where I'd left it, like a good friend.
Now it's about 5:20 am. I could go to the gym for an early morning workout, or I could head back to bed for another nap before work. I'm not an early morning guy. If the alarm doesn't go off call me and wake me up.
Give me someone who is settled and boring, like Doug. I trust him. A man doesn't need impressive friends. He needs reliable and loyal ones. You can sit down with a good man and talk and share a game and a bottle of wine, not see one another due to changing fortunes or the ill winds of circumstance for twenty years, have the opportunity to meet again through God's good graces, and the conversation will flow like you never left one another's side: "How you been, man?" In ten minutes you will both be laughing at your same stupid jokes. That's the beauty of being boring and predictable and wasting hours talking about PAC-10 football. We're guys. It's what we do.
The devotion to routine is comforting and grounding, but we have to be careful. Once in a while it can settle in your stomach like a heavy meal and weigh you down to the point of immobility. Doing the same things and sitting in the same chair and ignoring the larger world around you can become a cocoon, a thick outer layer of insulation that turns you into a grubbing worm, an eating and sleeping organism, a shell of the glorious creation you were meant to be. Occasionally you have to deliberately bust out of the routine, take stock or take flight.
Tonight was a night like that. I deliberately did everything backwards. After work I called Marie as I often do, just to check in and hear how she's doing. Her youngest daughter Austin is home from a trip to Washington D.C. and they were catching up. Austin had a wonderful time and was full of stories. She took a beautiful picture of the Washington Monument at night, had a manicure at their hotel, given to her by a woman who had done Beyonce's nails the week before. Austin is an amazement, bright and independent and wickedly funny She's going places in this world, and it will be interesting to see how far she flies. The sky is not the limit; I'm certain she'll orbit the earth one day if she wants to.
We had a nice talk and it was a perfect summer evening in Portland, pleasant and sunny and mild after three days of cloudiness and gloom, and I had the sense of the whole evening in front of me and no desire to go to the gym. Maybe I was giving in to laziness, but as I left the parking lot and reached Cornfoot Road I turned left instead of right. Thursday morning the bank finally got their foot off my neck and returned my money, and now I could buy something again. I decided to celebrate by going to the grocery store. I took the back way home and stopped at Albertson's at Prescott and Cully Boulevard, bought fruit and roast turkey and albacore tuna, a dark Hershey bar and some swiss cheese and fresh bread. I spent about $47 altogether, delighted to have several bags of groceries and blueberries to eat by the handful. I wanted to ride my bike to work tomorrow so I swung back by the office to put some of the food away their but everything was locked up. I'd never been there after hours; I didn't realize they closed it like that but I guess it makes sense. I hope I didn't trip any secret alarms or hidden cameras--I was just trying to put away my tuna and bananas. No doubt I will get a memo. I am always getting a memo about something. The flood of emails never ends. But I did get a 96 on my CSR II test yesterday. I would have been happy to squeak by with a C.
It was too late to deliver groceries but still only 6:30-7 o'clock. I decided to chip and pitch and putt at Colwood for a while. I holed out two chips, and the last shot I took was a nice 50-yard pitch that arced softly in the air, bounced twice and settled about three feet from the hole. I had one practice ball left a few feet further out but I decided to pick it up. Shooting baskets, practicing golf or clearing up old customer files, always quit on a good one. Leave yourself with a feeling of success. Always. It can be pretty elusive in other areas of life, so exercise your control over these.
I got home around eight, and decided to take a nap. Didn't play a single hand or write a single line, full knowing the nap might turn into extended nights sleep. Woke up at four with a cramp in my leg and staggered to the kitchen for a palmful of mustard. I was back in my routine. It was right where I'd left it, like a good friend.
Now it's about 5:20 am. I could go to the gym for an early morning workout, or I could head back to bed for another nap before work. I'm not an early morning guy. If the alarm doesn't go off call me and wake me up.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
The Music of a Better Day, The Rising Chorus of a Higher Hope
The bank and I exchanged a few more emails today. I managed to stay civil and they managed to offer the standard replies of assurance and empathy without actually doing anything. The employees of US-First Bank, particularly the officers and supervisors, have mastered this condescending bank-speak that is really quite an art of noncommunication and passive aggression, a tone that makes an ordinary wage earner feel like an untouchable groveling on the banks of the Ganges. It's really quite deft how they do it. You wind up apologizing for having a problem in the hope they might actually try to solve it. As of a few minutes ago I am -$283 by the bank's count, and unfortunately that is the only count that matters.
I am finding that as I share this tale of woe with friends and readers we all have bank horror stories and cautionary tales like this one. The bottom line is the Bank doesn't care and doesn't have to: we all need a place to keep our money and transfer it from one venue to another, from paycheck to payment, and they charge the fees because they can, and take their sweet time about correcting errors and inequities because the consumer has no recourse except to take their money down to another bank with equally draconian methods and injustices. They all do things like subtracting the debits immediately but holding the deposit until after the debits are deducted, thus generating mountains of lucrative fees and those terse notices they love to send out. It's pretty terrifying to be in their clutches. Friends of the Blog Marie and Stephanie and Brad and Gretchen have all offered kind words and helpful advice. I'm finding a lot of people have turned to Credit Unions like ON Point and Oregon Community, where the standards of customer service seem to be higher. I think one of the reasons banks encourage you to use services like automatic payments and direct payroll deposit is to lock you in and make it more difficult to escape. I'm one of those people that hates filling out forms, so I'll put up with a lot just to avoid new paperwork.
There is no "satisfaction guaranteed or your money back" in the banking industry. The actual guarantee is more like, "you just think it's your money. We'll tell you how much you get to keep." I'm rapidly becoming the bitter old man I vowed never to be. If I start wearing my pants halfway to my chest, please shoot me.
On a happier note, I had another nice phone conversation with Marie today, and we may go for a workout and a bite to eat tomorrow. It was an easy day at work, and I finished 50th and 31st in two poker tournaments and made a few more dollars. The money doesn't get good until you make the final table, but finishing that often in the money in a field of 1000-1300 players shows you are on the right track. You have to make enough good decisions to give yourself a chance to get lucky. The nights you make the key double up and put a stack together you make the good paydays. The other times you just try to stay alive as long as you can and make as many good moves as you can, observing the other players and basing your decisions and risks on the best information you can. I love poker. It's a very engaging pastime. And one of these nights, it's going to win me back the girl in the red dress. You just wait and see.
This weekend, I'm tending bar again for the cowboys and their dates, and that will be fun, and put some money in my pocket the bank won't have a chance to steal. The weekend after that will be the Newton family road trip to the Duck-Husky football game, and I'm really looking forward to that, and the following week is Labor Day and another three-day liberty. There are so many occasions and possibilities that no amount of bad banking can ruin.
Tonight on Pandora.com I listened to a channel I created featuring the music of artists like Alison Krauss, Bonnie Raitt, Van Morrison and Donna Hughes. The service also added tunes by Neil Young, Norah Jones, The Dixie Chicks, Jackson Brown and Emmy Lou Harris, soaring voices and melodies, beautiful instrumentation, music to lift the soul and inspire the heart and clear the head. It was an incredible joy to have this accompaniment, to allow these remarkable artists to inform the space I occupied with their work. Right now pandora is playing "Something in the Way She Moves" by James Taylor. And that's as good a lullaby as anyone could ever sing. I hope your day finds music as rich to hear, and as hopeful.
I am finding that as I share this tale of woe with friends and readers we all have bank horror stories and cautionary tales like this one. The bottom line is the Bank doesn't care and doesn't have to: we all need a place to keep our money and transfer it from one venue to another, from paycheck to payment, and they charge the fees because they can, and take their sweet time about correcting errors and inequities because the consumer has no recourse except to take their money down to another bank with equally draconian methods and injustices. They all do things like subtracting the debits immediately but holding the deposit until after the debits are deducted, thus generating mountains of lucrative fees and those terse notices they love to send out. It's pretty terrifying to be in their clutches. Friends of the Blog Marie and Stephanie and Brad and Gretchen have all offered kind words and helpful advice. I'm finding a lot of people have turned to Credit Unions like ON Point and Oregon Community, where the standards of customer service seem to be higher. I think one of the reasons banks encourage you to use services like automatic payments and direct payroll deposit is to lock you in and make it more difficult to escape. I'm one of those people that hates filling out forms, so I'll put up with a lot just to avoid new paperwork.
There is no "satisfaction guaranteed or your money back" in the banking industry. The actual guarantee is more like, "you just think it's your money. We'll tell you how much you get to keep." I'm rapidly becoming the bitter old man I vowed never to be. If I start wearing my pants halfway to my chest, please shoot me.
On a happier note, I had another nice phone conversation with Marie today, and we may go for a workout and a bite to eat tomorrow. It was an easy day at work, and I finished 50th and 31st in two poker tournaments and made a few more dollars. The money doesn't get good until you make the final table, but finishing that often in the money in a field of 1000-1300 players shows you are on the right track. You have to make enough good decisions to give yourself a chance to get lucky. The nights you make the key double up and put a stack together you make the good paydays. The other times you just try to stay alive as long as you can and make as many good moves as you can, observing the other players and basing your decisions and risks on the best information you can. I love poker. It's a very engaging pastime. And one of these nights, it's going to win me back the girl in the red dress. You just wait and see.
This weekend, I'm tending bar again for the cowboys and their dates, and that will be fun, and put some money in my pocket the bank won't have a chance to steal. The weekend after that will be the Newton family road trip to the Duck-Husky football game, and I'm really looking forward to that, and the following week is Labor Day and another three-day liberty. There are so many occasions and possibilities that no amount of bad banking can ruin.
Tonight on Pandora.com I listened to a channel I created featuring the music of artists like Alison Krauss, Bonnie Raitt, Van Morrison and Donna Hughes. The service also added tunes by Neil Young, Norah Jones, The Dixie Chicks, Jackson Brown and Emmy Lou Harris, soaring voices and melodies, beautiful instrumentation, music to lift the soul and inspire the heart and clear the head. It was an incredible joy to have this accompaniment, to allow these remarkable artists to inform the space I occupied with their work. Right now pandora is playing "Something in the Way She Moves" by James Taylor. And that's as good a lullaby as anyone could ever sing. I hope your day finds music as rich to hear, and as hopeful.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Nightmare on Stark Street
On Saturday afternoon I went to the U.S. Bank at Mall 205 on Stark Street, to withdraw some money to pay a bill. I punched in $200, like we have all done 100s of times before, but the machine did not dispense any money. So I went outside and used the machine at the drive up window, got my $200 and went over to Washington Mutual to pay my credit card bill. Later on that afternoon I checked my account and found the bank had debited me for two two hundred dollar withdrawals, $400, even though the first one was unsuccessful. I immediately emailed the customer support line for the bank. On Monday I visited the branch. I waited fifteen minutes to talk to a "customer service specialist" and she just put me on the phone to wait on hold for an operator in the customer service office. The operator was no help at all. She told me to wait and the pending transaction would be probably be returned at the close of business Monday night.
What happened instead that the bank debited the extra $200, then charged me five overdraft fees of $35 each for a few small purchases I'd made over the weekend. So now they have overcharged me $385, and my account is overdrawn $233, and if it remains overdrawn for five consecutive days, they start charging me a daily negative balance fee. Meanwhile they've taken the money I would have used for groceries and essentials for the rest of the week. Here is the chronology and play-by-play of my U.S. Bank customer service nightmare:
Email 1 from me, to the bank:
Heeeeellllllpppp!
There's an error on my account. On 8-16-08 I got ONE ATM withdrawal at the Mall 205 branch, not two. The machine inside the lobby was malfunctioning and did not dispense any funds, so I had to go to the machine at the drive thru to get money. This charge is in error--I didn't get any money or a receipt. I only made one $200 ATM withdrawal. Please correct this. It will result in overdrafts if you don't, and I don't have $200 to just waste and give to the bank.
Dale Newton
------------
Dear Dale E. Newton,
Thank you for contacting us through U.S. Bank's email service. I am sorry for any inconvenience. In review of your account, I can see that this was caught and you have been credited the amount of $200. Please let us know if you need anything else.
We appreciate your business and look forward to servicing your banking needs in the future. Have a great day.
Sincerely,
Angie Kreamier
Email Operations
U.S. Bank 24-Hour Banking & Financial Sales
----------
Dear U.S. Bank
As of 11:39 am, both charges appear on my balance still--and that has resulted in an overdraft. The machine said "unable to complete transaction" and it just kept spinning. I didn't get money and I didn't get a receipt. When will my balance be corrected? I need to go to the grocery store.
Dale Newton
--------------
Dear Dale Newton,
Thank you for your reply to our previous email.
I am sorry to hear of the difficulty with this transaction. I started research on the item in question. Per Federal guidelines
the bank has 90 calendar days to fully resolve the claim. If we have not completed it in 7-10 business days, you will receive
provisional credit from the bank.
Please complete any paperwork you receive from us and return it promptly, so we can complete the investigation
for you. In order to maintain provisional credit, you may be required to submit your claim in writing. If necessary,
paperwork will be mailed to you for completion and must be returned to us by the due date on the letter at the
following address: Cardmember Service, P.O. Box 6342, FG-ND-S2PS, Fargo, ND 58125-6342. The fax number
is 866-229-9625.
The form you receive in the mail will include instructions on what information is necessary. You may also write a
description of the issue, include your name (printed and signed), your account number, your Social Security Number
(not required by helpful), the transaction amount and date. This information can be provided in place of the forms that
U.S. Bank will send to you.
Once the research is completed, you will receive written notification of the results of the investigation.
Please let us know if we can be of further assistance or answer any other questions.
Sincerely,
Heidi Brehm
Email Operations
U.S.Bank 24-Hour Banking & Financial Sales
-------------------
Dear U.S. Bank,
90 days!!! I don't care what the federal guidelines are. This is a very serious malfunction of your equipment and a violation of the trust consumers put in the bank, and it should be corrected without any delay at all. You sold us on the convenience of ATM banking and you promised it was safe and reliable, and now you've failed me as a customer, and instead of addressing my concerns in a concrete way you recite guidelines and policy and federal regulations. Here's an idea: find out why the ATM malfunctioned, and return the money to my account, TODAY.
I have no doubt if I made a $200 error you would have no trouble charging me immediately. It's reprehensible the bank should take such a ho-hum approach to this. This is your business, to take care of people's money and treat them honestly, and correct errors in a timely fashion. I hope I never have a more serious concern about my account. I would hate to think how it would be a have a car loan or a mortgage through your company. You spend millions advertising how great your service is, but what you deliver falls far short of what you promise.
Customers who have a bad experience normally tell about ten people. I publish a blog, so I'll tell about 2500. My personal mission right now is to tell as many people I can how untrustworthy and dishonest U.S. Bank is. When their equipment fails they blame the customer, and penalize them for expecting them to correct their mistake.
Bank machines should work reliably, and when they don't, immediate action should be taken to fix it. This is an embarrassment, a total failure of your bank to execute it's most basic promise to the consumer. It is an eggregious violation of the public trust. Banks should be safe and take care of people's accounts. That's your business. Apparently U.S. bank is all about collecting fees and filling out forms. Solving problems in a timely manner is way down the list. Go ahead, send me another email full of cliches and half-baked policy statements and script. See if that makes me go away.
---------------
Dear Dale Newton,
Thank you for your reply.
Your request has been forwarded to management for further review. Due to
the content of your email you can expect a
reply after three business days. We appreciate your patience while your
situation and previous emails are reviewed.
Sincerely,
Danielle Snider
Email Operations
U.S. Bank 24-Hour Banking and Financial Sales
If you need further assistance, please feel free to call 1-800-USBANKS
(1-800-872-2657)
or go to www.usbank.com and select the 'Contact Us' link. If you are out
of the country,
you may call us collect at 503-401-9991.
--------------------
Three business days?? This is an incredibly simple problem. A malfunctioning U.S. Bank ATM machine failed to dispense cash, cancelled the transaction, but debited my account $200. It happened on Saturday afternoon August 16 at the Mall 205 branch, the machine in the lobby. I had to repeat the transaction at the machine at the drive up window, and the bank debited me twice for one completed ATM withdrawal.
Audit the machine and return my money. There's a camera on the ATM. My request is easily verified. I haven't made any disrespectful remarks or personalized this or made any inappropriate threats. I've simply asked you to provide adequate customer service and resolve this in a timely manner. Your equipment failed. Your company failed. Make it right.
Management getting back to me within three business days is a thoroughly inadequate response. Fix the account, and stop blaming the customer for having a problem. If it was your account, what would your expectation be? What if it was your car, or your house, or your plumbing? Would "we'll get back to you in three business days" be an acceptable answer? Probably not.
----------------
Your tag line is "how many stars does your bank have?" Right now U.S. Bank is hovering around half a star, headed for no stars. Soon you will be a banking black hole. The marketing campaign was a decidedly bad investment. You should focus on execution for a change.
----------------
I just checked my account again, and you not only have failed to respond to my dispute in a constructive way, your system has issued five overdrafts on my account, all a direct result of the bank error I documented previously. These bank fees are in error and should be corrected.
So so far I've called, made a visit to the bank and set five emails, but the bank hasn't done anything. I'm terrified that they will just shrug their shoulders. What can I really do to U.S. Bank? I work for wages--I don't have $400 I can just give to them. The terrible thing is if you give some people a uniform shirt and a nameplate and a computer password, they think they're in charge of some little corner of the world, and mishandling the account of some poor working class idiot is the right thing to do because "it's policy" and "the federal guidelines" say so.
In other news, I broke through tonight and made a $180 in a poker tournament. Do that three more times this week and I can afford to have a checking account at U.S. Bank.
So, how was your day? Anything new?
What happened instead that the bank debited the extra $200, then charged me five overdraft fees of $35 each for a few small purchases I'd made over the weekend. So now they have overcharged me $385, and my account is overdrawn $233, and if it remains overdrawn for five consecutive days, they start charging me a daily negative balance fee. Meanwhile they've taken the money I would have used for groceries and essentials for the rest of the week. Here is the chronology and play-by-play of my U.S. Bank customer service nightmare:
Email 1 from me, to the bank:
Heeeeellllllpppp!
There's an error on my account. On 8-16-08 I got ONE ATM withdrawal at the Mall 205 branch, not two. The machine inside the lobby was malfunctioning and did not dispense any funds, so I had to go to the machine at the drive thru to get money. This charge is in error--I didn't get any money or a receipt. I only made one $200 ATM withdrawal. Please correct this. It will result in overdrafts if you don't, and I don't have $200 to just waste and give to the bank.
Dale Newton
------------
Dear Dale E. Newton,
Thank you for contacting us through U.S. Bank's email service. I am sorry for any inconvenience. In review of your account, I can see that this was caught and you have been credited the amount of $200. Please let us know if you need anything else.
We appreciate your business and look forward to servicing your banking needs in the future. Have a great day.
Sincerely,
Angie Kreamier
Email Operations
U.S. Bank 24-Hour Banking & Financial Sales
----------
Dear U.S. Bank
As of 11:39 am, both charges appear on my balance still--and that has resulted in an overdraft. The machine said "unable to complete transaction" and it just kept spinning. I didn't get money and I didn't get a receipt. When will my balance be corrected? I need to go to the grocery store.
Dale Newton
--------------
Dear Dale Newton,
Thank you for your reply to our previous email.
I am sorry to hear of the difficulty with this transaction. I started research on the item in question. Per Federal guidelines
the bank has 90 calendar days to fully resolve the claim. If we have not completed it in 7-10 business days, you will receive
provisional credit from the bank.
Please complete any paperwork you receive from us and return it promptly, so we can complete the investigation
for you. In order to maintain provisional credit, you may be required to submit your claim in writing. If necessary,
paperwork will be mailed to you for completion and must be returned to us by the due date on the letter at the
following address: Cardmember Service, P.O. Box 6342, FG-ND-S2PS, Fargo, ND 58125-6342. The fax number
is 866-229-9625.
The form you receive in the mail will include instructions on what information is necessary. You may also write a
description of the issue, include your name (printed and signed), your account number, your Social Security Number
(not required by helpful), the transaction amount and date. This information can be provided in place of the forms that
U.S. Bank will send to you.
Once the research is completed, you will receive written notification of the results of the investigation.
Please let us know if we can be of further assistance or answer any other questions.
Sincerely,
Heidi Brehm
Email Operations
U.S.Bank 24-Hour Banking & Financial Sales
-------------------
Dear U.S. Bank,
90 days!!! I don't care what the federal guidelines are. This is a very serious malfunction of your equipment and a violation of the trust consumers put in the bank, and it should be corrected without any delay at all. You sold us on the convenience of ATM banking and you promised it was safe and reliable, and now you've failed me as a customer, and instead of addressing my concerns in a concrete way you recite guidelines and policy and federal regulations. Here's an idea: find out why the ATM malfunctioned, and return the money to my account, TODAY.
I have no doubt if I made a $200 error you would have no trouble charging me immediately. It's reprehensible the bank should take such a ho-hum approach to this. This is your business, to take care of people's money and treat them honestly, and correct errors in a timely fashion. I hope I never have a more serious concern about my account. I would hate to think how it would be a have a car loan or a mortgage through your company. You spend millions advertising how great your service is, but what you deliver falls far short of what you promise.
Customers who have a bad experience normally tell about ten people. I publish a blog, so I'll tell about 2500. My personal mission right now is to tell as many people I can how untrustworthy and dishonest U.S. Bank is. When their equipment fails they blame the customer, and penalize them for expecting them to correct their mistake.
Bank machines should work reliably, and when they don't, immediate action should be taken to fix it. This is an embarrassment, a total failure of your bank to execute it's most basic promise to the consumer. It is an eggregious violation of the public trust. Banks should be safe and take care of people's accounts. That's your business. Apparently U.S. bank is all about collecting fees and filling out forms. Solving problems in a timely manner is way down the list. Go ahead, send me another email full of cliches and half-baked policy statements and script. See if that makes me go away.
---------------
Dear Dale Newton,
Thank you for your reply.
Your request has been forwarded to management for further review. Due to
the content of your email you can expect a
reply after three business days. We appreciate your patience while your
situation and previous emails are reviewed.
Sincerely,
Danielle Snider
Email Operations
U.S. Bank 24-Hour Banking and Financial Sales
If you need further assistance, please feel free to call 1-800-USBANKS
(1-800-872-2657)
or go to www.usbank.com and select the 'Contact Us' link. If you are out
of the country,
you may call us collect at 503-401-9991.
--------------------
Three business days?? This is an incredibly simple problem. A malfunctioning U.S. Bank ATM machine failed to dispense cash, cancelled the transaction, but debited my account $200. It happened on Saturday afternoon August 16 at the Mall 205 branch, the machine in the lobby. I had to repeat the transaction at the machine at the drive up window, and the bank debited me twice for one completed ATM withdrawal.
Audit the machine and return my money. There's a camera on the ATM. My request is easily verified. I haven't made any disrespectful remarks or personalized this or made any inappropriate threats. I've simply asked you to provide adequate customer service and resolve this in a timely manner. Your equipment failed. Your company failed. Make it right.
Management getting back to me within three business days is a thoroughly inadequate response. Fix the account, and stop blaming the customer for having a problem. If it was your account, what would your expectation be? What if it was your car, or your house, or your plumbing? Would "we'll get back to you in three business days" be an acceptable answer? Probably not.
----------------
Your tag line is "how many stars does your bank have?" Right now U.S. Bank is hovering around half a star, headed for no stars. Soon you will be a banking black hole. The marketing campaign was a decidedly bad investment. You should focus on execution for a change.
----------------
I just checked my account again, and you not only have failed to respond to my dispute in a constructive way, your system has issued five overdrafts on my account, all a direct result of the bank error I documented previously. These bank fees are in error and should be corrected.
So so far I've called, made a visit to the bank and set five emails, but the bank hasn't done anything. I'm terrified that they will just shrug their shoulders. What can I really do to U.S. Bank? I work for wages--I don't have $400 I can just give to them. The terrible thing is if you give some people a uniform shirt and a nameplate and a computer password, they think they're in charge of some little corner of the world, and mishandling the account of some poor working class idiot is the right thing to do because "it's policy" and "the federal guidelines" say so.
In other news, I broke through tonight and made a $180 in a poker tournament. Do that three more times this week and I can afford to have a checking account at U.S. Bank.
So, how was your day? Anything new?
Monday, August 18, 2008
The Miraculous Ninth-Inning Rally and the Healing Power of Chicken-Fried Steak
A few years ago on a summer night like this one I was watching a baseball game on ESPN, Dodgers and Phillies in Dodger stadium. Actually it was several years ago--we were living in the Vancouver apartments and Roger couldn't have been more than four. Tommy Lasorda was still managing the Dodgers. It was one of those nights for the Phillies where nothing went right, and by the ninth the Dodgers had a nine-run lead. But then in the ninth, their last chance, the Phillies strung together a few hits and the Dodgers made a couple of miscues and a series of Dodger relief pitchers had trouble finding the strike zone and within twenty minutes or so fortunes had completely changed, and by the time it was over the Philies put together a ten-run inning to win the game.
It happens every once in a while in sports, and it's one of the most enjoyable experiences a fan can have. I wasn't a fan of either team that night, but the most entertaining part was watching Tommy Lasorda go ballistic in the dugout, slamming the water cooler and screaming at his pitching coach. It wasn't hard to read his lips. He was using the words that crossed my mind just now when I lost a 9000-chip pot to an idiot who checked-raised me all-in on the flop with second pair (I had top pair with an ace kicker) and then hit trips on the turn after all the money went in. Another five-card out, gloriously victorious, and I was on the rail. Earlier this morning a three-outer busted me 30 from the money, $55 gone on the turn of a seven. I won $55 today, but I could have easily made five times as much. Poker players are like fishermen, always mourning the ones that got away.
Fortunately life has its compensations. Today was so much a better day than yesterday, and I feel revived and infinitely more alive. I had two good naps and a workout, talked to Marie a few minutes on the phone. Today is the third anniversary of our first date. Oh my goodness, it was such an amazing date. The sparks flew. She wore this long figure-hugging red dress. We met at that place in Tualatin, the one they tore down to build another upscale mini-mall, and had a glass of wine and talked. Then we heard Dub Debrie at the blues jam at The Country Inn, danced a little. We took a walk under the moonlight around the lake in the center of the courtyard, sat on a bench and talked some more and kissed for the first time. I was gone for that girl the first time I met her, and I still am. We worked out together Saturday morning and had lunch. The spark is still there. Nothing could snuff it out. But of course it takes more than spark to make a life together. At this point it would be hard to heal the hurt of separation, and it would be hard to disagree without all the old stuff getting dredged up all over again. But oh my that girl in that red dress. I will never get her out of my head, and I don't want to. It's all right to have a few longings and regrets. You haven't lived if you don't.
I chatted with Richard for a few minutes and walked over to a neighborhood restaurant, Calamity Jae's, for dinner. I wanted a plate of home cooking, something hot and filling, prepared by someone else and served with a smile. The special was chicken-fried steak. My dad introduced me to the glories of chicken-fried steak and hot roast beef sandwiches when I was a boy. Occasionally he would take me on his trucking trips or hauling a load of melons to the warehouse and we'd have dinner or lunch at a roadside diner, and these were two of the recommended options. If a person ate them every day you'd weigh 450 lbs, but once in a while there is nothing more pleasing and comforting than a hot meal with gravy and mashed potatoes and corn. I had to take half of it home but it was so good, perfectly seasoned, that I munched the rest of it between hands. When my idiot opponent covered himself in glory by busting me with the worst of it all I could do is chug some more of my water and walk away from the computer.
There'll be a night when the miracle draws fail, and I'll hit one or two of my own, and I'll have a nice payday. And when I do I'll call Marie up and ask her to dinner, and ask her to wear the red dress. If the moon is right I'll kiss her again and ask her if we can come home.
It happens every once in a while in sports, and it's one of the most enjoyable experiences a fan can have. I wasn't a fan of either team that night, but the most entertaining part was watching Tommy Lasorda go ballistic in the dugout, slamming the water cooler and screaming at his pitching coach. It wasn't hard to read his lips. He was using the words that crossed my mind just now when I lost a 9000-chip pot to an idiot who checked-raised me all-in on the flop with second pair (I had top pair with an ace kicker) and then hit trips on the turn after all the money went in. Another five-card out, gloriously victorious, and I was on the rail. Earlier this morning a three-outer busted me 30 from the money, $55 gone on the turn of a seven. I won $55 today, but I could have easily made five times as much. Poker players are like fishermen, always mourning the ones that got away.
Fortunately life has its compensations. Today was so much a better day than yesterday, and I feel revived and infinitely more alive. I had two good naps and a workout, talked to Marie a few minutes on the phone. Today is the third anniversary of our first date. Oh my goodness, it was such an amazing date. The sparks flew. She wore this long figure-hugging red dress. We met at that place in Tualatin, the one they tore down to build another upscale mini-mall, and had a glass of wine and talked. Then we heard Dub Debrie at the blues jam at The Country Inn, danced a little. We took a walk under the moonlight around the lake in the center of the courtyard, sat on a bench and talked some more and kissed for the first time. I was gone for that girl the first time I met her, and I still am. We worked out together Saturday morning and had lunch. The spark is still there. Nothing could snuff it out. But of course it takes more than spark to make a life together. At this point it would be hard to heal the hurt of separation, and it would be hard to disagree without all the old stuff getting dredged up all over again. But oh my that girl in that red dress. I will never get her out of my head, and I don't want to. It's all right to have a few longings and regrets. You haven't lived if you don't.
I chatted with Richard for a few minutes and walked over to a neighborhood restaurant, Calamity Jae's, for dinner. I wanted a plate of home cooking, something hot and filling, prepared by someone else and served with a smile. The special was chicken-fried steak. My dad introduced me to the glories of chicken-fried steak and hot roast beef sandwiches when I was a boy. Occasionally he would take me on his trucking trips or hauling a load of melons to the warehouse and we'd have dinner or lunch at a roadside diner, and these were two of the recommended options. If a person ate them every day you'd weigh 450 lbs, but once in a while there is nothing more pleasing and comforting than a hot meal with gravy and mashed potatoes and corn. I had to take half of it home but it was so good, perfectly seasoned, that I munched the rest of it between hands. When my idiot opponent covered himself in glory by busting me with the worst of it all I could do is chug some more of my water and walk away from the computer.
There'll be a night when the miracle draws fail, and I'll hit one or two of my own, and I'll have a nice payday. And when I do I'll call Marie up and ask her to dinner, and ask her to wear the red dress. If the moon is right I'll kiss her again and ask her if we can come home.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
The Lost Weekend
The worst miseries are the ones you bring upon yourself, repeating the same behaviors and expecting things to change. Other than fast food counter workers and grocery clerks, and a brief exchange in the hallway with Richard, I didn't speak to another living soul all day. I stuffed my pie hole and played poker. That was it. This afternoon Stephanie sent a text: she and the kids were too tired from school shopping at the outlet mall and they wouldn't be able to make dinner. "We wouldn't be good company. Can we do it the next time we come down?" I understood, but it left me sinking deeper into the morass of self absorption and aimlessness. All day long I watched two running dueces fall, straight draws and flush draws and overcards falling into place like clockwork, dwindling stacks and frustration. It wasn't my day, and I started playing tilty and frustrated and made it worse. Altogether I lost about $25, not a lot of money, but what I regret most is the wasted time. I spent a day of my life in sloth and decadence and aimlessness. I hardly saw the light of day, except walking up to the McDonalds for a greasy bad breakfast. What a fool.
Just now Marie called, sad and reflective. She heard a song on the radio that reminded her of our situation and she wanted to talk. T-mobile dropped the call. Many of my calls fail or drop, and nearly all of the crucial ones. It's contributed mightily to the sorrow and frustration between us--even when we muster the courage to try to talk things over, we're tormented by an unreliable phone connection. It's so ridiculous and frustrating and sad. Just now I tried again. "No network." I'm in the middle of Portland, for goodness sakes.
Things don't work for me. Saturday morning I went to the U.S. bank atm to get some cash to pay a bill, and the machine in the lobby was malfunctioning and didn't dispense any funds. The screen said, "unable to complete transaction" so I went outside to use the one at the drive up window, got my $200 and left. When I checked my bank account today the bank had in fact charged me for two withdrawals. I sent a frantic email from the website. Please, you've got to help me. The atm didn't give me any money. In a just world I should get double my money back and a new phone, but I'm not holding my breath. Then just a half hour or so later I was checking in at the gym and found out they are charging me for duplicate memberships. I have two open accounts, including one I thought expired several years ago. Bally's records show it as 3 years past due, something like $390 of charges. The assistant manager assured me she would get it all straightened out on Monday.
I'm off tomorrow. Good thing, because I'll have a whole day to deal with the bank, the cell phone company and the gym. Every day I have people scream at me because there was a bag of trash that stuck to their can, and I have a phone that doesn't receive phone calls, an atm machine that debits my account but doesn't dispense money, and a gym that double charges me for my membership. I'm lost in this world. Tonight I feel like I don't fit in anywhere, don't belong to anyone, and my life has no worth. I know that is thoroughly irrational, but that's the space I'm in. All we want to do is talk a while. Why in the world won't they fix it? The first two times I asked nicely. Maybe I should have screamed and made it personal.
At the grocery store on Sunday night the lonely people do their shopping. I saw the carts full of tv dinners and diet soda, the young couple with the screaming child. Two harried clerks with six people each in their line. I rented "Charlie Wilson's War" from the Red Box machine. I'll watch it on my computer, and just try to escape for a while.
I'm sorry this is so mournful. I miss my wife and the grandbabies. I did all of this to myself. We sow what we reap, indeed.
Just now Marie called, sad and reflective. She heard a song on the radio that reminded her of our situation and she wanted to talk. T-mobile dropped the call. Many of my calls fail or drop, and nearly all of the crucial ones. It's contributed mightily to the sorrow and frustration between us--even when we muster the courage to try to talk things over, we're tormented by an unreliable phone connection. It's so ridiculous and frustrating and sad. Just now I tried again. "No network." I'm in the middle of Portland, for goodness sakes.
Things don't work for me. Saturday morning I went to the U.S. bank atm to get some cash to pay a bill, and the machine in the lobby was malfunctioning and didn't dispense any funds. The screen said, "unable to complete transaction" so I went outside to use the one at the drive up window, got my $200 and left. When I checked my bank account today the bank had in fact charged me for two withdrawals. I sent a frantic email from the website. Please, you've got to help me. The atm didn't give me any money. In a just world I should get double my money back and a new phone, but I'm not holding my breath. Then just a half hour or so later I was checking in at the gym and found out they are charging me for duplicate memberships. I have two open accounts, including one I thought expired several years ago. Bally's records show it as 3 years past due, something like $390 of charges. The assistant manager assured me she would get it all straightened out on Monday.
I'm off tomorrow. Good thing, because I'll have a whole day to deal with the bank, the cell phone company and the gym. Every day I have people scream at me because there was a bag of trash that stuck to their can, and I have a phone that doesn't receive phone calls, an atm machine that debits my account but doesn't dispense money, and a gym that double charges me for my membership. I'm lost in this world. Tonight I feel like I don't fit in anywhere, don't belong to anyone, and my life has no worth. I know that is thoroughly irrational, but that's the space I'm in. All we want to do is talk a while. Why in the world won't they fix it? The first two times I asked nicely. Maybe I should have screamed and made it personal.
At the grocery store on Sunday night the lonely people do their shopping. I saw the carts full of tv dinners and diet soda, the young couple with the screaming child. Two harried clerks with six people each in their line. I rented "Charlie Wilson's War" from the Red Box machine. I'll watch it on my computer, and just try to escape for a while.
I'm sorry this is so mournful. I miss my wife and the grandbabies. I did all of this to myself. We sow what we reap, indeed.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
A quick note from the cutoff seat
I'll write again later this afternoon, but I wanted to say hello. Marie sent me a text and she asked me to meet her at the gym, and I texted back and eagerly said yes, so I'm headed over there in just a little while. She'll no doubt be wearing one of her cute workout outfits and the sight of her will drive me crazy, in a good way. It's good to feel that alive, and connected to someone, even it's a little frustrating.
I celebrated payday and the end of the work week with a slice of tomato-basil pizza and three ginormous bread sticks from Sparky's Pizza on MLK, took a nap in my car, picked up some toilet paper and dental floss at the Dollar Store and had a good workout, a quick shower and scraped four days of crusty beard off my head and face. By then it was nine but my weekend was kickstarted, a celebratory meal, some exercise and cleaning up. I went home and won $30 in low stakes poker tournaments, reaching the final 18 of a $3 no-limit hold'em tourney with 1243 players. I manuevered and avoided trouble as long as I could, but the blinds rose until I had to take a stand with a mediocre hand, king-ten of spades. The big blind called me down with king-queen offsuit. Sooner or later you reach a place where you have to give yourself a chance to get lucky; you can only wait for a hand or steal and dodge your way to survival for so long. I've made five final tables in the last month. The top two or three spots are generally equal to the better part of a week's pay. On the weekend there are large-field events that the top prize money approaches a month's pay, and that would be a nice outcome. It will happen one of these weeks, and in the meantime I make a little pocket money and keep myself out of the clutches of some woman who would only bring me sorrow and ruination.
I'll see Stephanie and the grandbabies today, and my favorite girl. Truly I am a blessed man. So are you, in the place where you are today. I encourage you to take a few moments and consider why. Stop by later this weekend if you have time and tell me about it.
I celebrated payday and the end of the work week with a slice of tomato-basil pizza and three ginormous bread sticks from Sparky's Pizza on MLK, took a nap in my car, picked up some toilet paper and dental floss at the Dollar Store and had a good workout, a quick shower and scraped four days of crusty beard off my head and face. By then it was nine but my weekend was kickstarted, a celebratory meal, some exercise and cleaning up. I went home and won $30 in low stakes poker tournaments, reaching the final 18 of a $3 no-limit hold'em tourney with 1243 players. I manuevered and avoided trouble as long as I could, but the blinds rose until I had to take a stand with a mediocre hand, king-ten of spades. The big blind called me down with king-queen offsuit. Sooner or later you reach a place where you have to give yourself a chance to get lucky; you can only wait for a hand or steal and dodge your way to survival for so long. I've made five final tables in the last month. The top two or three spots are generally equal to the better part of a week's pay. On the weekend there are large-field events that the top prize money approaches a month's pay, and that would be a nice outcome. It will happen one of these weeks, and in the meantime I make a little pocket money and keep myself out of the clutches of some woman who would only bring me sorrow and ruination.
I'll see Stephanie and the grandbabies today, and my favorite girl. Truly I am a blessed man. So are you, in the place where you are today. I encourage you to take a few moments and consider why. Stop by later this weekend if you have time and tell me about it.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Today nothing much happened, but I promised my daughter I would write
Every one is talking about the Olympics, about Michael Phelps and the gymnasts and volleyball matches. I haven't watched any but I glance at the headlines in the paper. I got my quarterly review at work today and I earned a small promotion and a 5% pay bump. More money for the ice cream budget. Tomorrow is Friday and I still have an eighth of a tank of gas. I rode the bike to work today; the afternoon temperature approached a 100 degrees but on the bike you create your own breeze. I stopped at one of those little Korean mini markets and had a Gatorade and a big water on the way home. They are all hard working people and I don't begrudge them anything, but how is it that certain nationalities gravitate to certain businesses? The motels are run by Indian immigrants, the mini marts by Koreans, and the nail salons by Vietnamese. Was there a list drawn up or a summit meeting I missed? Certainly they all deserve their opportunities and their success--I think the reason they all succeed is that the shop owner is working the counter 12 hours a day, six days a week, and much of the time the rest of the family works there also. It's just curious to me the division of the spheres of influence. How did it come about in such a pronounced way?
My roommate Richard and I went to dinner at Chang's Mongolian. We feasted and talked about our kids. I won 11.00 in a $2 satellite tournament after I got home but I'm going to bed early tonight. I'm just a little worn down. There's a beautiful moon out and it's a perfect summer night, the kind you would beg your mom to sleep outside in the back yard. The moon is bright and unobscured and nearly full. I have Monday off from work, a three-day weekend. I'm taking a vacation day. I like to space them out like that, take a little piece of my retirement now and then while I'm young enough to enjoy it. Stephanie and the grandbabies are in town and we'll have dinner. I won a little green football in "name the new service code" bingo and I'm going to give it to Ethan, one of those tiny palm-sized ones. He's about to start teething and he'll enjoy chewing on the rubber. Never too soon to get a ball in his hands. Especially a green one. I hum the fight song to him when his mother is occupied, though I realize it's a losing battle. He'll wind up in that atrocious Orange and Black. I haven't got a chance.
I'm looking forward to the weekend, to catch up, take stock, organize the finances, finish the other load of laundry, win a jackpot or two, maybe see a movie, sit down to a meal with my beloved progeny. Maybe Roger would come, though he's probably busy with hanging out with his buds and Call To Duty 4. I'll call and invite him.
Marie and I exchanged a couple of nice messages earlier in the week but we haven't talked, since Monday I think. The Ducks are wrapping up the second week of preseason practice and they have a scrimmage on Saturday. The Husky game is in two weeks.
I like hanging out with Richard. He's a good guy, thoughtful and reflective. His son is entering high school in a few weeks and he has some concerns for him, the usual guilt and anger and rebellions teenaged boys display, plus the pain of an absentee abandoning mother. Jacob Ryan is in foster care; Richard tried but he couldn't get custody. He remains involved and has him over as often as he can. They go to the youth mass together and it's been a focal point, a blessing and a rock for both of them. I listen. Some of the road they're traveling together is famiiar and it's easy to relate.
I haven't worked out in two days so I feel out of shape. I'll go tomorrow and feel rejuvenated and razor sharp. It will be good to get a full night's sleep. Abiding in mercy and grace, I wish you good night and good luck.
My roommate Richard and I went to dinner at Chang's Mongolian. We feasted and talked about our kids. I won 11.00 in a $2 satellite tournament after I got home but I'm going to bed early tonight. I'm just a little worn down. There's a beautiful moon out and it's a perfect summer night, the kind you would beg your mom to sleep outside in the back yard. The moon is bright and unobscured and nearly full. I have Monday off from work, a three-day weekend. I'm taking a vacation day. I like to space them out like that, take a little piece of my retirement now and then while I'm young enough to enjoy it. Stephanie and the grandbabies are in town and we'll have dinner. I won a little green football in "name the new service code" bingo and I'm going to give it to Ethan, one of those tiny palm-sized ones. He's about to start teething and he'll enjoy chewing on the rubber. Never too soon to get a ball in his hands. Especially a green one. I hum the fight song to him when his mother is occupied, though I realize it's a losing battle. He'll wind up in that atrocious Orange and Black. I haven't got a chance.
I'm looking forward to the weekend, to catch up, take stock, organize the finances, finish the other load of laundry, win a jackpot or two, maybe see a movie, sit down to a meal with my beloved progeny. Maybe Roger would come, though he's probably busy with hanging out with his buds and Call To Duty 4. I'll call and invite him.
Marie and I exchanged a couple of nice messages earlier in the week but we haven't talked, since Monday I think. The Ducks are wrapping up the second week of preseason practice and they have a scrimmage on Saturday. The Husky game is in two weeks.
I like hanging out with Richard. He's a good guy, thoughtful and reflective. His son is entering high school in a few weeks and he has some concerns for him, the usual guilt and anger and rebellions teenaged boys display, plus the pain of an absentee abandoning mother. Jacob Ryan is in foster care; Richard tried but he couldn't get custody. He remains involved and has him over as often as he can. They go to the youth mass together and it's been a focal point, a blessing and a rock for both of them. I listen. Some of the road they're traveling together is famiiar and it's easy to relate.
I haven't worked out in two days so I feel out of shape. I'll go tomorrow and feel rejuvenated and razor sharp. It will be good to get a full night's sleep. Abiding in mercy and grace, I wish you good night and good luck.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Choosing a Soundtrack, and a Life Track
If you haven't checked out pandora.com, I really encourage you to do so. This is not a paid endorsement; it's just a service I'm really jazzed about. Pandora provides commercial-free music directly to your computer. They make their money from music sales, downloads and the ads on their site--the service is completely free for listeners. You can choose music by song title or artist, and there are 1000's available, in a wide variety of genres:
rock country blues classical country jazz hip hop r&b new age christian reggae latin folk pop oldies electronic
You can create your own mix, even several channels to suit your moods. The service plays music continuously, and you can vote on the selections to refine its understanding of your musical taste--you're creating the programming. There are links to get more information about the album or the artist, and options to purchase, download, or simply switch to another selection.
I have the music playing on my computer for background all the time, and besides being enjoyable and relaxing it improves my concentration and focus as I write or play poker. It's like having a virtually unlimited musical library, and the information the service provides about the musical qualities of the selections, as well as the related artists it offers you as it continues, can really deepen your knowledge and appreciation of the music. I selected a few songs from B.B. King and Stevie Ray Vaughn, for example, and Pandora played me hours of artists from the great blues traditions I'd never heard before or knew little about. Just now I selected "Mozart" and Pandora has played me The Piano Sonata in F Major, followed by music by Clementi, Hadyn, and Vivaldi, all beautiful, soothing, soulful, all acclaimed works by major composers.
The internet is an amazing thing. It can be a cesspool, of course, the lowest common denominator of human experience. Or it can offer you fingertip access to some of the most powerful, healing, enlightening ideas and experiences in the history of civilization. The choice is yours. Science, history, news, art, music, or celebrity gossip and unspeakable filth. It's all there, in the privacy of your home. I found pandora on Google: I searched "music online" or "blues radio"--I'm not sure which now.
One of my as yet unformulated goals, now that I'm in transition, is to start learning again. I truly believe that when we stop learning we start dying, and education has always been something I've found very rewarding for its own sake. I'll never be one of those smart guys who gets a degree in engineering or accounting and makes a pile of money, but I've always felt the most energized and alive when I was learning something new. I'd like to get a Master's Degree from the University of Oregon so I would be a true Duck. (I went to Warner Pacific; we didn't have a football team so I had to adopt one.) Reading and learning and taking classes really stimulates a writer. John Steinbeck never graduated but he attended classes at Stanford and they were a tremendous inspiration to him.
I just googled "online Masters programs, University of Oregon" and I found out the Journalism school offers a Masters degree in literary nonfiction. I'll have to find out more about it.
Somehow, the last third of my life has to be about more than bad golf and small stakes poker and letting people yell at me about their trash. It's exciting to consider the possibities, particularly with Mendelssohn and Mozart providing the soundtrack, followed by a little Howlin' Wolf. I think I read a quote once that said, "Without music, life would be a mistake." I thoroughly agree. Create a soundtrack for your life, and as Thoreau said, step to the music you hear, however measured or far away.
rock country blues classical country jazz hip hop r&b new age christian reggae latin folk pop oldies electronic
You can create your own mix, even several channels to suit your moods. The service plays music continuously, and you can vote on the selections to refine its understanding of your musical taste--you're creating the programming. There are links to get more information about the album or the artist, and options to purchase, download, or simply switch to another selection.
I have the music playing on my computer for background all the time, and besides being enjoyable and relaxing it improves my concentration and focus as I write or play poker. It's like having a virtually unlimited musical library, and the information the service provides about the musical qualities of the selections, as well as the related artists it offers you as it continues, can really deepen your knowledge and appreciation of the music. I selected a few songs from B.B. King and Stevie Ray Vaughn, for example, and Pandora played me hours of artists from the great blues traditions I'd never heard before or knew little about. Just now I selected "Mozart" and Pandora has played me The Piano Sonata in F Major, followed by music by Clementi, Hadyn, and Vivaldi, all beautiful, soothing, soulful, all acclaimed works by major composers.
The internet is an amazing thing. It can be a cesspool, of course, the lowest common denominator of human experience. Or it can offer you fingertip access to some of the most powerful, healing, enlightening ideas and experiences in the history of civilization. The choice is yours. Science, history, news, art, music, or celebrity gossip and unspeakable filth. It's all there, in the privacy of your home. I found pandora on Google: I searched "music online" or "blues radio"--I'm not sure which now.
One of my as yet unformulated goals, now that I'm in transition, is to start learning again. I truly believe that when we stop learning we start dying, and education has always been something I've found very rewarding for its own sake. I'll never be one of those smart guys who gets a degree in engineering or accounting and makes a pile of money, but I've always felt the most energized and alive when I was learning something new. I'd like to get a Master's Degree from the University of Oregon so I would be a true Duck. (I went to Warner Pacific; we didn't have a football team so I had to adopt one.) Reading and learning and taking classes really stimulates a writer. John Steinbeck never graduated but he attended classes at Stanford and they were a tremendous inspiration to him.
I just googled "online Masters programs, University of Oregon" and I found out the Journalism school offers a Masters degree in literary nonfiction. I'll have to find out more about it.
Somehow, the last third of my life has to be about more than bad golf and small stakes poker and letting people yell at me about their trash. It's exciting to consider the possibities, particularly with Mendelssohn and Mozart providing the soundtrack, followed by a little Howlin' Wolf. I think I read a quote once that said, "Without music, life would be a mistake." I thoroughly agree. Create a soundtrack for your life, and as Thoreau said, step to the music you hear, however measured or far away.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
A Clean, Well-lighted Place
I love my new place. There is nothing fancy or remarkable about it, but it is quiet and private and close to work. Yesterday evening I walked four blocks to Winco and bought groceries. I bought two pounds of fresh blueberries for 3.98, bananas, nectarines, kiwi fruit, broccoli, carrots, and tomatoes, a nice deli sandwich, two baked chicken breasts from the deli, a quart of chocolate milk, a box of Kix, a box of Dreyer's lime bars, and laundry soap, Purex liquid, 32 loads with all-fabric bleach for 2.98. A lot of things at Winco end in .98 or .68. It's a bargain hunter's paradise.
My three roommates are all mellow working guys. Padrick works maintenance for McMenamin's Pub at Kennedy School, Doug is a truck tire installer for Superior tires. He handles the fleet at my work. Portland is really a small town with big town aspirations. Rick used to work for Comcast and he has an interview with Aetna tomorrow. He's stayed busy this summer remodeling the house, installing egress windows for the basement and french doors leading out to the patio.
It's comfortable here. The house is tidy and drama free, quiet and pleasant. I can bike to work in a half hour and drive in fifteen minutes. We have wireless internet, a nice yard and a storage shed for the bikes. 106th is a quiet dead end street. There's a group of boys who play sports on the street most of the day, neighborhood kids from the surrounding houses, ranging in age from 10 to 14. Nice kids, about the age of Richard's son Ryan. I pulled out the lime bars when I got back and shared them with the boys. They all said thank you and the father of two of the boys smiled from the driveway and said hello. It's just a mile and a half to the gym and just blocks to the Pig N' Pancake or Changs, six blocks to the light rail station and ten minutes to Target or the movie theater. There are several quiet neighborhood spots I could go to watch a Duck game and have a beer and it's 4 miles to my favorite pizza by the slice joint, American Dream at 48th and Glisan. A good Saturday afternoon bike ride for a slice of heaven.
My room is spacious; it has hardwood floors and I laid down the rug Steff gave me and set up the reading and thinking chair in one corner. There's room for an ottoman, a lamp and lamp table and a bookcase, the garage sale purchases I'll fund with my next poker jackpot. I played like a stone idiot earlier this evening though--I lost 1200 chips with a pair of pocket queens. The guy hit a monster draw; I never saw it coming. It takes the air of you for a minute, walking into a trap like that. Texas Hold 'em can be a treacherous game, a hard way to make a dishonest second income. But it beats having people snarl at me over spilled trash. Geez Lawheez, they get upset. And they make it SO personal. But every two hours I get to get up and take the headset off and have a delicious snack, and at end of the week they give me money. I remember the scene in "Big" when Tom Hanks gets his first paycheck. He stands up and starts shouting out the amount, he's so excited to have real money of his own. Grownups forget how cool that is, having money. Remember how he decorated his apartment, the loft with the nerf basketball hoop and the pop machine and bunk beds? The girl comes over and he says, "Sleep over? Okay, but I get to be on top." That really is a tender, funny, heartwarming movie. If I ever fall in love again or win my wife back I'm going to microwave a big bowl of popcorn and watch movies on the sofa on a winter afternoon, cuddled up under a blanket. We'll start with that one and then "The Princess Bride", one of the most enduring and original and deeply entertaining movies I've ever seen.
Hemingway said all a writer needed was a clean, well-insulated, built-in, shockproof crap detector, and a clean, well-lighted place. $375 a month it costs me to stay here, plus utilities. Richard bought Papa Aldos just now; he stopped by my window and invited me to share. I'm grateful to have a place to lay my head. The Son of Man had no such luxury.
My three roommates are all mellow working guys. Padrick works maintenance for McMenamin's Pub at Kennedy School, Doug is a truck tire installer for Superior tires. He handles the fleet at my work. Portland is really a small town with big town aspirations. Rick used to work for Comcast and he has an interview with Aetna tomorrow. He's stayed busy this summer remodeling the house, installing egress windows for the basement and french doors leading out to the patio.
It's comfortable here. The house is tidy and drama free, quiet and pleasant. I can bike to work in a half hour and drive in fifteen minutes. We have wireless internet, a nice yard and a storage shed for the bikes. 106th is a quiet dead end street. There's a group of boys who play sports on the street most of the day, neighborhood kids from the surrounding houses, ranging in age from 10 to 14. Nice kids, about the age of Richard's son Ryan. I pulled out the lime bars when I got back and shared them with the boys. They all said thank you and the father of two of the boys smiled from the driveway and said hello. It's just a mile and a half to the gym and just blocks to the Pig N' Pancake or Changs, six blocks to the light rail station and ten minutes to Target or the movie theater. There are several quiet neighborhood spots I could go to watch a Duck game and have a beer and it's 4 miles to my favorite pizza by the slice joint, American Dream at 48th and Glisan. A good Saturday afternoon bike ride for a slice of heaven.
My room is spacious; it has hardwood floors and I laid down the rug Steff gave me and set up the reading and thinking chair in one corner. There's room for an ottoman, a lamp and lamp table and a bookcase, the garage sale purchases I'll fund with my next poker jackpot. I played like a stone idiot earlier this evening though--I lost 1200 chips with a pair of pocket queens. The guy hit a monster draw; I never saw it coming. It takes the air of you for a minute, walking into a trap like that. Texas Hold 'em can be a treacherous game, a hard way to make a dishonest second income. But it beats having people snarl at me over spilled trash. Geez Lawheez, they get upset. And they make it SO personal. But every two hours I get to get up and take the headset off and have a delicious snack, and at end of the week they give me money. I remember the scene in "Big" when Tom Hanks gets his first paycheck. He stands up and starts shouting out the amount, he's so excited to have real money of his own. Grownups forget how cool that is, having money. Remember how he decorated his apartment, the loft with the nerf basketball hoop and the pop machine and bunk beds? The girl comes over and he says, "Sleep over? Okay, but I get to be on top." That really is a tender, funny, heartwarming movie. If I ever fall in love again or win my wife back I'm going to microwave a big bowl of popcorn and watch movies on the sofa on a winter afternoon, cuddled up under a blanket. We'll start with that one and then "The Princess Bride", one of the most enduring and original and deeply entertaining movies I've ever seen.
Hemingway said all a writer needed was a clean, well-insulated, built-in, shockproof crap detector, and a clean, well-lighted place. $375 a month it costs me to stay here, plus utilities. Richard bought Papa Aldos just now; he stopped by my window and invited me to share. I'm grateful to have a place to lay my head. The Son of Man had no such luxury.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Another Cowboy on the Lonesome Bike Trail
I made enough money serving beer to the PBR fans (that's Professional Bull Riders Association, and don't call it rodeo) to buy a new bike. I found a vintage Schwinn road bike on Craigslist that a guy named Andrew was selling for $200. It's an old school bike with front and rear fenders and a seat right out of the sixties, but what really sold me was the color. It has a yellow frame and green handle bar tape. I'm getting a couple of UO decals for the fenders.
Andrew was gone when I got there, so his roommate Terry showed it to me and tightened the brakes and filed down the brake pads. I have no doubt I paid too much for the bike. Whenever anyone is selling something old nowadays, they call it vintage. "It has a little surface rust," Terry said, "you can work that off with a brillo pad." I didn't mind. When you are paying for something with found money, I can't see wasting enormous energy in shopping or haggling much. I have a little surface rust of my own, a dent or two in my fenders. The bike and I are a perfect fit. On the way home I bought $10 worth of gas and that will last the entire week. I think sometimes it isn't what you pay for something that's so important, it's the value it has for you. I let some college students cheat me for about $75. I hope they take the money and buy groceries and a case of beer and throw a party.
I brought the bike home and took it out for a ride, pedaling up to the gym for a workout. I did a nice circuit of upper body and core work, feeling really good. I went to bed last night around 11:30 and slept till seven, played some poker this morning and took a two hour nap, a had a great lunch of fruit and crusty ciabatta rolls and green tea, had a shower, cleaned the tub and bathroom floor. I was going to do laundry but I left the damned soap at the laundromat last weekend. I am such an idiot. I miss my wife. She always knew where things were, and helped me remember things.
I miss her for many other reasons of course. Companionship, affection--she was a delight to my eyes and a balm to my soul. I met her yesterday for lunch, and my goodness, she was wearing these cute yellow-green shorts and her hair was down. Utterly lovely and unforgettable. I gave her some money for her car insurance. Yesterday was her birthday. I had been trying so hard not to think about her and trying to accept the fact we were not together that I completely forgot her birthday. Half the time these days I don't know the date as it is, but there wasn't an excuse in the world I could make. I brought her the money for the insurance, from my poker winnings, and she thanked me three times and again in a phone message this morning.
I wrote yesterday about sex, and I don't want to belabor that topic, but I have to say I never knew how incredible sex could be until I met Marie. We had the most remarkable, joyous, delicious, intense, passionate romantic life together. We went dancing. We made love sometimes three times in one day, and I could not look at her without wanting her. In the kitchen. In a vineyard. In front of the mirror. Slowly and tenderly, with whispered promises and endearments. Urgently and athletically, my hands on her glorious curves. When we hugged goodbye yesterday I didn't want to let her go. Two tentative kisses, a sad smile. "Call me whenever you like," I said, "I'm always happy to hear from you. Happy birthday."
It is what it is. I started this blog to tell stories and make discoveries, and that's the part of the story most deeply in mind today. I hope it doesn't offend you, because I always appreciate your visits.
Andrew was gone when I got there, so his roommate Terry showed it to me and tightened the brakes and filed down the brake pads. I have no doubt I paid too much for the bike. Whenever anyone is selling something old nowadays, they call it vintage. "It has a little surface rust," Terry said, "you can work that off with a brillo pad." I didn't mind. When you are paying for something with found money, I can't see wasting enormous energy in shopping or haggling much. I have a little surface rust of my own, a dent or two in my fenders. The bike and I are a perfect fit. On the way home I bought $10 worth of gas and that will last the entire week. I think sometimes it isn't what you pay for something that's so important, it's the value it has for you. I let some college students cheat me for about $75. I hope they take the money and buy groceries and a case of beer and throw a party.
I brought the bike home and took it out for a ride, pedaling up to the gym for a workout. I did a nice circuit of upper body and core work, feeling really good. I went to bed last night around 11:30 and slept till seven, played some poker this morning and took a two hour nap, a had a great lunch of fruit and crusty ciabatta rolls and green tea, had a shower, cleaned the tub and bathroom floor. I was going to do laundry but I left the damned soap at the laundromat last weekend. I am such an idiot. I miss my wife. She always knew where things were, and helped me remember things.
I miss her for many other reasons of course. Companionship, affection--she was a delight to my eyes and a balm to my soul. I met her yesterday for lunch, and my goodness, she was wearing these cute yellow-green shorts and her hair was down. Utterly lovely and unforgettable. I gave her some money for her car insurance. Yesterday was her birthday. I had been trying so hard not to think about her and trying to accept the fact we were not together that I completely forgot her birthday. Half the time these days I don't know the date as it is, but there wasn't an excuse in the world I could make. I brought her the money for the insurance, from my poker winnings, and she thanked me three times and again in a phone message this morning.
I wrote yesterday about sex, and I don't want to belabor that topic, but I have to say I never knew how incredible sex could be until I met Marie. We had the most remarkable, joyous, delicious, intense, passionate romantic life together. We went dancing. We made love sometimes three times in one day, and I could not look at her without wanting her. In the kitchen. In a vineyard. In front of the mirror. Slowly and tenderly, with whispered promises and endearments. Urgently and athletically, my hands on her glorious curves. When we hugged goodbye yesterday I didn't want to let her go. Two tentative kisses, a sad smile. "Call me whenever you like," I said, "I'm always happy to hear from you. Happy birthday."
It is what it is. I started this blog to tell stories and make discoveries, and that's the part of the story most deeply in mind today. I hope it doesn't offend you, because I always appreciate your visits.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
And Now for Something Completely Different
On Thursday night I had dinner among the young hipsters, and Friday I served beer and bottled mojitos to the cowboys and their dates. I was the bartender at one of the beer tents at The Ross Coleman Invitational, a Bullriding Event held at the rodeo grounds in Molalla, a benefit for the Make-A-Wish Foundation, featuring some of the top cowboys in the country. You can't have a rodeo without a beer tent.
It was fun to be the bartender. I slipped easily into the role, and strove to be cordial, professional and efficient, friendly but businesslike. I kept my table wiped down, my cups stocked and my cash drawer straight, and I wore a smile and my wedding ring. The crowd was polite and manageable; they were there to have a good time and made no trouble and I enjoyed the work. Somehow it comes naturally to me. I like the pace and energy. People are generally courteous and appreciative of their bartenders--it's much different than answering phones in the call center or even waiting tables. I made $105 in tips, and only had to cut off one person, a woman named Gina who got too wobbly and started the loud talk people get after too many beers. I enjoyed working with Sean the Budweiser rep and Mark the alcohol compliance officer, good guys who enjoy their jobs, and my beer stand had a good view of the arena and the goings on. My brother Roger stopped by and we caught up on Mitchie's baseball season and Duck football. He and Debbie seem to be doing better and he has a fishing trip scheduled for next week to Alaska. Two guys in red and blue jumpsuits did acrobatic tricks on offroad motorcycles, flips and handstands on their seats, jumping off a ramp. The cowboys wore their crisp rodeo shirts and broad hats, and there were lots of pretty girls.
I'll probably get in trouble with my estranged wife Marie, my daughter Stephanie, and my friend Gretchen for saying this, but the blog has never shied away from honesty: I miss sex. I miss the sensations and the release. I miss the closeness and belonging. I miss holding someone, being admired, being desired. I miss the gentle talk and pleasing voice that follows it. I miss the anticipation and the thrill. I miss being connected, the intertwining, the bonding, the hopeful, tender, exhilarating nowness of it, holding someone, being held, giving and taking and desiring and feeling the energy and oneness, the thrill of conquest, the delight of giving every ounce of your energy and being to another person. I miss having my senses overloaded and all my cares melted away, the comfort and the solace of being in one perfect place with the one person you want to be with more than anyone in the world. I could probably find sex if I wanted. Some women have a thing for bartenders. Decidedly these are not the women you want to have sex with. I miss intimacy. I'm too old for anything mindless, immoral or casual. I want to belong to someone. I want someone to belong with me.
Of course, actions have consequences, and we didn't arrive at this place in the transformation journey by accident. Marie and I had a wonderful, intense, passionate, exhilarating romance, but we didn't get along. We'd fight in the most troublesome dramatic half-crazy ways, and dangerous terrible words and out of control emotions spilled out into the streets and parking lots and poisoned our bedroom and our kitchen. Our home became a haunted place, as if it were inhabited by demons or dark forces, and in a way it was: it was haunted by our pasts, and the fragile, hurting people inside us. I left her because I couldn't stand the fighting anymore. It was sad and dangerous and scary.
I fully realize it wouldn't do any good to take up with someone new, or rush back into her arms, even if I could. I had a friend named Tim who was in AA, a good guy, decent and funny and honest, well-adjusted after coming to grips with his troubles, another friend lost to another heavyweight crouch of selfishness and irritability, and he used to like to quote a saying from AA, "Insanity is repeating the same behaviors and expecting things to change." You can't have a healthy relationship with an unhealthy soul. But I am no worse or no better than anyone else: we all have some work to do. I miss sex. It's okay to miss it, and it's okay to say so. It's what you do with that realization that matters.
I'm working again tonight at the Rodeo, and I intend to have a good time and enjoy the people and pocket another $100. (I'm working as a volunteer for my sister and the charity, so I don't feel bad about the money--I stay on my feet and hustle to earn it. On the way home last night I stopped at The Trails End Saloon and had a Fat Tire Ale and listened to a set of blues, a four-piece band called KJ Jackson with a pretty good player on the mouth harp. I sat quietly and watched the crowd and drank a beer of my own, just enjoyed the music for a while. Another too-drunk woman stumbled and caught my shoulder for balance on the way from the dance floor to the bar and she stuck out her tongue suggestively. I recoiled inwardly and probably visibly and sent her on her way. Not what I was looking for. Not the solution to my problem, or hers. I am looking for something completely different, a journey of faith, hope and possibility. There's another AA saying I like, although I'm not an alcoholic and not in AA, "one day at a time." I'm looking forward to this day: it will no doubt be a good one.
It was fun to be the bartender. I slipped easily into the role, and strove to be cordial, professional and efficient, friendly but businesslike. I kept my table wiped down, my cups stocked and my cash drawer straight, and I wore a smile and my wedding ring. The crowd was polite and manageable; they were there to have a good time and made no trouble and I enjoyed the work. Somehow it comes naturally to me. I like the pace and energy. People are generally courteous and appreciative of their bartenders--it's much different than answering phones in the call center or even waiting tables. I made $105 in tips, and only had to cut off one person, a woman named Gina who got too wobbly and started the loud talk people get after too many beers. I enjoyed working with Sean the Budweiser rep and Mark the alcohol compliance officer, good guys who enjoy their jobs, and my beer stand had a good view of the arena and the goings on. My brother Roger stopped by and we caught up on Mitchie's baseball season and Duck football. He and Debbie seem to be doing better and he has a fishing trip scheduled for next week to Alaska. Two guys in red and blue jumpsuits did acrobatic tricks on offroad motorcycles, flips and handstands on their seats, jumping off a ramp. The cowboys wore their crisp rodeo shirts and broad hats, and there were lots of pretty girls.
I'll probably get in trouble with my estranged wife Marie, my daughter Stephanie, and my friend Gretchen for saying this, but the blog has never shied away from honesty: I miss sex. I miss the sensations and the release. I miss the closeness and belonging. I miss holding someone, being admired, being desired. I miss the gentle talk and pleasing voice that follows it. I miss the anticipation and the thrill. I miss being connected, the intertwining, the bonding, the hopeful, tender, exhilarating nowness of it, holding someone, being held, giving and taking and desiring and feeling the energy and oneness, the thrill of conquest, the delight of giving every ounce of your energy and being to another person. I miss having my senses overloaded and all my cares melted away, the comfort and the solace of being in one perfect place with the one person you want to be with more than anyone in the world. I could probably find sex if I wanted. Some women have a thing for bartenders. Decidedly these are not the women you want to have sex with. I miss intimacy. I'm too old for anything mindless, immoral or casual. I want to belong to someone. I want someone to belong with me.
Of course, actions have consequences, and we didn't arrive at this place in the transformation journey by accident. Marie and I had a wonderful, intense, passionate, exhilarating romance, but we didn't get along. We'd fight in the most troublesome dramatic half-crazy ways, and dangerous terrible words and out of control emotions spilled out into the streets and parking lots and poisoned our bedroom and our kitchen. Our home became a haunted place, as if it were inhabited by demons or dark forces, and in a way it was: it was haunted by our pasts, and the fragile, hurting people inside us. I left her because I couldn't stand the fighting anymore. It was sad and dangerous and scary.
I fully realize it wouldn't do any good to take up with someone new, or rush back into her arms, even if I could. I had a friend named Tim who was in AA, a good guy, decent and funny and honest, well-adjusted after coming to grips with his troubles, another friend lost to another heavyweight crouch of selfishness and irritability, and he used to like to quote a saying from AA, "Insanity is repeating the same behaviors and expecting things to change." You can't have a healthy relationship with an unhealthy soul. But I am no worse or no better than anyone else: we all have some work to do. I miss sex. It's okay to miss it, and it's okay to say so. It's what you do with that realization that matters.
I'm working again tonight at the Rodeo, and I intend to have a good time and enjoy the people and pocket another $100. (I'm working as a volunteer for my sister and the charity, so I don't feel bad about the money--I stay on my feet and hustle to earn it. On the way home last night I stopped at The Trails End Saloon and had a Fat Tire Ale and listened to a set of blues, a four-piece band called KJ Jackson with a pretty good player on the mouth harp. I sat quietly and watched the crowd and drank a beer of my own, just enjoyed the music for a while. Another too-drunk woman stumbled and caught my shoulder for balance on the way from the dance floor to the bar and she stuck out her tongue suggestively. I recoiled inwardly and probably visibly and sent her on her way. Not what I was looking for. Not the solution to my problem, or hers. I am looking for something completely different, a journey of faith, hope and possibility. There's another AA saying I like, although I'm not an alcoholic and not in AA, "one day at a time." I'm looking forward to this day: it will no doubt be a good one.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant
The Bye and Bye at 10th and Alberta serves "vegetarian pub food" and I had a pale ale and a bowl of brussel sprouts with brown rice and chunks of braised tofu in a hot sauce. The hot sauce would have been good on chicken or a nice juicy steak, but it wasn't bad on tofu. The restaurant featured a nice patio secluded behind a tall wood fence with lattice work and vines. It was a young hipster crowd. The bartenders had those full color tatoos that covered their arms. The girls wore capris or linen pants. I saw two young men greet each other with a kiss on the lips. Gretchen and I sat with Tamara, a real estate agent who likes to travel, and William, who buys and sells apartment buildings. Tamara talked about her trip to Laos. She met a young Buddhist monk in the city, a boy of 17 named Jit, and she traveled with him by boat up the Mekong River to his village in the remotest part of the country, where she spent several days working and eating and bathing with the native people. William had traveled also, backpacking through Europe, and Gretchen talked about the experience of adopting 3 children from the former Soviet Union. They asked me what I did for a living, you know, "what do you do?" the question I hate at parties, because it is such a conversational dead end. "I'll tell you," I said, "if you promise not to talk shop." Usually when I tell people I work for the garbage company they want to tell me their garbage horror stories, or wax rhapsodic about the drivers and how hard they work. I'd rather talk Pac-10 football and eat hummus and chips with Doug.
William had a thing at 8 so he excused myself, and I jumped to my feet and shook hands with everyone and left. I wanted to go home. It was extraordinaly nice of Gretchen to invite me, but I was way out of my element. I remember a line from Hannah and Her Sisters, "It was the worst night ever, the worst time since the Nuremberg Trials. We did everything but exchange gun shots." This was no where near that bad, but it wasn't anything I'd do again. Modern life has all these artificial ways to meet people and "network." I'd rather exchange gunshots than "network."
Before I went to the dinner I stopped at Colwood golf course and chipped and putted and pitched for a few minutes. I holed out another chip, with the pro watching from the clubhouse. It always cheers me up when I hole out a chip. It reminds me that while anything is not possible, a great deal still is.
Tomorrow night I serve beer and soda at The Ross Coleman Invitational. Everybody likes the bartender and the pizza delivery guy. I'd have to say that these were my two all-time favorite jobs. When some little old lady starts snarling at me about her trash can, or I get another memo about excessive bathroom breaks, they start to look pretty good. If I ever get out of debt, I'm going to downsize my employment and play more bad golf.
After brussel sprouts and brown rice I have an incredible craving for a nice ice cream bar with a thick dark chocolate coating on the outside. I think I'll walk over to Winco after the poker game, if I don't fall asleep in my new thinking chair. You know you're getting old, when thinking always gives way to sleep. Good night now.
William had a thing at 8 so he excused myself, and I jumped to my feet and shook hands with everyone and left. I wanted to go home. It was extraordinaly nice of Gretchen to invite me, but I was way out of my element. I remember a line from Hannah and Her Sisters, "It was the worst night ever, the worst time since the Nuremberg Trials. We did everything but exchange gun shots." This was no where near that bad, but it wasn't anything I'd do again. Modern life has all these artificial ways to meet people and "network." I'd rather exchange gunshots than "network."
Before I went to the dinner I stopped at Colwood golf course and chipped and putted and pitched for a few minutes. I holed out another chip, with the pro watching from the clubhouse. It always cheers me up when I hole out a chip. It reminds me that while anything is not possible, a great deal still is.
Tomorrow night I serve beer and soda at The Ross Coleman Invitational. Everybody likes the bartender and the pizza delivery guy. I'd have to say that these were my two all-time favorite jobs. When some little old lady starts snarling at me about her trash can, or I get another memo about excessive bathroom breaks, they start to look pretty good. If I ever get out of debt, I'm going to downsize my employment and play more bad golf.
After brussel sprouts and brown rice I have an incredible craving for a nice ice cream bar with a thick dark chocolate coating on the outside. I think I'll walk over to Winco after the poker game, if I don't fall asleep in my new thinking chair. You know you're getting old, when thinking always gives way to sleep. Good night now.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Zimmerman Achieves Inner Conciousness
On Sunday former Oregon Duck Gary Zimmerman was inducted as the 247th member of The NFL Hall of Fame. He had to give a speech, and in it he quoted the Dalai Lama:
Throughout our lives we are assigned a number. A cubicle. A uniform. A name badge. A position. And we strap on our helmet and block as well as we can. There's not a hall of fame for customer service reps or nurses or mothers or small business owners, but we go in every day and do what we do. "Sometimes not getting what you want is a wonderful stroke of luck."
I'm not the least bit ready to become a Buddhist. All that passive acceptance stuff would drive me nuts, but I have to agree with the Lama here. We want things to be easy and uncomplicated. We want our needs met and our path to glory to have no thorn bushes or twists and bends. Of course it doesn't work that way. It's the lessons, the stories and the obstacles that make the road interesting, that give the awards their meaning.
I feel incredibly blessed today, as light in heart as I have in a long time. Nothing has changed in the way of my circumstances, but I have the deep sense that I am in the right place and good things are ahead of me. I drove home with the top down under the warm August sun, and Duke Ellington's band was playing "Take the A Train" on KMHD, and I had the sense I already had my ticket. This weekend I could drive down to Eugene and watch the Ducks practice if I wanted, or this evening I could drive over to the dusty nondescript golf course I love and hack a few more balls into the wrong fairway, or go out for Chang's Mongolian. I love Chang's Mongolian. There's probably a restaurant like that in your neighborhood, where all the fresh healthy ingredients are laid out on a refrigerated table, you pick out what you want with some sesame oil and garlic and ginger and soy sauce, and an incredibly hardworking Mexican man stir fries it over a hot open griddle. Wonderful, simple food, maybe my favorite. I used to take both the kids there when they were growing up. I'm getting hungry just thinking about it.
I wish I had someone to go with me. It's weird, I consider myself a friendly person, but I don't have all that many friends. I'm not being self-pitying here, just reflective: what it is about my habits and choices that has led me to the place where there isn't anyone I could call and say, "hey, want to grab some Chang's?" There is Doug, who I love more deeply than a brother, but he is busy with his business and family. My own brothers are in California. I got to this place, I realize, because of the way I've chosen to live and divide my time, and many long years of squaring off in a heavyweight crouch of irritability or selfishness. I've squandered friendships, money and time, all my life. I didn't get what I want, not because of a stroke of luck, but because of the strokes of habit, living an independent, eccentric and largely unexamined life, much of the time. It isn't too late, certainly, but relationships matter. In the first pages of the Bible God observes, "It is not good for man to be alone." It's the fundamental truth of human experience.
Certainly there are times when it is very good to be alone. The practice of reflection, prayer, and recovery and growth demand that we spend some time that is quiet and personal. Socrates said, "the unexamined life is not worth living." That's absolutely true, but the over-examined life is paralyzing and a pain in the ass. We all have to take time to reflect, but then we ought to do something about it.
I will never be the life of the party or the center of a wide social circle. The same spirit that leads you to create a blog and aspire to write is necessarily solitary at its core. And I'm an eccentric guy. But I realize one of my goals in this transformation journey (and that's what we are all on, if we are honest) is to reach out and expand my world a little, to make a conscious effort to connect and deepen my connections to other people. Of course I have to choose wisely. There are two truths I am certain of: 1) we become what we think about and 2) we tend to become like the people we're around.
I used to have a really good friend I alienated over time with missteps and inconsiderate behavior, and several years ago we lost touch. Circumstances also played a part, marriages, divorces and jobs, and Parker's fatal flaw was a tendency to be judgemental. He had a deep need to be outraged at someone, a lot of held over anger against an alcoholic and distant father that spilled over into his conflicts with other people. I failed him and his anger at the people who had failed him before made the failure far worse. We came to some kind of crossroads and I never heard from him again. "Not getting what you want is sometimes a stroke of luck." Where is the luck in losing a friend? I suppose it lies in deepening your understanding of friendship, and being invited to discover all the changes you need to make to be more worthy of it.
In 1980 I signed my letter of intent with the University of Oregon. I chose Oregon over other schools because it was the only college that would sign me as a middle linebacker. While dressing down for the first practice, I thought how strange it was that I was No. 75. After practice the coaches pulled me aside and explained that my future might be on the offensive line. The Dalai Lama once said that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck. The point I'm trying to make here is that nobody starts out wanting to play the offensive line position; it's just where we end up.You have to love a man who reaches a wonderful milestone and recalls his life with such humor and perspective, a football player who quotes the Dalai Lama. Big hitter, the Lama.
Throughout our lives we are assigned a number. A cubicle. A uniform. A name badge. A position. And we strap on our helmet and block as well as we can. There's not a hall of fame for customer service reps or nurses or mothers or small business owners, but we go in every day and do what we do. "Sometimes not getting what you want is a wonderful stroke of luck."
I'm not the least bit ready to become a Buddhist. All that passive acceptance stuff would drive me nuts, but I have to agree with the Lama here. We want things to be easy and uncomplicated. We want our needs met and our path to glory to have no thorn bushes or twists and bends. Of course it doesn't work that way. It's the lessons, the stories and the obstacles that make the road interesting, that give the awards their meaning.
I feel incredibly blessed today, as light in heart as I have in a long time. Nothing has changed in the way of my circumstances, but I have the deep sense that I am in the right place and good things are ahead of me. I drove home with the top down under the warm August sun, and Duke Ellington's band was playing "Take the A Train" on KMHD, and I had the sense I already had my ticket. This weekend I could drive down to Eugene and watch the Ducks practice if I wanted, or this evening I could drive over to the dusty nondescript golf course I love and hack a few more balls into the wrong fairway, or go out for Chang's Mongolian. I love Chang's Mongolian. There's probably a restaurant like that in your neighborhood, where all the fresh healthy ingredients are laid out on a refrigerated table, you pick out what you want with some sesame oil and garlic and ginger and soy sauce, and an incredibly hardworking Mexican man stir fries it over a hot open griddle. Wonderful, simple food, maybe my favorite. I used to take both the kids there when they were growing up. I'm getting hungry just thinking about it.
I wish I had someone to go with me. It's weird, I consider myself a friendly person, but I don't have all that many friends. I'm not being self-pitying here, just reflective: what it is about my habits and choices that has led me to the place where there isn't anyone I could call and say, "hey, want to grab some Chang's?" There is Doug, who I love more deeply than a brother, but he is busy with his business and family. My own brothers are in California. I got to this place, I realize, because of the way I've chosen to live and divide my time, and many long years of squaring off in a heavyweight crouch of irritability or selfishness. I've squandered friendships, money and time, all my life. I didn't get what I want, not because of a stroke of luck, but because of the strokes of habit, living an independent, eccentric and largely unexamined life, much of the time. It isn't too late, certainly, but relationships matter. In the first pages of the Bible God observes, "It is not good for man to be alone." It's the fundamental truth of human experience.
Certainly there are times when it is very good to be alone. The practice of reflection, prayer, and recovery and growth demand that we spend some time that is quiet and personal. Socrates said, "the unexamined life is not worth living." That's absolutely true, but the over-examined life is paralyzing and a pain in the ass. We all have to take time to reflect, but then we ought to do something about it.
I will never be the life of the party or the center of a wide social circle. The same spirit that leads you to create a blog and aspire to write is necessarily solitary at its core. And I'm an eccentric guy. But I realize one of my goals in this transformation journey (and that's what we are all on, if we are honest) is to reach out and expand my world a little, to make a conscious effort to connect and deepen my connections to other people. Of course I have to choose wisely. There are two truths I am certain of: 1) we become what we think about and 2) we tend to become like the people we're around.
I used to have a really good friend I alienated over time with missteps and inconsiderate behavior, and several years ago we lost touch. Circumstances also played a part, marriages, divorces and jobs, and Parker's fatal flaw was a tendency to be judgemental. He had a deep need to be outraged at someone, a lot of held over anger against an alcoholic and distant father that spilled over into his conflicts with other people. I failed him and his anger at the people who had failed him before made the failure far worse. We came to some kind of crossroads and I never heard from him again. "Not getting what you want is sometimes a stroke of luck." Where is the luck in losing a friend? I suppose it lies in deepening your understanding of friendship, and being invited to discover all the changes you need to make to be more worthy of it.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Grab Life by the Handlebars
This morning I lost a 6500-chip pot to a sucker with a one-card out. That probably doesn't mean anything to you, but trust me, it's bad, agonizing and the worst kind of luck, the kind that can make you mutter all your golfing words and mope for a week, if you let it, but I'm proud to say I only moped for ten minutes. I did mutter all my golfing words, through gritted teeth. For the entire ten minutes.
I don't want to write much or very often about poker, because it's a subject that appeals to a terribly limited audience. The one worthwhile point in this small tale is that when you face a setback, particularly a frustrating or unexpected or unfair one, it's what you do next that matters most. After you finish moping and muttering your golfing words. That fact that idiots pursue draws like that is the reason I make extra money each month playing poker. Sometimes, however the idiots have to win. Or they wouldn't keep coming back to lose money.
But on this particular Sunday I decided I was in no frame of mind to revenge myself on the next idiot to come along. It was probably more likely, given my frustration and slightly shaken confidence, that if I kept playing it was more likely that I would play like one of them. It made me feel good that I had the good sense to step away from the computer. I read a couple of more chapters of Elmore Leonard and then called my friend Doug. The morning had been cloudy and unpromising but Doug said it had already burned off on the Westside. He had a few hours to spare before a family commitment so we decided to go on a bike ride. I threw the bike in the back seat of the convertible and headed over to Tualatin to for a ride and a visit.
On the way over I listened to part of the Mariner game and took the back road to Tualatin with the top down, stopped at Wankers Corner for a quart of chocolate milk and one of those little carrot cakes with the white icing wrapped in plastic wrap. I love those.
It was so great to see Doug and Gretchen. They are two cheerful, genuine people that it is just a pleasure to be around them. Doug has a beautiful touring bike he bought at REI, so I was a little embarassed to show up with my garage sale reject Murray ten speed with the chipped paint, but he greeted me with his customary goofy grin and adjusted my seat, which was far too low for me.
The bike ride itself was a disaster. I nearly ralphed, because chocolate milk and carrot cake are not the most advisible meal prior to strenuous activity, and by the time we reached Grahams Ferry and Bell Rd, my bike broke down. The derailler was bent and the wheel was rubbing against the frame. Doug tried gamely to repair it with a portable tool kit he had, but the wrenches were metric and too small to generate enough torque. After struggling with it for several minutes (and with admirable patience, and no golfing words, not even when I tried to help and just got in the way) he gave up and called Gretchen on his cell phone to come rescue me. Gretchen only has a Prius, so I chained the bike to a small tree off to the side of the road and hitched a ride back with her to their house, where I started up the Vista Cruiser and retrieved the bike. I got lost on the way back. Not completely lost, just turned around, and took the most winding circuitous path imaginable in retracing the route from Doug's house to Wilsonville Rd. and back. I wound up by a school west of Wilsonville, then a Toyota dealership, then the Target on the north end of town, a real bumblebee route. By the time I got back Doug had returned from the remainder of the bike ride and was preparing crackers and hummus, two tall glasses of water and some wine. We feasted and talked Pac-10 football.
A hour pleasantly passed, and we probably told 4 or 5 stories we've told ten times before, about games we'd watched and players we remembered, and the details didn't matter at all. The important thing was the company, and the crackers and hummus. It was just the best possible way to spend an afternoon, just being around these two people I enjoy so much.
It got to be 4:52 and Doug really had to hustle, because they were supposed to be in Aurora by five for a housewarming at her brother Gordon's new farmhouse. He scooted upstairs to take a shower and I said goodbye. "Call me soon," I said, though I knew he'd probably be far too busy. Visits are something you have to pry out of Doug. He's extraordinarily good company, but such a creature of habit that getting him out of his routine is a bit of a challenge. I on the other hand have no routine and have difficulty planning anything--it's always a phone call 20 minutes before the visit. It's a wonder we ever see each other, but I'm always glad when we do.
Wilsonville, where my son Roger lives and works, is just down the road, so I stopped by his work to visit a few minutes. I bought Jamba Juices and we talked about what was going on. He and Justine are seeing each other again. "Friends with benefits," he said with a wide smile. He is happy, enjoying his friends and his favorite video game, "Call to Duty 4." I talked with him and his buddies at the Game Crazy Store for a few minutes, and we made plans to see a movie tomorrow, "Hellboy", based on a comic book. He got free tickets through his work. It's not for a second a movie I would ordinarily see; the point of it is to do something with Roger. The movie will no doubt be full of violence and mayhem, but I'll enjoy his company and something from the snack bar. It does always amaze me the technical wizardry in movies now, the remarkably inventive and powerful things they can do with computers and animation and graphics.
Roger had work to do and enemies to slay (a big part of his job is playing and demonstrating and talking about games, and in that sense he is one of the lucky few in life that really loves his work.) so I said goodbye and headed over to Charbonneau to play a little golf. I haven't been out many times this summer, so it was incredibly absorbing and relaxing to putt and chip and hit a few balls. I didn't play a round; I wanted to see what kind of a swing I had after the long layoff. My short game is fine--I even drained a few long putts, and chipped beautifully, but oh my, my swing was all over the lot, shanks and tops and pulls galore. I set to it a while and worked patiently, and by the time the sun fell below the tree line I was swinging a lot more smoothly. There are few things as pleasant in participatory sports than a golf ball in flight when you have hit it solidly and in rhythm: it's a deeply satisfying thing.
What an afternoon it had been, a little mini-vacation. Tomorrow it's back to the cell block, as Amie calls it, but I feel thoroughly rejuvenated and refreshed. I stopped on the way home and had one of those six dollar burgers at Carl's Jr., utterly delicious even without bacon. I played another two dollar tournament but I wasn't hitting any flops. Maybe I'll take a couple of days off and come back fresh, see the movie with Roger tomorrow and play nine holes at Meadows, a dusty nine-hole track, eight dollars a round, just down the road from work, on Tuesday.
I feel good, and blessed. It was about as lovely a summer day as you could hope for, I saw some of my favorite people, and I am rested and well fed and in good health. Charbonneau is a retirement community and I noticed some of the old fellows doddering around in their bent-backed way chasing after their golf ball, and I was struck by the realization that I'm not much younger, and the distance from me to them is not much longer than my best 3 woood and a wedge. I holed out twice chipping today, so maybe the journey from here to there can have a few highlights.
I don't want to write much or very often about poker, because it's a subject that appeals to a terribly limited audience. The one worthwhile point in this small tale is that when you face a setback, particularly a frustrating or unexpected or unfair one, it's what you do next that matters most. After you finish moping and muttering your golfing words. That fact that idiots pursue draws like that is the reason I make extra money each month playing poker. Sometimes, however the idiots have to win. Or they wouldn't keep coming back to lose money.
But on this particular Sunday I decided I was in no frame of mind to revenge myself on the next idiot to come along. It was probably more likely, given my frustration and slightly shaken confidence, that if I kept playing it was more likely that I would play like one of them. It made me feel good that I had the good sense to step away from the computer. I read a couple of more chapters of Elmore Leonard and then called my friend Doug. The morning had been cloudy and unpromising but Doug said it had already burned off on the Westside. He had a few hours to spare before a family commitment so we decided to go on a bike ride. I threw the bike in the back seat of the convertible and headed over to Tualatin to for a ride and a visit.
On the way over I listened to part of the Mariner game and took the back road to Tualatin with the top down, stopped at Wankers Corner for a quart of chocolate milk and one of those little carrot cakes with the white icing wrapped in plastic wrap. I love those.
It was so great to see Doug and Gretchen. They are two cheerful, genuine people that it is just a pleasure to be around them. Doug has a beautiful touring bike he bought at REI, so I was a little embarassed to show up with my garage sale reject Murray ten speed with the chipped paint, but he greeted me with his customary goofy grin and adjusted my seat, which was far too low for me.
The bike ride itself was a disaster. I nearly ralphed, because chocolate milk and carrot cake are not the most advisible meal prior to strenuous activity, and by the time we reached Grahams Ferry and Bell Rd, my bike broke down. The derailler was bent and the wheel was rubbing against the frame. Doug tried gamely to repair it with a portable tool kit he had, but the wrenches were metric and too small to generate enough torque. After struggling with it for several minutes (and with admirable patience, and no golfing words, not even when I tried to help and just got in the way) he gave up and called Gretchen on his cell phone to come rescue me. Gretchen only has a Prius, so I chained the bike to a small tree off to the side of the road and hitched a ride back with her to their house, where I started up the Vista Cruiser and retrieved the bike. I got lost on the way back. Not completely lost, just turned around, and took the most winding circuitous path imaginable in retracing the route from Doug's house to Wilsonville Rd. and back. I wound up by a school west of Wilsonville, then a Toyota dealership, then the Target on the north end of town, a real bumblebee route. By the time I got back Doug had returned from the remainder of the bike ride and was preparing crackers and hummus, two tall glasses of water and some wine. We feasted and talked Pac-10 football.
A hour pleasantly passed, and we probably told 4 or 5 stories we've told ten times before, about games we'd watched and players we remembered, and the details didn't matter at all. The important thing was the company, and the crackers and hummus. It was just the best possible way to spend an afternoon, just being around these two people I enjoy so much.
It got to be 4:52 and Doug really had to hustle, because they were supposed to be in Aurora by five for a housewarming at her brother Gordon's new farmhouse. He scooted upstairs to take a shower and I said goodbye. "Call me soon," I said, though I knew he'd probably be far too busy. Visits are something you have to pry out of Doug. He's extraordinarily good company, but such a creature of habit that getting him out of his routine is a bit of a challenge. I on the other hand have no routine and have difficulty planning anything--it's always a phone call 20 minutes before the visit. It's a wonder we ever see each other, but I'm always glad when we do.
Wilsonville, where my son Roger lives and works, is just down the road, so I stopped by his work to visit a few minutes. I bought Jamba Juices and we talked about what was going on. He and Justine are seeing each other again. "Friends with benefits," he said with a wide smile. He is happy, enjoying his friends and his favorite video game, "Call to Duty 4." I talked with him and his buddies at the Game Crazy Store for a few minutes, and we made plans to see a movie tomorrow, "Hellboy", based on a comic book. He got free tickets through his work. It's not for a second a movie I would ordinarily see; the point of it is to do something with Roger. The movie will no doubt be full of violence and mayhem, but I'll enjoy his company and something from the snack bar. It does always amaze me the technical wizardry in movies now, the remarkably inventive and powerful things they can do with computers and animation and graphics.
Roger had work to do and enemies to slay (a big part of his job is playing and demonstrating and talking about games, and in that sense he is one of the lucky few in life that really loves his work.) so I said goodbye and headed over to Charbonneau to play a little golf. I haven't been out many times this summer, so it was incredibly absorbing and relaxing to putt and chip and hit a few balls. I didn't play a round; I wanted to see what kind of a swing I had after the long layoff. My short game is fine--I even drained a few long putts, and chipped beautifully, but oh my, my swing was all over the lot, shanks and tops and pulls galore. I set to it a while and worked patiently, and by the time the sun fell below the tree line I was swinging a lot more smoothly. There are few things as pleasant in participatory sports than a golf ball in flight when you have hit it solidly and in rhythm: it's a deeply satisfying thing.
What an afternoon it had been, a little mini-vacation. Tomorrow it's back to the cell block, as Amie calls it, but I feel thoroughly rejuvenated and refreshed. I stopped on the way home and had one of those six dollar burgers at Carl's Jr., utterly delicious even without bacon. I played another two dollar tournament but I wasn't hitting any flops. Maybe I'll take a couple of days off and come back fresh, see the movie with Roger tomorrow and play nine holes at Meadows, a dusty nine-hole track, eight dollars a round, just down the road from work, on Tuesday.
I feel good, and blessed. It was about as lovely a summer day as you could hope for, I saw some of my favorite people, and I am rested and well fed and in good health. Charbonneau is a retirement community and I noticed some of the old fellows doddering around in their bent-backed way chasing after their golf ball, and I was struck by the realization that I'm not much younger, and the distance from me to them is not much longer than my best 3 woood and a wedge. I holed out twice chipping today, so maybe the journey from here to there can have a few highlights.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Life is like a box of Cheez-Its
Today was a great day, a Saturday of good momentum. I got up early and cleaned the bathroom, read a while, took a nap, went out for breakfast, to the Pig N' Pancake at 122nd and Glisan. I always suffer from food envy when I go out to breakfast. I'll order something and then a plate goes by and I think, oh man, that looks good, I should have ordered that. For me the classic dilemma is hash browns or pancakes. I love 'em both, so it's always hard to choose. Today I slashed the Gordian breakfast knot in one decisive stroke: I ordered both of them, with scrambled eggs and bacon. Here's a guilty little secret the food police don't want you to know: bacon tastes good. If I knew I was going to die in a month, I would have bacon every day. With marionberry pie and ice cream for dessert.
I read the morning paper, sports first, and finished my breakfast. Ichiro had two hits, and the Packers and Brett Farve still haven't decided if he's going to play. VJ Singh leads Phil Mickelson by one stroke. The Ducks open spring practice on Monday. Barack Obama says John McCain represents the politics of the past and John McCain says Barack Obama lacks experience and leadership ability. They're both right, and we're doomed. Might as well have another piece of bacon.
After breakfast I did my laundry, washed and vacuumed the car, picked up my mail and had a workout. Glorious morning; it was just one and I had all the things on my mental checklist mentally checked, and I had Cheezits and lemonade for lunch.
I'm a big fan of garage sales. Moving in to a new place there were a few things I needed so on my way home I followed a couple of homemade signs to see what I might find. A couple of weeks ago I got a mattress pad, a flannel quilt and copies of The Iliad and The Odyssey for eight bucks. I stopped at three today, within a few blocks of each other, and picked up a print of Van Gogh's "The Irises" for a dollar, a leather man purse for my lap top for a dollar, and a sweet reading and thinking chair for twenty bucks. It's brown, and looks a little like the one my Grandma used to watch TV in. It doesn't recline but hey, twenty bucks. I had the top down so it fit perfectly in the back seat, although people driving past probably thought I looked like Uncle Jed driving to Beverly Hills. Thomas and Stephanie gave me an area rug they didn't use any more, and I vacuumed off the cat hair at the car wash, so now my sitting area is complete, except for a lamp and lamp table, which I will no doubt score at a garage sale in the near future. I love the look of happiness you get from people when you give them cash for their junk. You don't get that at WalMart.
It's 4:30 now and I've already had a full day. Tonight I'll go to see "Ironman" at the cheap theater, or I'll stay home and eat the rest of my Cheezits and read an Elmore Leonard novel. If you've never read Elmore Leonard, you should. He writes crime fiction so sharp and sparkling you wind up rooting for the crooks. He's incredibly good at pacing a story, letting it unfold, and he has a marvelous ear for dialogue. If you saw "Get Shorty" or "Out of Sight", those are both based on Elmore Leonard novels. The true measure of a writer is the eagerness he creates for what happens next, and Leonard and Stephen King are two of the best. Critics write them off as genre writers, but readers love their ability to create characters and tell a story. Why read if isn't interesting? But then again, I'm not a smart man. And that's all I have to say about that.
I read the morning paper, sports first, and finished my breakfast. Ichiro had two hits, and the Packers and Brett Farve still haven't decided if he's going to play. VJ Singh leads Phil Mickelson by one stroke. The Ducks open spring practice on Monday. Barack Obama says John McCain represents the politics of the past and John McCain says Barack Obama lacks experience and leadership ability. They're both right, and we're doomed. Might as well have another piece of bacon.
After breakfast I did my laundry, washed and vacuumed the car, picked up my mail and had a workout. Glorious morning; it was just one and I had all the things on my mental checklist mentally checked, and I had Cheezits and lemonade for lunch.
I'm a big fan of garage sales. Moving in to a new place there were a few things I needed so on my way home I followed a couple of homemade signs to see what I might find. A couple of weeks ago I got a mattress pad, a flannel quilt and copies of The Iliad and The Odyssey for eight bucks. I stopped at three today, within a few blocks of each other, and picked up a print of Van Gogh's "The Irises" for a dollar, a leather man purse for my lap top for a dollar, and a sweet reading and thinking chair for twenty bucks. It's brown, and looks a little like the one my Grandma used to watch TV in. It doesn't recline but hey, twenty bucks. I had the top down so it fit perfectly in the back seat, although people driving past probably thought I looked like Uncle Jed driving to Beverly Hills. Thomas and Stephanie gave me an area rug they didn't use any more, and I vacuumed off the cat hair at the car wash, so now my sitting area is complete, except for a lamp and lamp table, which I will no doubt score at a garage sale in the near future. I love the look of happiness you get from people when you give them cash for their junk. You don't get that at WalMart.
It's 4:30 now and I've already had a full day. Tonight I'll go to see "Ironman" at the cheap theater, or I'll stay home and eat the rest of my Cheezits and read an Elmore Leonard novel. If you've never read Elmore Leonard, you should. He writes crime fiction so sharp and sparkling you wind up rooting for the crooks. He's incredibly good at pacing a story, letting it unfold, and he has a marvelous ear for dialogue. If you saw "Get Shorty" or "Out of Sight", those are both based on Elmore Leonard novels. The true measure of a writer is the eagerness he creates for what happens next, and Leonard and Stephen King are two of the best. Critics write them off as genre writers, but readers love their ability to create characters and tell a story. Why read if isn't interesting? But then again, I'm not a smart man. And that's all I have to say about that.
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photo by Kajo123 from the website flickr.com
The Hawthorne Bridge at sunrise, Portland Oregon. Photo by Joe Collver, from flickr.com
"It's a Wonderful Life"
George returns home to everything he ever wanted.
