Author: docthink

no one of consequence

All Comes Down

Dog reviewing the lit up Christmas tree.

I’m doing it this weekend.

Unlike in many, many, many years in the past, when it would stand until the branches bowed convex and were favoring the brown side of green and when the needles had become little weapons stabbing you to protect their ornaments until they sacrificed themselves to carpet the carpet with their barbed edges awaiting an unsuspecting stockinged foot. So sneaky. But not this year.

Yet, this year’s tree was not without its own dramas. It begins with a process.

First, I placate my conscience by making sure that the proceeds for a pricey fire-hazard farmed for my holiday pleasure goes to a “good cause.”

Then there’s the search for the right tree. It has to be a very tall tree that isn’t too wide (old house with small rooms and high ceilings). I really like the impact of a TALL tree. It’s so impressive.

I don’t like the really long needles, so there’s that. And I can’t ever remember the type tree that we usually get. White pine? Douglas Fir? Fraser? Colorado Blue Spruce? Some people know. I don’t. But I know what it should smell like. And the smell is key. I usually grab a branch and run my hands along it to feel the needles and, if it feels good, I sink my nose into its cold body and take a big whiff, because when you get your tree it needs be cold and smell like cold and sweet pungent pine.

So it looks and smells right, but, and this is critical and based on prior trauma, will it stand upright for the duration? This is when we hold it and spin it and study the trunk, because depending on the cut and any squirrely bend in the tree, you can find yourself rehanging ornaments all season. Or, as in one year, someone might just pick it up off of the ground and javelin it across the room accompanied by a volley of sharp words not appropriate for you, Loyal Reader.

After much scrutiny, unwrapping and review of trees in the secret stash and a highly supervised and exacting chainsawing of the bottom branches, we brought the tree home. (Also after a most excellent and celebratory hot toddy and bar snacks.)

Guess what? The damn tree was unstable in the tree stand.

Yup. So there was much additional doctoring of the branches, backs and forths with hacksaws, crosscut saws, heavy duty pruners, and likely a switch blade. It stood, but if a heavy truck drove down our street, it would surely drop.

It was time for the big gun. But that was not without some regret as the Big Gun’s solution included screwing the tree stand into a block of wood that ended up breaking in half and then taking a pair of these bad boys

and posting them on top of that plank for additionally stability. This is where the size of the tree is important since you can almost–almost I say–cover them with a tree skirt and still have room for presents underneath in the front.

The next day I climbed the rickety ladder–I mean why buy a new ladder when you can continue to use the one that your Spouse found in the shed at the group house he lived in 30 years ago?–to place the star on the top of the tree.

Heavy star tree topperI got the star about four or five years ago. Decent tree toppers are almost impossible to find and this star has faceted mirrors to reflect the lights on the tree. I was ecstatic that it didn’t light up with some garish LED lights that looked more like a downtown Cincinnati bar sign (drink bush lite here). It would light from the tree itself. But when you buy something online, you might find yourself focusing on how it looks, because, well that’s what you see online, a beautiful star on a beautiful Pottery Barn tree in an amazingly beautiful curated holiday scene. You don’t recognize, for instance, that the star weighs 75 pounds and there is no discernable way to attach it to the tree.

So you get on the rickety ladder and braid together some old bread ties so they are long enough to wrap around the top of the tree and the tree topper (you don’t do the braiding until you are on the top of the ladder because, I don’t know, you like to swing back and forth with a 75 pound fragile star in your hand at the top of a rickety ladder while crocheting wire ties together?!). And you do this same thing every year because, I don’t know, Christmas?

Anyway, you get on the top of the rickety ladder with your ties and your star and start the process of braiding and then affixing it to the top of the tree. Lot’s of twists of lots of ties.

And then, and then, and then—you notice that the tree is starting to list to starboard. It seems strange since there are 100 pounds of weights holding it down, but it pitches anyway, and there is no time for additional analysis. It’s time for action. From the top of the rickety ladder you un-secure the twist ties that you really really twisted while trying to hold the tree upright and trying to keep yourself from losing balance and tumbling off the ladder onto the tree.

You know just what is needed. The tree needs to be tied to the wall. And you need a Bulleit.

And, today, it’s coming down.

Posted on by docthink 0

Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?

Nicebot on twitter. So nice.

Look what found me today? The Nice Bot.

This is what it said:

@docthink If hugs were snowflakes, I would send you a blizzard. #TheNiceBot

Wow. What a treat.

Someone programmed this bot to randomly send nice tweets to random Twitter users. It was a very pleasant, and very welcome, Friday afternoon surprise.

What a sweet use of Twitter, the Internet and some programming logic.

Speaking of bots, today is the day that a famous bot from the film Blade Runner was incepted. The super-replicant, Roy, began his short four-year life today, but 34 years ago. Yes, this is confusing.

I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears…in…rain.

As #TheNiceBot surprised me, so did the enraged and crazed Roy surprise Harrison Ford’s Deckard. There is good in this world, at least from robots.

Good lesson for us humans.

Posted on by docthink 0

Geography Tweet

I know it’s silly season. But, seriously. Can people be any more silly?

Folks are really going off on The Donald, saying he intimated that he didn’t know that Paris isn’t in Germany.

STOP.

That is the silliest thing I’ve heard in a long time. Donald Trump totally knows that Paris is in France. Despite the froth that is happening around The Twitters.

I would have hoped that The Twitters would remember that you have 140 characters. It’s hard to be concise and clear. But, breaking down the tweet, he is talking about an incident in Paris and then conflating it with the New Year’s incidents in Cologne when organized gangs of men–identified by some as refugees–attacked and robbed women. Not that he thinks that Paris is in Germany. Ugh. Makes my head hurt.

I was on a Trump diet, but the trending made me take a look at the “issue.” And made me blow my Trump-diet. The read of this tweet as him not knowing this pretty basic geography is just goofy.

The “issue” with Trump is totally a false “gotcha.” Agree with him or disagree with him–and other candidates–as you like. But be smart and stop adding to a garbage pile.

Posted on by docthink 0

Tear Chasm

President Obama with tears running down his face because more people were killed with guns and he wishes it would stop.

I saw the President cry yesterday.

One of the most powerful men in the world wept. On national TV. In front of God and everybody.

I watched him wipe away a tear of sorrow, tears of frustration and tears of anger. Tears of mourning as he, once again, remembered the little kids–kindergartners–who were massacred by a man with a gun in Sandy Hook. You can see photos of their beautiful faces, and those of their brave teachers, here.

Go ahead and look at them. I’ll wait for you.

See their smiles with missing teeth, their dimples, their smirks and their headbands. See their birthday candles, itty bitty sneakers, temporary tattoos and baseball caps.  They are frozen in time as children. They won’t get a chance to become the amazing young women and young men that they could have been.

That is a vast sadness. A sadness that chokes you if can bear to think about it.

I’m glad that the President cried. Everyone should be able to cry. Men, even powerful men, need to cry. And it’s okay. No, it’s more than okay. It’s what humans do when they are feeling sad, frustrated and angry.

The President asked us to feel those feelings with him. Of course he cried. I cried, too.

Posted on by docthink 0

I Don’t Talk To Machines

A whack looking bug-eyed silver robot claymation figure.

As a rule, I don’t talk to machines.

Well, to be honest, I have been known to soothingly coax the car, angrily curse the computer and gratefully coo at a working HVAC–both in summer and winter. But these are always one way interactions. We don’t have conversations.

I did try to conversate with that simple-Simon, Siri, but she is the most useless of all. I thought if I provided feedback it would get better. It did not.

I get quite peeved at those too-clever-by-half robo calls that try and trick you into talking by using pauses and intonations that make you think you are speaking with a real person. They don’t fool me, though. I quickly hang up and THEN curse. I am not engaging with a machine. Even to give them what for. I learned from Siri. They don’t learn.

When I call the credit card company and they ask me to speak my card number, I dial it in. I remain silent if they ask me a question. I just want a human (who always asks me for the account number that I just entered, but that’s a different complaint.)

Today I continued to have trouble with the Barnes & Noble textbook returns. The instructions were to print out a return label. For the past two days, I went online and got the error message “ups service is down please try after some time.”

So I hit up the chat feature. This is the verbatim chat.

Lanie : Hi, my name is Lanie . How may I help you? 
ME: Yes, please. 
Lanie : Hi. 
ME: I am trying to print out the labels to return textbooks since yesterday. But I get an error that says to come back “after some time.” 
ME: Books are due on the 11th! 
ME: when is after some time? 
Lanie : I understand you need assistance with rental and I’m happy to help you. 
Lanie : The packing slip is the paper that came with the original package of the book. If you no longer have it you may print the order confirmation email and use it as the packing slip. 
ME: lanie are you a machine 
ME: this is the worst chat ever. 
Lanie : I’m sorry. But I’m not a machine. 
ME: you are just acting like one?
ME: No offense, but you did not respond to my question. So I thought you were a machine. 
ME: Just spewing based on a key word or two.
Lanie : I do apologized if you feel that way. 
ME: so can you go back and read my question and respond to the question that I actually asked?
ME: I feel like I am texting with Siri. She’s not very good at listening, either. 
Lanie : Have you tried this steps on the web page https://help.barnesandnoble.com/app/answers/detail/a_id/2903/kw/return%20label
ME: uh. that’s the issue. 
ME: Step 4: 
ME: 4. Locate the textbook that you want to return and click Print Shipping Label. A pop-up lists the address of a UPS location close to your shipping address.
ME: when i click i get the above error message: “ups service is down please try after some time.”
Lanie : Oh, I see. I can send you a return label instead. 
ME: via email? 
Lanie : Yes, I will send thru your email. 
ME: okay. 
ME: will you do that this morning? 
Lanie : Yes, sure. I will send it right away. 
Lanie : Is there anything else I can help you with? 
Lanie : Are you there? 
Lanie : Are you there? We’d like to help you, but I need you to respond. I will continue to wait for 2 minutes, but after that, I will have to disconnect from this session to assist other customers. We apologize for the inconvenience 
ME: okay 
Lanie : I’m sorry but I have not heard back from you and there are some other customers who need some help. I will have to sign off our session now, but when you have more time please get back to us so that we can give you the help you need. Just contact us again by email at service@barnesandnoble.com, or by phone at 1-800-THE-BOOK (1-800-843-2665). Have a great day! 
ME: i’m done 
Lanie : Thank you. 

Lanie has disconnected. 

And 11 hours later? Still no label. Screw you, Machine. Totally disconnected.

Posted on by docthink 0

Hockeying

fcb96-verb

As my social media cohort was preparing it’s post-holiday back to work hustle, there was much bemoaning the required wearing of garments that were not pajamas. This was often punctuated by a wail against “adulting.”

adulting (v): to do grown up things and hold responsibilities such as, a 9-5 job, a mortgage/rent, a car payment, or anything else that makes one think of grown ups.–Urban Dictionary

To be or not to be, an adult. Hmmm. When did being an adult become a verb about acting in the manner of an adult?

Is this part of the ever expanding adolescence wherein adolescence is the time between childhood and adulthood? Does it not end? Or is the current fashion for folks to just play like they are adults without accepting that they, indeed, have crossed that threshold.

I remember when I knew I was an adult. It was the day me and my friend went into Brookstone. We sat on the massage chairs then gravitated to the air hockey table. The table was powered up. There were pucks and strikers. We looked at each other and grabbed the strikers and went about playing air hockey in the store. We were quite raucous. The puck went airborne, flying across the store.

Air hockey table. A good one.Nobody stopped us. We kept playing. I kept waiting. But nobody stopped us, because maybe we might buy that $800 table. Because we were adults.

No way were we going to buy that thing. I loved being an adult. Not acting like one, though.

I’m keeping adult as a noun. Perhaps, though, there are other worlds that I would be happy to verb.

Posted on by docthink 0

What Are the Limits?

It’s been said that this is a different presidential cycle. In addition to the way the politics are playing out, there’s a shift in what candidates talk about–and what is off limits. For example:

On Limits

  • The color orange of a candidate’s face, usually regarding fake tannng.
  • The hair-do of a candidate. This could include comb-overs, fright wig looks or hairbands.
  • The apparent sleepiness of a candidate.
  • The amount of “energy” a candidate emits.
  • How much a candidate spends on stuff for themselves and their families.
  • How often a candidate goes to church and how they worship their gods.
  • The weight of a candidate.
  • The wrinkles a candidate has.
  • What a candidate wears, especially if it’s a pantsuit.
  • How long a candidate takes to pee.
  • What a candidate remembers about something they did in high school.
  • A candidate’s “talent” as a politician.
  • The sexcapades of a candidate’s spouse.

Off Limits

What seems to be off-limits? Sadly, we seem to be avoiding substantive coverage in the media of policy differences.

I mean, really. C’mon.

Posted on by docthink 0

Dog Parks

A dog train of butt sniffing. At the dog park.

Not all dog parks are the same.

Well, they have some things in common. Like they are fenced. And you can let your dog loose.

They also have lots of differences. Some are big. Some are small. Some have trees. Some have grass. Some gravel. Some have water, others are BYOB. Some have separate areas for small and large dogs. Some have canvas hung for shade. Some have agility toys. Some are barren. One sits on top of a subway grate–freaks the pups out until they get used to the random swoosh from underground.

And they each have their own society.

There is one that there are never any dogs at. Seriously. Never. It’s huge. And empty. Like post-Chernobyl empty. Not much fun.

There is the dog park with a bunch of young women who pay no attention to their dogs while engrossed in their phones. They are especially not paying attention when their dogs are being aggressive. Swipe left.

There is a park where the old lady comes in with her standard poodle who is totally out of control. As she enters, there is an exodus of other dog owners because her dog has a tendency to try and bite the other dogs. She doesn’t recognize this tendency herself.

There is the park where folks are very snooty about their animals. They look down on the mutts and are disturbed by the sweet pittie mixes. They have that standoffish saluki or that jumping clicking Basenji or other rare dogs that cost many dollars. They saw these dogs in a movie or a magazine. Or they had one growing up. At this park it’s always your fault–even when nothing happened.

There is the park where the dog owners bring brownies. You come in and people smile and say, “hi,” as their dog sniffs your dogs hindquarters. Everybody knows everybody else’s dogs’ names and how old they are and which dogs are buds. The people, though, are unnamed. Nobody asks what you do for a living. Nobody. This might be the only place in Washington, D.C. that you are not asked what you do.

There aren’t always brownies, or maybe there never were brownies, but it sure feels like brownies.

[made it. day2]

Posted on by docthink 0

First of The Year

me, my mom and sibs before we were orphans

Frankly last year was much less a trial than 2014. Not that I’m complaining. Overall healthy and happy and–after upping my craft beer consumption in Traverse City–fat.

Folks would likely say that it was good to take it easy after that roller coaster, but I think that I was a bit too easy. Does lazy rhyme with easy? I think so. While I don’t want to be that person who jumps over social media, I did realize that I was spending too much of my down time with where child stars are now, seventeen celebrity plastic surgery botches (number 9 will surprise you!), and way too much time on the escapades of a rich man who wants to be king. So I started with a Trump-diet and now am more mindful on taking the click bait.

I started thinking about all the posts that I start in my head and don’t write and therefore never publish. Seems to be less lazy to create than simply consume. So I’m publicly challenging myself to post every day for the next year.

Yes, Loyal Reader. Every. Stinking. Day. For. The. Entire. Year.

So today I am posting a musing on becoming the old people. Because I became that last January when my mom died. There are a few flung of my Aunts/Uncles left, there’s really only two that I know. And none that my kids know.

So now that the Spouse and I are orphans, we have become the old people. The elders. Maybe a little earlier than we should have, but that’s who we are. There is a turnover at the old people’s table, and I found myself there.

And, I wonder if the elders before me had a mental image of themselves of being 28–or some such age. I don’t see myself as one of those old hippie baby-boomers, but I think others just might. It’s my personal cognitive dissonance. Am I inside out? Or outside in?

Until tomorrow, Loyal Reader.

Posted on by docthink 2

What Does the Pope Eat?

Walking up to the small shrine in the hill at Kylemore Abbey, County Galway.

I grew up in a Catholic church filled with banners of doves and peace signs draping the altar and hanging behind the choir of earnest guitarists singing folk versions of psalms. And, once, even bongo drums.

My favorite priest was Father Mike. The other priests were Father LastNames. Mike had a beard and longish hair. He was Jesus-esque. Jesus was a carnie in a play, and his disciples were nice carnie hippies.

This was working class Detroit.

Parishioners were UAW members, many were immigrants from Italy, and most everyone’s last name ended in a vowel. Ventimiglia. Bornkowski. Buscemi. Kozlowski. Lucido.

We went to public school and were threatened occasionally with Catholic school if we didn’t straighten up.

To relieve boredom at a time when you didn’t bring activities for kids to Mass, I poured through my misselette reading next week’s gospel–or The Adventures of Jesus as I thought of them. My favorite stories told of houses built on sand, or the hero saving a woman from a crazed crowd, or the magic feeding of a mountain with a few fish. The ones I that bored me started off, “Beloved…”

I didn’t like confession in a dark phone booth, but we did it as a group and that was easy. I received Confirmation–also known as the sacrament of exit. And I, too, mostly left.

I was indoctrinated, though. I knew the secret handshakes. And I knew that Jesus was love.

I got married in Church and, in the sacrament of re-entering, I had kids. We could afford the parish school and the city schools were mostly sketchy.

My son was an altar server. He wanted me to be a lay minister of communion. The choir director would see me singing and asked me to join the music ministry. I served on the school committee to help in technology, but refused Parish Council. Because I’m a really bad Catholic. If I served during Mass I’m sure that the bigger than life size crucifix would crash onto the altar and it’d be my fault.

I am a cafeteria Catholic. I take what I want and maybe need, but when the Church veers from the Jesus-of-my-youth’s message of love, tolerance, compassion and forgiveness, I leave my tray at the cash register. Even if that means I leave behind community, spirituality and faith.

I really don’t believe in God. Not some old white guy who directs our lives. Really, if you were the Maker of the Universe, would you meddle in the individual heartbreaks of the human-ants? Really?

But we meddle in each other’s lives. And we sometimes do it with love, tolerance, compassion and forgiveness. And we make God when we do that.

And that’s what I placed on my battered cafeteria tray this week as I rapturously followed Pope Francis storming my city.

And he’s right. The Pope that is. God is love. That’s it. All the rest is decoration.

So today, and tomorrow and every day, I’m gonna make me some God.

Amen.

Posted on by docthink 2