I have decided to resume my blog. I have shied away from the blog because I have been afraid of expressing my opinion for fear of having it rejected. I now understand that I must stand up for what I believe to be right and true. But I promise to present my thoughts as opinion – with a clear disclaimer that “actual results may vary”. You will find at least one new blog per week here – sometimes more. I hope you will come back often read my thoughts and to share yours. On that note, I would like to discuss the meaning of the word, “propaganda”.
In the past, before the Internet and 24-hour cable news, most of us got our news from newspapers. Newspaper editors disseminated articles presented to them and arranged them in sections. One of those sections was the editorial section. This section was reserved for the sharing of opinions, while the rest of the newspaper was reserved for the sharing of facts. For example, if a story was written stating that a new bakery had opened on Main Street, this was put in the section containing news. If a story was written that the bakery had the best muffins within a five mile radius, this was presumably put in the editorial section. It was easy for the public to understand what was news and what was opinion because each of them literally had their own sections.
Today, it is not so easy to determine what is fact and what is opinion. The lines have been blurred because cable news and Internet stories don’t come with disclaimers at the bottom of the screen. It is up to us now to determine when we are told something that is a fact and when we are told something that is an opinion. Unfortunately, it seems millions of us lack this ability.
Before we can understand the difference between what is true and what is false, we must understand be able to look at our sources of information objectively. We must have the skills to dissect what we are told and what we read and to recognize when we are given facts and when we are given opinions. Only when we understand what propaganda is, can we begin to decide for ourselves whether its message should be disregarded or whether it should be acted upon. Here is one definition of propaganda – “Propaganda is the dissemination of information aimed at influencing the opinions or behaviors of people.”
I don’t remember much about junior high. (Heck, I barely remember what I ate for lunch yesterday.) But one lesson stands out in my mind. It was a lesson in argumentation and debate where we were taught about several types of arguments that we should understand are propaganda; arguments such as “slippery-slope” and “red-herring”. As examples, we discussed several advertisements for products and were encouraged to recognize what type of argument was used to make their case for a particular product, and to recognize the difference between fact and propaganda. Only when we understand what propaganda is can we defend our minds against it.
One type of argument we were taught to recognize is the use of the words “always” and “never”. These words are overused in everyday speech, but they are powerful words and they are rarely true. You may remember being taught that on any multiple choice test, if one of the answers is “always” or “never”, it is probably not the correct answer. Let me illustrate. Choose the correct answer:
The weather in Fairbanks, Alaska is
a. always cold
b. never cold
c. sometimes cold
Even if you have never been to Fairbanks, it is easy to see that the correct answer is “c, sometimes cold”. You can automatically throw out any answer containing the words “always” and “never”.
This is the problem that I have with prominent conservative and religious mouthpieces. They present only one point of view, and further they present their views as fact. The words "always" and "never" are implied when they speak. As I look around at the people who call themselves conservatives I am saddened to see that they seem completely unable to decide for themselves when something that is presented as fact is actually just an opinion. They refuse to recognize that their primary sources of news are anything but “fair and balanced”. They repeat what they hear from their sources of news to others as if it were fact. There is no attempt to process information, decide if it based in logic and act based upon their independent assessments.
If you consider yourself to be a conservative and you find yourself watching only Fox News, reading only the Weekly Standard, and listening to James Dobson, recognize that when you are presented with only one point of view that you are not ingesting news, but instead propaganda. Remember that when you are told that Republicans are never wrong and that Democrats are never right, or that Christians are always right and that non-Christians are always wrong that you are ingesting propaganda. And only when you understand that you are being influenced by propaganda can you begin to think for yourselves. The choice is yours; parrot only what you hear from propaganda outlets and remain a tool, or become a free-thinking person with the ability to decide for yourself what is true, what is just, and what is right.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Sunday, August 9, 2009
The Will To Travel
Growing up in small east Texas towns, my parents were not well-traveled as children. My father often recants his story of a canoe trip in Minnesota as a Boy Scout that he most likely paid for himself. I don’t remember my mother ever speaking of a family vacation. For them, there was no Southwest Airlines, no Priceline, and no Travel Channel. Outside of a visit with a distant relative, travel was something only wealthy people did. But they knew there was a world out there and neither of them were ever content to leave it unexplored.
During my childhood, shopping was never a matter of walking into a department store and simply buying something because we wanted it. Clothes and toys were almost always purchased second-hand or from the clearance rack. My younger brother and I spent hours amusing ourselves playing quietly inside clothes racks while my mother hunted for bargains. She was an absolute wizard at stretching a dollar. Long before there was mud wrestling, my mother was already tussling with other women over $1.00 bed sheets in the J.C. Penney clearance bins. Once, my mother even sent me to school wearing girls blue jeans because they were on sale. (I think we all know exactly where to place the blame now.) There was always ample food on the table and we always had a nice home, but to say that our family budget was on the frugal side is an understatement.
But there was one thing they would not let us go without – the experience of travel. Long before there was such a thing as a low-fare air carrier, or a hotel bidding web site, we saw much of the United States. We dined with real flatware served by smartly dressed stewardesses (that’s what they were called back then) on wide-body aircraft. We wandered the halls of the Smithsonian, climbed the stairs at the Statue of Liberty, and touched the crack in the Liberty Bell. We roamed the streets of the Magic Kingdom and skied the slopes of Vail. Once we were all piled into the car without knowing the destination. When we questioned our father as to where we were headed, he simply stated, “to the end of the road”. And we did reach the end of the road that day where we picnicked on the beaches of the Gulf Coast.
The desire to travel that was sparked by my parents was further fueled by the friends I made as a young adult, living on my own. My best friend was a tour manager whose job it was to take trips lasting several weeks, where he lead groups of aging American tourists through faraway lands. I marveled as he would prepare for these trips at the last minute by throwing a few clothes, some crossword puzzles, some canned tuna and peanut butter into a suitcase whose outside was riddled with stickers advertising destinations across the globe. After a few cocktails with friends and a short drive to LAX, he would be off again for three to five weeks at a time. His return was always met with great anticipation. We couldn’t wait to see what “treasures” he would bring for us, like the can of can of Diet Coke he brought for me from China, and a kitchen drawer full of hotel shower caps (used for weeks to cover leftover food dishes)from the Hong Kong Sheraton. I would hang on his every word as he would tell us about his latest adventures before retiring for a three-day “nap”.
Unable to allow my friend’s 500,000 frequent flier miles go unused, I talked him into allowing me to join him in Hong Kong for the end of one of his tours. It was my first trip outside the borders of the United States and the first time I had ever travelled alone, spending the first four days learning about Hong Kong on my own. It was a thrilling adventure and I will never forget the view of Hong Kong Harbour at night from the Star Ferry, the traditional way to cross from Kowloon to Hong Kong Island. The experience changed me forever.
Since then I have travelled as often as I’ve been able to afford it. I have stood alone in the early morning on the decks of cruise ships watching flying fish jump from the path of the ship’s course. I have sat alone on mile-long strands of secluded white sand beach in Kauai. I have been chased down the street in Amsterdam’s red light district by the proprietor of a brothel who was not happy that one of my friends had snapped a photo. I have driven alongside the Germany’s Rhine, gasping at each new castle as it came into view. I have lunched in the square facing the cathedral in Seville and gazed at Renaissance-era paintings in Madrid’s Prado. I have listened the bells of London’s Big Ben as they toll.
Travelling has taught me more than I have ever learned in any classroom. I have learned that for most of the world, there is more than one god and that the very meaning of god is different for different people. I have learned that other cultures have histories that make ours look like a flash in the pan, and that the world does not revolve around the United States, hanging on our every word. And I have learned that the measure of life is not what we have, or where we work, but rather a conglomeration of quiet experiences we do not share with anyone - the scent of incense from a Buddhist temple, the sound of the wind that reshapes the Grand Canyon, or the sight of the sun as it sets over the South Pacific Sea. Travel is not an activity, but an experience that shapes our lives and our view of the world and I am forever grateful to the people who have given me this gift.
During my childhood, shopping was never a matter of walking into a department store and simply buying something because we wanted it. Clothes and toys were almost always purchased second-hand or from the clearance rack. My younger brother and I spent hours amusing ourselves playing quietly inside clothes racks while my mother hunted for bargains. She was an absolute wizard at stretching a dollar. Long before there was mud wrestling, my mother was already tussling with other women over $1.00 bed sheets in the J.C. Penney clearance bins. Once, my mother even sent me to school wearing girls blue jeans because they were on sale. (I think we all know exactly where to place the blame now.) There was always ample food on the table and we always had a nice home, but to say that our family budget was on the frugal side is an understatement.
But there was one thing they would not let us go without – the experience of travel. Long before there was such a thing as a low-fare air carrier, or a hotel bidding web site, we saw much of the United States. We dined with real flatware served by smartly dressed stewardesses (that’s what they were called back then) on wide-body aircraft. We wandered the halls of the Smithsonian, climbed the stairs at the Statue of Liberty, and touched the crack in the Liberty Bell. We roamed the streets of the Magic Kingdom and skied the slopes of Vail. Once we were all piled into the car without knowing the destination. When we questioned our father as to where we were headed, he simply stated, “to the end of the road”. And we did reach the end of the road that day where we picnicked on the beaches of the Gulf Coast.
The desire to travel that was sparked by my parents was further fueled by the friends I made as a young adult, living on my own. My best friend was a tour manager whose job it was to take trips lasting several weeks, where he lead groups of aging American tourists through faraway lands. I marveled as he would prepare for these trips at the last minute by throwing a few clothes, some crossword puzzles, some canned tuna and peanut butter into a suitcase whose outside was riddled with stickers advertising destinations across the globe. After a few cocktails with friends and a short drive to LAX, he would be off again for three to five weeks at a time. His return was always met with great anticipation. We couldn’t wait to see what “treasures” he would bring for us, like the can of can of Diet Coke he brought for me from China, and a kitchen drawer full of hotel shower caps (used for weeks to cover leftover food dishes)from the Hong Kong Sheraton. I would hang on his every word as he would tell us about his latest adventures before retiring for a three-day “nap”.
Unable to allow my friend’s 500,000 frequent flier miles go unused, I talked him into allowing me to join him in Hong Kong for the end of one of his tours. It was my first trip outside the borders of the United States and the first time I had ever travelled alone, spending the first four days learning about Hong Kong on my own. It was a thrilling adventure and I will never forget the view of Hong Kong Harbour at night from the Star Ferry, the traditional way to cross from Kowloon to Hong Kong Island. The experience changed me forever.
Since then I have travelled as often as I’ve been able to afford it. I have stood alone in the early morning on the decks of cruise ships watching flying fish jump from the path of the ship’s course. I have sat alone on mile-long strands of secluded white sand beach in Kauai. I have been chased down the street in Amsterdam’s red light district by the proprietor of a brothel who was not happy that one of my friends had snapped a photo. I have driven alongside the Germany’s Rhine, gasping at each new castle as it came into view. I have lunched in the square facing the cathedral in Seville and gazed at Renaissance-era paintings in Madrid’s Prado. I have listened the bells of London’s Big Ben as they toll.
Travelling has taught me more than I have ever learned in any classroom. I have learned that for most of the world, there is more than one god and that the very meaning of god is different for different people. I have learned that other cultures have histories that make ours look like a flash in the pan, and that the world does not revolve around the United States, hanging on our every word. And I have learned that the measure of life is not what we have, or where we work, but rather a conglomeration of quiet experiences we do not share with anyone - the scent of incense from a Buddhist temple, the sound of the wind that reshapes the Grand Canyon, or the sight of the sun as it sets over the South Pacific Sea. Travel is not an activity, but an experience that shapes our lives and our view of the world and I am forever grateful to the people who have given me this gift.
Friday, July 10, 2009
New Flash: Michael Jackson Still Dead
I have not had much personal experience with death. I've only been to a handful of funerals in my life and I've never had a socially acceptable reaction to death.
The first funeral I remember was for my paternal grandmother. I was probably ten years old at the time. I remember snickering involuntarily at the service. I remember feeling both relief in expressing some kind of feeling and at the same time feeling ashamed of how I had expressed it. I now realize that I just didn't know how to deal with the sadness I felt and it had just "leaked out" in an innappropriate way. She was the first person I ever lost who left a space in my life where before there had been love.
In high school, I attended the funeral for a peer who had been an acquaintance. It was a Catholic funeral. Never having been exposed to a Catholic service of any kind, I was unprepared for the choreography that took place in the church that day, constantly kneeling and rising. (Note to self: the vats of water outside the church are not ashtrays.) The priest droned on, reading phrases that had been read hundreds of times before. My friends who knew the deceased better than I had were in tears, yet though I felt sadness, I remember feeling mostly confused. I wondered what all this kneeling and rising and reading had to do with our lost friend.
My maternal grandmother passed away a couple of years ago. I was unable to attend the service, but I had always felt a kindred spirit to her. She was a very offbeat woman, who always lived outside the norms. Perhaps this is why I felt so close to her. She was never afraid to let people see who she was. She wore her eccentricities like beauty pageant sash. She had her shortcomings as we all do, but she was never afraid to say "I love you". She always made me feel special. Love her or hate her, she let the chips fall where they may. She never pretended to be someone she wasn't. I was grateful to have known her and I appreciated all the love she showed me. When she died, the sadness was deep, but still I didn't cry or become paralyzed with sadness. Instead, I cherished her memory and to this day, I think of her with great fondness.
Then there are celebrity deaths. I get angry about the attention they receive. I remember the day that Princess Dianna was killed. One of my friends welled up with tears as the television news repeated the story. There was an unwritten rule that we should be sad for the rest of that day and I could not come to terms with that. I did not know her. She did not love me. Every day millions of people are born and millions of people die. Why was her death any more important than any other in this world? Why was her body to be paraded around while throngs of admirers sobbed in the streets? She was a person like any other and to me, no more deserving of all the attention than the death of the woman who was my grandmother, or anybody else in this world for that matter. She lived and she died, just like all of us.
For years I have wondered what is wrong with me. Why don't I take death more seriously? Why do I shrug it off so easily? Am I out of touch with deep emotions that I have pushed down to far to feel? Am I just ignoring my true feelings or are these my true feelings? Finally I have come to understand that death is a part of life, just like all the other parts that go along with it. I also think that much of the sadness we feel is really for ourselves and how our lives will be changed, rather than for the actual person who has passed. And the more I think about it, the more I think that letting ourselves get carried away with emotion is really just selfish and self-serving. It's not a tribute to the deceased, but perhaps just a realization that our own time is approaching and that makes us uncomfortable.
For me, I realize that my sadness is selfish - a reflection of the loss I feel and the hole that is left in my own life. It is not a tribute to the person who has died. The best way to honor the dead is to raise a glass and toast the memory of someone - to thank them for the influence they had on your life and to use that influence as you live your own life.
So Michael (and yes, you Farrah, Ed, Billy and Danny) here's to ya. Thanks for the music. Thanks for the camraderie I felt as I sat silenced in front of MTV watching Triller with my friends for the umpteenth time. Thanks for the joy I felt as I cranked your latest cassette on my mom's Cadillac stereo as a teenager. May we all be inspired to continue to share our talents with the world, however small they may be. Now, let's get on with it.
The first funeral I remember was for my paternal grandmother. I was probably ten years old at the time. I remember snickering involuntarily at the service. I remember feeling both relief in expressing some kind of feeling and at the same time feeling ashamed of how I had expressed it. I now realize that I just didn't know how to deal with the sadness I felt and it had just "leaked out" in an innappropriate way. She was the first person I ever lost who left a space in my life where before there had been love.
In high school, I attended the funeral for a peer who had been an acquaintance. It was a Catholic funeral. Never having been exposed to a Catholic service of any kind, I was unprepared for the choreography that took place in the church that day, constantly kneeling and rising. (Note to self: the vats of water outside the church are not ashtrays.) The priest droned on, reading phrases that had been read hundreds of times before. My friends who knew the deceased better than I had were in tears, yet though I felt sadness, I remember feeling mostly confused. I wondered what all this kneeling and rising and reading had to do with our lost friend.
My maternal grandmother passed away a couple of years ago. I was unable to attend the service, but I had always felt a kindred spirit to her. She was a very offbeat woman, who always lived outside the norms. Perhaps this is why I felt so close to her. She was never afraid to let people see who she was. She wore her eccentricities like beauty pageant sash. She had her shortcomings as we all do, but she was never afraid to say "I love you". She always made me feel special. Love her or hate her, she let the chips fall where they may. She never pretended to be someone she wasn't. I was grateful to have known her and I appreciated all the love she showed me. When she died, the sadness was deep, but still I didn't cry or become paralyzed with sadness. Instead, I cherished her memory and to this day, I think of her with great fondness.
Then there are celebrity deaths. I get angry about the attention they receive. I remember the day that Princess Dianna was killed. One of my friends welled up with tears as the television news repeated the story. There was an unwritten rule that we should be sad for the rest of that day and I could not come to terms with that. I did not know her. She did not love me. Every day millions of people are born and millions of people die. Why was her death any more important than any other in this world? Why was her body to be paraded around while throngs of admirers sobbed in the streets? She was a person like any other and to me, no more deserving of all the attention than the death of the woman who was my grandmother, or anybody else in this world for that matter. She lived and she died, just like all of us.
For years I have wondered what is wrong with me. Why don't I take death more seriously? Why do I shrug it off so easily? Am I out of touch with deep emotions that I have pushed down to far to feel? Am I just ignoring my true feelings or are these my true feelings? Finally I have come to understand that death is a part of life, just like all the other parts that go along with it. I also think that much of the sadness we feel is really for ourselves and how our lives will be changed, rather than for the actual person who has passed. And the more I think about it, the more I think that letting ourselves get carried away with emotion is really just selfish and self-serving. It's not a tribute to the deceased, but perhaps just a realization that our own time is approaching and that makes us uncomfortable.
For me, I realize that my sadness is selfish - a reflection of the loss I feel and the hole that is left in my own life. It is not a tribute to the person who has died. The best way to honor the dead is to raise a glass and toast the memory of someone - to thank them for the influence they had on your life and to use that influence as you live your own life.
So Michael (and yes, you Farrah, Ed, Billy and Danny) here's to ya. Thanks for the music. Thanks for the camraderie I felt as I sat silenced in front of MTV watching Triller with my friends for the umpteenth time. Thanks for the joy I felt as I cranked your latest cassette on my mom's Cadillac stereo as a teenager. May we all be inspired to continue to share our talents with the world, however small they may be. Now, let's get on with it.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
It's Been A While
I know it's been some time since my last blog, my friends. I don't know where the time goes. So much has been happening lately, yet not anything necessarily blog-worthy. I've been out every weekend enjoying the summer sun instead of sitting in front of the computer. I hope you have been doing the same. I do have several blog ideas running around my demented head and I promise to sit right down and put them to paper, so to speak, very soon. Stay tuned.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Southern California - Kill Me Now
Over Memorial Day weekend, I traveled to SoCal to visit with some dear friends. I now remember why I moved away.
The first stop was the Huntington Beach Hilton where I joined a friend for breakfast poolside. We decided to sit outside so we could enjoy the sun, fresh air, and view of the ocean on the other side of Pacific Coast Highway. As we were seated, we immediately asked the waiter to raise a nearby umbrella to block the sun. Apparently, we did not enjoy the sun as much as we thought we would. As we indulged in our seventeen dollar pancakes and reminisced about old times, I was constantly interrupted by thoughts of our expiring parking meters adjacent to the hotel. I had to excuse myself at least twice to go and pump more money into so we could "relax" over breakfast.
Eventually I decided I could no longer afford the view of the recretional vehicles that filled the beach parking lot across the street and we decided to reconvene at a local strip mall where we could sit outside a Starbucks and park for free. Here, we still avoided the sun and now we had no ocean view. Breakfast - $45. Parking - $103 (all in quarters). Catching up with an old friend -priceless.
Next, I was off to Long Beach - my old stomping grounds - for an overnight stay with one of my best friends. It was just like old times - literally! You see, his one bedroom apartment has not been remodeled since 1962. We circled my friend's apartment for what seemed like hours looking for a place to park. Eventually, we got tired of circling and settled on a spot three blocks away.
At the kitchen table, I quenched my thirst with a diet soda and then searched in vain for the non-existent dishwasher to put my glass in. We opened the windows to let the admittedly cool ocean air breeze through the apartment because there is no central air conditioning. As the ocean humidity filled the room, I asked if I might do a load of laundry as I had packed lightly and was informed that his designated laundry hours in the shared laundry room were from 2am -3am on Wednesday nights (or some such nonsense) and that doing laundry was out of the question.
Later we took his dog for a walk because she had been locked in the kitchen all day since he cannot afford a place with some sort of outdoor living area where the dog could excercise at will. While we walked, I caught a glimpse of the nearby apartment building where years earlier I had watched one of the residents pull a knife on a passerby. Turning my attention to the truly lovely flowers that populate the sidewalks, I pointed out an unusual and impressive variety that he said he had never noticed. Who can be expected to notice the flowers when you are too busy watching for knife-weilding neighbors? Still at $800 per month, I had to admit that his apartment was a bargain, especially since it was three blocks from an ocean park, which of course he had never personally visited.
The next day, it was off to Palm Springs for another reunion. As we drove, we traversed one freeway interchange after another. Freeway numbers in this part of the country are all preceeded by the word, "the" as if they are somehow unique. We all argued about the best route to take, finally deciding to allow our GPS to guide us. We took "the" 405 to "the" 22 to "the" 57 to the "60" to "the" 91 to "the" 10. Apparently we were not the only ones driving to the high desert this day and were almost sideswiped no less than five times. During our two hour drive, I remembered that it is against the law in Southern California to let people know your intent to change lanes by using your turn indicator. I also remembered that it was fuel efficient to drive three feet from the car in front of you at all times so as to cut down on wind resistance.
Upon arrival at the hotel, I had no choice but to listen as the guest next to me scream at the front desk clerk that he had spoken to "Jane" or "Joe" or someone and that he should be charged $189 for his room that night, and not the $219 as shown on his confirmation - and don't forget the 3% discount he was entitled to for using his American Express card! I decided not to announce that I had reserved the same room for less than $90 per night as I'm sure the front desk clerk was living in an old apartment that had not been remodeled since 1962. Surely he had come close to being killed several times while driving to work that day and was probably already having a bad day before he had even arrived at work.
After a lovely evening, we braved the freeways once again back to Long Beach and then on to LAX for our flight home. I noted that there seemed to be no rhyme or reason for the traffic patterns. The same number of people traveled at any given time in every direction, regardless of the time or the date or the city. Freeways and side streets were filled to capacity at all times in every direction. There was no compelling reason for the majority of people to head in the same direction, like in other cities, making it impossible to predict traffic patterns and avoid traffic jams.
I won't argue that Southern California has this country's most beautiful weather. But for me, the advantage of living there escapes me. Give me a Colorado winter day, automatic climate control, an unshared washer and dryer, a private garage to park in, an uncrowded freeway to drive on, and the freedom to enjoy it all without being trampled to death by the rest of the Souther California any day.
The first stop was the Huntington Beach Hilton where I joined a friend for breakfast poolside. We decided to sit outside so we could enjoy the sun, fresh air, and view of the ocean on the other side of Pacific Coast Highway. As we were seated, we immediately asked the waiter to raise a nearby umbrella to block the sun. Apparently, we did not enjoy the sun as much as we thought we would. As we indulged in our seventeen dollar pancakes and reminisced about old times, I was constantly interrupted by thoughts of our expiring parking meters adjacent to the hotel. I had to excuse myself at least twice to go and pump more money into so we could "relax" over breakfast.
Eventually I decided I could no longer afford the view of the recretional vehicles that filled the beach parking lot across the street and we decided to reconvene at a local strip mall where we could sit outside a Starbucks and park for free. Here, we still avoided the sun and now we had no ocean view. Breakfast - $45. Parking - $103 (all in quarters). Catching up with an old friend -priceless.
Next, I was off to Long Beach - my old stomping grounds - for an overnight stay with one of my best friends. It was just like old times - literally! You see, his one bedroom apartment has not been remodeled since 1962. We circled my friend's apartment for what seemed like hours looking for a place to park. Eventually, we got tired of circling and settled on a spot three blocks away.
At the kitchen table, I quenched my thirst with a diet soda and then searched in vain for the non-existent dishwasher to put my glass in. We opened the windows to let the admittedly cool ocean air breeze through the apartment because there is no central air conditioning. As the ocean humidity filled the room, I asked if I might do a load of laundry as I had packed lightly and was informed that his designated laundry hours in the shared laundry room were from 2am -3am on Wednesday nights (or some such nonsense) and that doing laundry was out of the question.
Later we took his dog for a walk because she had been locked in the kitchen all day since he cannot afford a place with some sort of outdoor living area where the dog could excercise at will. While we walked, I caught a glimpse of the nearby apartment building where years earlier I had watched one of the residents pull a knife on a passerby. Turning my attention to the truly lovely flowers that populate the sidewalks, I pointed out an unusual and impressive variety that he said he had never noticed. Who can be expected to notice the flowers when you are too busy watching for knife-weilding neighbors? Still at $800 per month, I had to admit that his apartment was a bargain, especially since it was three blocks from an ocean park, which of course he had never personally visited.
The next day, it was off to Palm Springs for another reunion. As we drove, we traversed one freeway interchange after another. Freeway numbers in this part of the country are all preceeded by the word, "the" as if they are somehow unique. We all argued about the best route to take, finally deciding to allow our GPS to guide us. We took "the" 405 to "the" 22 to "the" 57 to the "60" to "the" 91 to "the" 10. Apparently we were not the only ones driving to the high desert this day and were almost sideswiped no less than five times. During our two hour drive, I remembered that it is against the law in Southern California to let people know your intent to change lanes by using your turn indicator. I also remembered that it was fuel efficient to drive three feet from the car in front of you at all times so as to cut down on wind resistance.
Upon arrival at the hotel, I had no choice but to listen as the guest next to me scream at the front desk clerk that he had spoken to "Jane" or "Joe" or someone and that he should be charged $189 for his room that night, and not the $219 as shown on his confirmation - and don't forget the 3% discount he was entitled to for using his American Express card! I decided not to announce that I had reserved the same room for less than $90 per night as I'm sure the front desk clerk was living in an old apartment that had not been remodeled since 1962. Surely he had come close to being killed several times while driving to work that day and was probably already having a bad day before he had even arrived at work.
After a lovely evening, we braved the freeways once again back to Long Beach and then on to LAX for our flight home. I noted that there seemed to be no rhyme or reason for the traffic patterns. The same number of people traveled at any given time in every direction, regardless of the time or the date or the city. Freeways and side streets were filled to capacity at all times in every direction. There was no compelling reason for the majority of people to head in the same direction, like in other cities, making it impossible to predict traffic patterns and avoid traffic jams.
I won't argue that Southern California has this country's most beautiful weather. But for me, the advantage of living there escapes me. Give me a Colorado winter day, automatic climate control, an unshared washer and dryer, a private garage to park in, an uncrowded freeway to drive on, and the freedom to enjoy it all without being trampled to death by the rest of the Souther California any day.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
I'm On The Wagon
If you are anything like me, while you put your time in at work, you can easily think of several things you would rather be doing instead of working. All day long, thoughts pop into my head reminding me that I need to buy milk, write a blog, or find something on the internet. Thoughts of projects never started and tasks never accomplished breeze in and out of my mind all day while I work. Powerless to do anything about them, I relegate them to a little yellow sticky note that goes into my wallet. Then, the minute I get home, I don't even remember that I ever wrote myself a note in the first place. The next day at work however, I will remember my list and wonder once again why I didn't get anything done during my free time.
Today I began to wonder why this happens. I'm not sure, but I think I have an idea. The television gets in my way. Of course, none of you ever watch television. You are all Rhodes Scholars with personal libraries so large you have to build a new room for your books. You don't even have cable, right? Yeah, right.
Every morning when I get up, I make the coffee and flip on the tube. I sit drinking my coffee and getting frustrated at the number of commercials, the unecessary proclamation that there is still "unrest in the Middle East", and assinine news stories about squirrels, pandas, polar bears, or elephants that can water ski. Somehow, my morning is quickly lost and I find myself hurrying to get out the door. But even during those last few minutes of freedom, before my time belongs to "the man", I change channels furiously looking for something of interest.
So what do I do when I get home? Kick off my shoes, start dinner, and flip on the television of course. This time I'm regaled with the same squirrel story I already heard about this morning, reruns of sitcoms I didn't like the first time, and game shows full of idiotic applauding audiences. (What are they applauding for anyway? It's not like they get a share of the winnings.)
But still I watch. I watch while I cook. I watch while I eat. I watch until bedtime. I watch in bed. The television is turned off only just before my bedside lamp is extinguished.
This scenario has repeated itself practically every single day for as long as I can remember. And I have begun to wonder if television is the reason that I don't feel fulfilled. I wonder if my time could be better spent. I could read a book, learn something on the internet, take a walk, do some shopping, get some housework done, or God forbid even take a class.
So, readers, for the next thirty days I have pledged to myself that I will not watch television. I will not avoid television altogether, but I will not watch without purpose. I will not give up the pleasure of my Sunday evening Family guy chuckles. Also, I will not give up the Will and Grace reruns I enjoy watching in bed just before I fall asleep. These two programs are watched with purpose. I enjoy them. They bring me pleasure. I'm not giving them up. But I will not flip the television on without a specific program of interest. I will not waste hours accomplishing nothing except wearing out the buttons on the remote control and catching flies in my open mouth.
Why don't you join me? Leave a comment here. Tell me what you discover. I'll keep you informed of my progress. (I'll bet you at the end of the thirty days they'll still be talking about that damn water skiing squirrel.) So (pun intended), stay tuned...
Today I began to wonder why this happens. I'm not sure, but I think I have an idea. The television gets in my way. Of course, none of you ever watch television. You are all Rhodes Scholars with personal libraries so large you have to build a new room for your books. You don't even have cable, right? Yeah, right.
Every morning when I get up, I make the coffee and flip on the tube. I sit drinking my coffee and getting frustrated at the number of commercials, the unecessary proclamation that there is still "unrest in the Middle East", and assinine news stories about squirrels, pandas, polar bears, or elephants that can water ski. Somehow, my morning is quickly lost and I find myself hurrying to get out the door. But even during those last few minutes of freedom, before my time belongs to "the man", I change channels furiously looking for something of interest.
So what do I do when I get home? Kick off my shoes, start dinner, and flip on the television of course. This time I'm regaled with the same squirrel story I already heard about this morning, reruns of sitcoms I didn't like the first time, and game shows full of idiotic applauding audiences. (What are they applauding for anyway? It's not like they get a share of the winnings.)
But still I watch. I watch while I cook. I watch while I eat. I watch until bedtime. I watch in bed. The television is turned off only just before my bedside lamp is extinguished.
This scenario has repeated itself practically every single day for as long as I can remember. And I have begun to wonder if television is the reason that I don't feel fulfilled. I wonder if my time could be better spent. I could read a book, learn something on the internet, take a walk, do some shopping, get some housework done, or God forbid even take a class.
So, readers, for the next thirty days I have pledged to myself that I will not watch television. I will not avoid television altogether, but I will not watch without purpose. I will not give up the pleasure of my Sunday evening Family guy chuckles. Also, I will not give up the Will and Grace reruns I enjoy watching in bed just before I fall asleep. These two programs are watched with purpose. I enjoy them. They bring me pleasure. I'm not giving them up. But I will not flip the television on without a specific program of interest. I will not waste hours accomplishing nothing except wearing out the buttons on the remote control and catching flies in my open mouth.
Why don't you join me? Leave a comment here. Tell me what you discover. I'll keep you informed of my progress. (I'll bet you at the end of the thirty days they'll still be talking about that damn water skiing squirrel.) So (pun intended), stay tuned...
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Sportcasters Should Take Valium
Recently, I was subjected to several hours of the year's most important television program, the NFL draft. I could tell how important the draft was because the four sportscasters that were hired to narrate the program, were talking and sweating like four cocaine addicts that had just been released from a year in solitary confinement and each handed a bag of drugs.
It turns out that this draft is a bit different than other drafts because the draftees have actually volunteered to be drafted - confusing no? It would be a more genuine draft if the camera were to zoom in on some shocked kid sitting in a library in Miami as he receives a phone call telling him that he has been drafted by the Bears and will be leaving for Chicago tomorrow.
For several hours television cameras zoomed in on excited young men having cell phone conversations and then suddenly donning a cap with an NFL team logo on it. Then, because the audience is too stupid to understand what this means, four excited sportscasters would break in to explain which team the young man had just been drafted by. They would then go on to explain that the weather in the city where the young man would play was very different than the weather where the young man currently lived. Finally, an older man dressed in a suit would walk across a stage to announce the same thing that already been shown to us on camera and then explained to us by the four overheated sportscasters.
Basically my question is this - what is wrong with sportscasters? Do they get this excited about everything? Do they go to a special school to learn synonyms for the words "won" and "lost"? Imagine for a moment if all television news personalities delivered the news in the same tone as the sports team. "The Taliban pulls away late to grab a 2-0 series lead against the Pakistani Army! Details at eleven!"
It turns out that this draft is a bit different than other drafts because the draftees have actually volunteered to be drafted - confusing no? It would be a more genuine draft if the camera were to zoom in on some shocked kid sitting in a library in Miami as he receives a phone call telling him that he has been drafted by the Bears and will be leaving for Chicago tomorrow.
For several hours television cameras zoomed in on excited young men having cell phone conversations and then suddenly donning a cap with an NFL team logo on it. Then, because the audience is too stupid to understand what this means, four excited sportscasters would break in to explain which team the young man had just been drafted by. They would then go on to explain that the weather in the city where the young man would play was very different than the weather where the young man currently lived. Finally, an older man dressed in a suit would walk across a stage to announce the same thing that already been shown to us on camera and then explained to us by the four overheated sportscasters.
Basically my question is this - what is wrong with sportscasters? Do they get this excited about everything? Do they go to a special school to learn synonyms for the words "won" and "lost"? Imagine for a moment if all television news personalities delivered the news in the same tone as the sports team. "The Taliban pulls away late to grab a 2-0 series lead against the Pakistani Army! Details at eleven!"
Saturday, May 2, 2009
The Era Of "Good Enough"
What is the meaning of the word enough? I don't mean the dictionary definition, but instead what does the word mean to me? It's something I've been giving a lot of thought to for the last few years.
There was a time in my life when I was all about the "stuff". It seems I could never get enough. I had the pool, the SUV, the boat, the enormous television, the French crystal and many bathrooms. I'll never forget the day a friend told me that my house looked "like Pottery Barn threw up". (I think it was a compliment, but with her, you can never tell.)
You know what I discovered? Pools have to be cleaned. SUV's are hard to back up. Boats have to be hauled and stored. Nancy Grace is scary as hell on a huge television screen. Wine doesn't taste any different in a Baccarat goblet. And no matter how many bathrooms you have, someone will mess up every one of them.
When we sold our house in Las Vegas, we got rid of a few things to make our move across town easier. When we moved to Florida, we got rid of everything that we didn't consider to be essential. When we moved to Colorado, we discovered that many of our "essential" items that we dragged to Florida had never been used, so we got rid of them as well. Alright, so we kept the Bacarrat. You never know when the Queen (okay, "a" queen) will drop by for a drink.
For the last year we have been living with one bedroom, one bathroom, one set of dishes, and one place to eat off of them. My dining room table only seats four people. My television screen is only thirty two inches. My Ipod only holds two gigabytes. My car does not have automatic climate control. And you know what? Life is getting easier. It turns out that all that stuff never really brought happiness afterall. It was just stuff.
You know what does bring happiness? Cleaning the entire house from top to bottom in one hour and spending the rest of the day doing whatever we want - together. Just being together is enough for me. Well, that and my new capuccino machine. Let's not get crazy.
There was a time in my life when I was all about the "stuff". It seems I could never get enough. I had the pool, the SUV, the boat, the enormous television, the French crystal and many bathrooms. I'll never forget the day a friend told me that my house looked "like Pottery Barn threw up". (I think it was a compliment, but with her, you can never tell.)
You know what I discovered? Pools have to be cleaned. SUV's are hard to back up. Boats have to be hauled and stored. Nancy Grace is scary as hell on a huge television screen. Wine doesn't taste any different in a Baccarat goblet. And no matter how many bathrooms you have, someone will mess up every one of them.
When we sold our house in Las Vegas, we got rid of a few things to make our move across town easier. When we moved to Florida, we got rid of everything that we didn't consider to be essential. When we moved to Colorado, we discovered that many of our "essential" items that we dragged to Florida had never been used, so we got rid of them as well. Alright, so we kept the Bacarrat. You never know when the Queen (okay, "a" queen) will drop by for a drink.
For the last year we have been living with one bedroom, one bathroom, one set of dishes, and one place to eat off of them. My dining room table only seats four people. My television screen is only thirty two inches. My Ipod only holds two gigabytes. My car does not have automatic climate control. And you know what? Life is getting easier. It turns out that all that stuff never really brought happiness afterall. It was just stuff.
You know what does bring happiness? Cleaning the entire house from top to bottom in one hour and spending the rest of the day doing whatever we want - together. Just being together is enough for me. Well, that and my new capuccino machine. Let's not get crazy.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Follow up to April 11
Well, it only took nineteen days, but my friend ***** finally took the time out of her busy day working for the government to read my blog. And she left a rather lengthy comment. So far the best reasons I've heard to join are that I can play Scrabble and find old friends from elementary school. Well, we all know that I have a limited vocabulary and since I don't even remember elementary school, I don't know if Facebook holds any benefit for me. However, since so many of you have asked me to join, I have decided to sign up. It remains to be seen whether I'll be a Facebook "superuser", but I guess I might as well check it out.
There was an editorial cartoon in Sunday's paper that showed a man and a woman sitting together in a typical Starbucks-like coffee shop. The man was using his laptop computer. The man says, "I blog, send emails and text messages, post videos and subscribe to Facebook and Twitter so that I can let everyone know what I'm doing." The woman says, "So what are you doing?" The man says, "I just told you."
Later in the week, I saw a news story posted about a woman who posted on the web that she was bored with her job, and quickly found herself fired. It seems her employer was doing a little snooping.
I believe a battle is brewing between what is good technology and what is destructive technology. People need to stop and ask themselves, what is the price to be payed for being wired in 24/7? When do the cons of technology begin to outweigh the benefits? Or is new technology always a good thing? I think the day is coming when people become so tired of being obligated to respond to every text and tweet at a moment's notice, and bound by the loss of privacy that technology poses. Some day there will be a backlash - a conscious move away from technology.
As for me, I enjoy email for communication and I enjoy this blog as a creative outlet. But I long for the days when people used to have inconvenient but close friendships. I miss the days when the number of friends a person had could be counted on one hand, and not a number on your Facebook page.
There was an editorial cartoon in Sunday's paper that showed a man and a woman sitting together in a typical Starbucks-like coffee shop. The man was using his laptop computer. The man says, "I blog, send emails and text messages, post videos and subscribe to Facebook and Twitter so that I can let everyone know what I'm doing." The woman says, "So what are you doing?" The man says, "I just told you."
Later in the week, I saw a news story posted about a woman who posted on the web that she was bored with her job, and quickly found herself fired. It seems her employer was doing a little snooping.
I believe a battle is brewing between what is good technology and what is destructive technology. People need to stop and ask themselves, what is the price to be payed for being wired in 24/7? When do the cons of technology begin to outweigh the benefits? Or is new technology always a good thing? I think the day is coming when people become so tired of being obligated to respond to every text and tweet at a moment's notice, and bound by the loss of privacy that technology poses. Some day there will be a backlash - a conscious move away from technology.
As for me, I enjoy email for communication and I enjoy this blog as a creative outlet. But I long for the days when people used to have inconvenient but close friendships. I miss the days when the number of friends a person had could be counted on one hand, and not a number on your Facebook page.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
All Is Well
For those of you wondering where I've been, I seem to have become a bit uninspired lately. Fear not because several things have gotten under my skin lately and they will undoubtedly spew forth onto this page within days.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
My Fingers Are Tired
This is a very hectic week for me. I need to take a mental break from the blog. I'll try to get back to it this weekend. I hope you have found it to be thought provoking. Check back soon!
Sunday, April 12, 2009
April 12 - Rant Of The Day
Yesterday, we went out to buy some paint. We came home with a new car. Overall, this transaction was a relatively easy process. But it was still nowhere as simple as it should have been. Had the economy been stronger than it is now, I surely would have been put through the ringer at the dealership, the same way I always have been in the past. In most cases if you want to buy a car, you can forget the words "quick" or "simple". The process of buying a car is a ridiculous exercise that has never benefited a single buyer.
Imagine what it would be like if buying a new pair of shoes was similar to the car buying process. First you would arrive at the shoe store where a group of shoe salesmen would be smoking and drinking coffee near the entrance. As you exit your car, one would approach and offer friendly assistance. The two of you would go inside where the salesman would point out different features and make suggestions, trying to convince you that his shoes are much better than anyone else's shoes.
After trying a few pairs on for size and walking in them a bit, you would make a selection. "Ah yes", the salesman would say. "Those plastic flip-flops are our most popular model." "I don't know", you say nonchalantly. You try your best to act indifferent to the flip-flops, but you are imagining how good those giant plastic flowers will make your feet look. As a display of your indifference, you slowly walk toward the exit. Suddenly the salesman offers you some delicious coffee and comfortable seat. "Don't leave. You are going to love those flip-flops when you get them home", the salesman says. "What will it take for me to get you into those flip-flops today?"
You yawn. (This is not your first day at the rodeo.) Your old flip flops are still in perfectly fine shape, but they don't have that "new flip-flop smell" anymore. Inside, you know you won't be happy until you have the new ones with the big plastic flowers. "Don't let on that you like them", you think to yourself.
"I'm sure we can make you a very good deal", the salesman says. Suddenly, he whips out a piece of paper with four squares on it. In each square he writes a different number including the asking price for the flip-flops, trade-in value of your old flip-flops, and the recommended down payment and the monthly payment for your new shoes. He slides the piece of paper to your side of the table where you are shocked to see that the salesman is asking twice the going rate for this new pair of flip-flops, your old flip-flops are worthless (even though you know they are in good shape), the down payment is more than you have ever had in your checking account, but the monthly payment is only twenty eight cents.
You try to keep a poker face and you make a sly counter offer. You know what those new flip-flops are really worth and you are not going to be taken for a ride, just because those flowers on the toe are the perfect shade of purple. You and the salesman continue to haggle. Every time you make a counter offer, he leaves you waiting for fifteen minutes while he goes to talk to the manager who sits behind a glass enclosed booth. The salesman appears to plead with the manager while the manager yells at the salesman just loud enough for you to hear.
After you send the salesman back with your twelfth counter offer, the manager leaves his booth and comes to speak to you personally. You and the manager strike a deal. The salesman shakes his head and looks sad. He's been beaten by a better negotiator. The negotiations have taken three hours but you feel victorious. You can almost feel the envious stares of all the other pedestrians who are still wearing last year's flip-flops.
Next, you wait to speak to the cashier. You think you are in the clear but you are not. "Would you like to buy the extended warranty with those flip-flops?", he says. "What about fabric protection? Imagine how you'll feel if those flip-flops get dirty. I don't think we can finance those flip-flops for you for anything less than 32.9% interest. How about if we go seventy two months on those?"
Imagine what it would be like if buying a new pair of shoes was similar to the car buying process. First you would arrive at the shoe store where a group of shoe salesmen would be smoking and drinking coffee near the entrance. As you exit your car, one would approach and offer friendly assistance. The two of you would go inside where the salesman would point out different features and make suggestions, trying to convince you that his shoes are much better than anyone else's shoes.
After trying a few pairs on for size and walking in them a bit, you would make a selection. "Ah yes", the salesman would say. "Those plastic flip-flops are our most popular model." "I don't know", you say nonchalantly. You try your best to act indifferent to the flip-flops, but you are imagining how good those giant plastic flowers will make your feet look. As a display of your indifference, you slowly walk toward the exit. Suddenly the salesman offers you some delicious coffee and comfortable seat. "Don't leave. You are going to love those flip-flops when you get them home", the salesman says. "What will it take for me to get you into those flip-flops today?"
You yawn. (This is not your first day at the rodeo.) Your old flip flops are still in perfectly fine shape, but they don't have that "new flip-flop smell" anymore. Inside, you know you won't be happy until you have the new ones with the big plastic flowers. "Don't let on that you like them", you think to yourself.
"I'm sure we can make you a very good deal", the salesman says. Suddenly, he whips out a piece of paper with four squares on it. In each square he writes a different number including the asking price for the flip-flops, trade-in value of your old flip-flops, and the recommended down payment and the monthly payment for your new shoes. He slides the piece of paper to your side of the table where you are shocked to see that the salesman is asking twice the going rate for this new pair of flip-flops, your old flip-flops are worthless (even though you know they are in good shape), the down payment is more than you have ever had in your checking account, but the monthly payment is only twenty eight cents.
You try to keep a poker face and you make a sly counter offer. You know what those new flip-flops are really worth and you are not going to be taken for a ride, just because those flowers on the toe are the perfect shade of purple. You and the salesman continue to haggle. Every time you make a counter offer, he leaves you waiting for fifteen minutes while he goes to talk to the manager who sits behind a glass enclosed booth. The salesman appears to plead with the manager while the manager yells at the salesman just loud enough for you to hear.
After you send the salesman back with your twelfth counter offer, the manager leaves his booth and comes to speak to you personally. You and the manager strike a deal. The salesman shakes his head and looks sad. He's been beaten by a better negotiator. The negotiations have taken three hours but you feel victorious. You can almost feel the envious stares of all the other pedestrians who are still wearing last year's flip-flops.
Next, you wait to speak to the cashier. You think you are in the clear but you are not. "Would you like to buy the extended warranty with those flip-flops?", he says. "What about fabric protection? Imagine how you'll feel if those flip-flops get dirty. I don't think we can finance those flip-flops for you for anything less than 32.9% interest. How about if we go seventy two months on those?"
Friday, April 10, 2009
April 11 - Rant Of The Day
I have made it a policy to always speak of people in the third person on this blog, and never to use a person's name. But today, I'm making an exception. This blog is dedicated to my friend *****, who is just the latest in a string of friends to tell me that I need to sign up for Facebook because she can't be bothered to read my blog. Apparently, it is terribly inconvenient for her to use any method other than Facesbook for staying in touch. As a bet of sorts, I promised her that if she would leave a comment on my blog, that I would remove her name from the posting. I doubt it will happen.
I have never looked at the Facebook website. I am anything but an expert on the subject. But from what I gather, it is a place where you can group all of your web contacts together on one page. Then as your contacts add diary entries or photos, you can see all of their updates at once on one page, making it easy and convenient for you to keep track of your friends and their daily lives.
On the face of it (no pun intended) it sounds like a good idea and I can see how this might be useful in certain situations. But here's the problem - I believe that instead of using Facebook as an additional tool to maintain contacts with folks they might only speak to rarely, people are using Facebook as the primary way to maintain their friendships. Facebook people have decided that rather than to reach out to the people they love, that they would rather sit back and let everyone come to them. They don't have to call, write, read a blog, or even send an email. Instead, they can maintain their friendships passively, without lifting a finger to reach out to anyone.
Now, if any of you Facebook people believe I am wrong about this, I'm listening. But so far, I have not heard anyone explain it to me in a better way.
This weekend, I promised myself that I would sit down with my address book (okay my address spreadsheet) and call all of the people that I feel have been missing from my life lately. One of the people on my list was Kelli, who when asked if she ever read my blog, told me that although she saved it in her list of favorites, that she had not read it in months. Then in the same breath she said, "You should get on Facebook." After hearing this a dozen times from other people, I had had it. At that point, I pretty much had a conniption fit right there on the phone and I let her have it (with love of course).
After listening to my, "I'm sick of hearing about Facebook" speech, her only response to me was, "But I've found people that I went to Elementary School with." To which I replied, "And they are the same people who you didn't care enough about to maintain your friendship with in the first place! Meanwhile, the people you have been friends with for the last fifteen years are being ignored because they are not on Facebook!"
Facebook is nothing but a jiggling,shiny set of car keys in front of a baby's face. The baby is distracted by the action in front of them, and momentarily forgets all about the other goings-on of their life. The entertainment requires no effort, but also results in nothing accomplished. Meanwhile, after the laughter, all that is left is a dirty diaper.
Facebook may be an entertaining way to follow the lives of people you once lost touch with. But it is no substitute for the real effort it takes to make and to keep a friend. Therefore, I would just like to say for the last time, on the record, "I will not sign up for Facebook. If you want to talk to me, pick up the damn phone."
Kelli, this poem is for you:
I will not Facebook in a box!
I will not Facebook with a fox!
I will not Facebook here or there!
I will not Facebook anywhere!
I would not, could not in a tree!
Not in a car! Now let me be!
I will not Facebook you lazy pile of Spam!
I will not Facebook Sam -I- Am !
I have never looked at the Facebook website. I am anything but an expert on the subject. But from what I gather, it is a place where you can group all of your web contacts together on one page. Then as your contacts add diary entries or photos, you can see all of their updates at once on one page, making it easy and convenient for you to keep track of your friends and their daily lives.
On the face of it (no pun intended) it sounds like a good idea and I can see how this might be useful in certain situations. But here's the problem - I believe that instead of using Facebook as an additional tool to maintain contacts with folks they might only speak to rarely, people are using Facebook as the primary way to maintain their friendships. Facebook people have decided that rather than to reach out to the people they love, that they would rather sit back and let everyone come to them. They don't have to call, write, read a blog, or even send an email. Instead, they can maintain their friendships passively, without lifting a finger to reach out to anyone.
Now, if any of you Facebook people believe I am wrong about this, I'm listening. But so far, I have not heard anyone explain it to me in a better way.
This weekend, I promised myself that I would sit down with my address book (okay my address spreadsheet) and call all of the people that I feel have been missing from my life lately. One of the people on my list was Kelli, who when asked if she ever read my blog, told me that although she saved it in her list of favorites, that she had not read it in months. Then in the same breath she said, "You should get on Facebook." After hearing this a dozen times from other people, I had had it. At that point, I pretty much had a conniption fit right there on the phone and I let her have it (with love of course).
After listening to my, "I'm sick of hearing about Facebook" speech, her only response to me was, "But I've found people that I went to Elementary School with." To which I replied, "And they are the same people who you didn't care enough about to maintain your friendship with in the first place! Meanwhile, the people you have been friends with for the last fifteen years are being ignored because they are not on Facebook!"
Facebook is nothing but a jiggling,shiny set of car keys in front of a baby's face. The baby is distracted by the action in front of them, and momentarily forgets all about the other goings-on of their life. The entertainment requires no effort, but also results in nothing accomplished. Meanwhile, after the laughter, all that is left is a dirty diaper.
Facebook may be an entertaining way to follow the lives of people you once lost touch with. But it is no substitute for the real effort it takes to make and to keep a friend. Therefore, I would just like to say for the last time, on the record, "I will not sign up for Facebook. If you want to talk to me, pick up the damn phone."
Kelli, this poem is for you:
I will not Facebook in a box!
I will not Facebook with a fox!
I will not Facebook here or there!
I will not Facebook anywhere!
I would not, could not in a tree!
Not in a car! Now let me be!
I will not Facebook you lazy pile of Spam!
I will not Facebook Sam -I- Am !
Thursday, April 9, 2009
April 10 - Rant Of The Day
There is one word in the English language that is more powerful than any other that I can think of. This word can immediately reduce a person's efforts to the point that they seem inconsequential. The word is used to infer that the process of doing what is asked is simple and requires no particular skill or effort. The word is "just".
Remember Nancy Reagan's anti-drug slogan, "Just say no"? Does anyone want to take a guess why the word "just" is a part of that phrase? What if the phrase was instead, "Say no"? The efforts of a herione addict to avoid feeding their addiction are not lessened by the use of the word "just", but it does sound easier doesn't it?
Years ago, a co-worker of mine used this word with me to request a monumental task. We both laugh about that day when we talk now, but at the time I couldn't believe she could be so flip as to use that word. I thought I would come completely unglued.
It came up again the other day when I pointed out to the author of a functional requirements document, that she had neglected to account for a particular scenario that I had encountered when building piece of software to her exact specifications. The additional time needed to develop the solution was to say the least, significant. I couldn't see her as we were speaking on the phone, but I swear she must have shrugged her shoulders as she said, "Why can't you just plug that in?"
Using the word "just" does not make something simple, nor does it dimish the efforts required to accomplish a task. And when you are the one asking for something, it does not make your request any less inconvenient. So, why don't you just bite me?
Remember Nancy Reagan's anti-drug slogan, "Just say no"? Does anyone want to take a guess why the word "just" is a part of that phrase? What if the phrase was instead, "Say no"? The efforts of a herione addict to avoid feeding their addiction are not lessened by the use of the word "just", but it does sound easier doesn't it?
Years ago, a co-worker of mine used this word with me to request a monumental task. We both laugh about that day when we talk now, but at the time I couldn't believe she could be so flip as to use that word. I thought I would come completely unglued.
It came up again the other day when I pointed out to the author of a functional requirements document, that she had neglected to account for a particular scenario that I had encountered when building piece of software to her exact specifications. The additional time needed to develop the solution was to say the least, significant. I couldn't see her as we were speaking on the phone, but I swear she must have shrugged her shoulders as she said, "Why can't you just plug that in?"
Using the word "just" does not make something simple, nor does it dimish the efforts required to accomplish a task. And when you are the one asking for something, it does not make your request any less inconvenient. So, why don't you just bite me?
April 9 - Rant Of The Day
Why is it that members of the religious right feel that they alone are qualified to decide which citizens may have federal and state entitlements and priveleges bestowed on them by the government? Why is it that they can quote the second amendment of the Constituion chapter and verse when it comes to gun ownership debates, but somehow completely forget the rest.
Article 11
"The enumeration in the Constitution, of certain rights, shall not be construed to deny or disparage others retained by the people."
I am a citizen of the United States. I am entitled to equal treatment under the law (all laws) whether you think so or not. Any law which provides rights or entitlements by the government should not be limited to a specific group of people, even the ones who think God is on their side.
I do not believe the truth of a book written at a time when the Earth was considered to be flat and sea monsters were a real danger to sailors. I do not believe that Jonah lived in a fish for three days nor do I believe in the story of Jack and the beanstalk. Please stop telling me what your God thinks about all this. He is not a registered voter. If you want to live in a theocracy, move to Iran.
Would anyone deny my government bestowed right to speak freely, to travel freely, or to vote? What logical reason is there to deny just the right of marriage? Either repeal all of the rights and entitlements of marriage bestowed by the government, and reduce marriage to a strictly religious ceremony, or bestow the rights and entitlements of marriage to all citizens of the United States.
Article 11
"The enumeration in the Constitution, of certain rights, shall not be construed to deny or disparage others retained by the people."
I am a citizen of the United States. I am entitled to equal treatment under the law (all laws) whether you think so or not. Any law which provides rights or entitlements by the government should not be limited to a specific group of people, even the ones who think God is on their side.
I do not believe the truth of a book written at a time when the Earth was considered to be flat and sea monsters were a real danger to sailors. I do not believe that Jonah lived in a fish for three days nor do I believe in the story of Jack and the beanstalk. Please stop telling me what your God thinks about all this. He is not a registered voter. If you want to live in a theocracy, move to Iran.
Would anyone deny my government bestowed right to speak freely, to travel freely, or to vote? What logical reason is there to deny just the right of marriage? Either repeal all of the rights and entitlements of marriage bestowed by the government, and reduce marriage to a strictly religious ceremony, or bestow the rights and entitlements of marriage to all citizens of the United States.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
April 8 - Rant Of The Day
At what age should young men stop using the word, "dude" to refer to someone whose name they know? Personally, I think a young man's last uttered "dude" should be on his high school graduation day. If you really want to be nice about it, then let's give them until their graduating class finishes college. After that, every uttered "dude", should be met with a hefty fine and a mandatory jail sentence. Dude, I can't stand it anymore.
Also left to echo in high school hallways should be "like" (when used more than once in a sixty second period), "chick" (used to refer to a woman) and "you know what I'm sayin'", because frankly, no, I don't know what you are saying.
If any of you are still using these words and phrases often, trust me, you sound like an idiot. And by the way if you are not a baseball player, but you insist on wearing a baseball cap anyway, would you mind turning your baseball cap around with the bill in the front? And pull your pants up. You look like an idiot too.
Also left to echo in high school hallways should be "like" (when used more than once in a sixty second period), "chick" (used to refer to a woman) and "you know what I'm sayin'", because frankly, no, I don't know what you are saying.
If any of you are still using these words and phrases often, trust me, you sound like an idiot. And by the way if you are not a baseball player, but you insist on wearing a baseball cap anyway, would you mind turning your baseball cap around with the bill in the front? And pull your pants up. You look like an idiot too.
Monday, April 6, 2009
April 7 - Rant Of The Day
When I was fifteen years old, I opened my first checking account. When I was sixteen years old, the bank mailed me a magical card that allowed me to use these fancy new machines they called "ATMs". It turns out that these letters stood for "Automated Teller Machine" and get this- I could take out money and make deposits without even going inside my bank! I didn't even have to go near my bank! Isn't that wild? Soon after came the advent of the debit card. Not only was it an ATM card, but I could also make purchases with it. Crazy, huh?
Fast forward twenty five years. Retailers are staffing the minimum number of cashiers they can possibly get away with. Lines to pay are incessantly long. Boy, it's a good thing we can all just swipe our debit cards and move along, right? Wrong!
Here I am at the warehouse store. I just want to buy some coffee, a set of tires, a diamond ring, and a side of beef and I'm ready to pay. I've waited patiently for six other customers to complete their transactions. There is just one more customer in front of me. Let's call her Myrtle. The cashier has totaled up Myrtle's purchases and is waiting for Myrtle to pay. We are all waiting for Myrtle to pay. Myrtle is fishing through her purse. She isn't exactly sure where her checkbook is, but she knows it's in there somewhere. "What's the date today?", Myrtle asks. Darn, Myrtle's pen is out of ink.
Meanwhile, I have lost the vision in my left eye because of the stroke I am having. Please people, I'm begging you - save the checks to slip inside your grandchild's birthday card. Use your debit card at the warehouse store or I will steal the pen right out of your check-writing hand and stab you in the neck with it.
Fast forward twenty five years. Retailers are staffing the minimum number of cashiers they can possibly get away with. Lines to pay are incessantly long. Boy, it's a good thing we can all just swipe our debit cards and move along, right? Wrong!
Here I am at the warehouse store. I just want to buy some coffee, a set of tires, a diamond ring, and a side of beef and I'm ready to pay. I've waited patiently for six other customers to complete their transactions. There is just one more customer in front of me. Let's call her Myrtle. The cashier has totaled up Myrtle's purchases and is waiting for Myrtle to pay. We are all waiting for Myrtle to pay. Myrtle is fishing through her purse. She isn't exactly sure where her checkbook is, but she knows it's in there somewhere. "What's the date today?", Myrtle asks. Darn, Myrtle's pen is out of ink.
Meanwhile, I have lost the vision in my left eye because of the stroke I am having. Please people, I'm begging you - save the checks to slip inside your grandchild's birthday card. Use your debit card at the warehouse store or I will steal the pen right out of your check-writing hand and stab you in the neck with it.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
April 6 - Rant Of The Day
I guess that airplane travel is an easy target. Who would disagree that airplane travel is miserable? But there are two things that irritate the bejeezus out of me that I never hear discussed.
Before I get to those two things, can I just make one observation about airplane seats? Can someone please explain to my why they are not at least as wide at the top of the seat as they are at the bottom? It's no secret that I am chubby. But, my ass and my waist fit in my seat with room to spare. The problem is my arms and my shoulders. Unfortunately, I cannot remove my arms from my torso and place them in the overhead. Well, I could. But it would be very difficult to put them back on. Has anyone ever see a human being whose ass is wider than their shoulders? Scratch that. Let me rephrase. Is it fair to say that most people are broader at the shoulders than they are at the hips? Who are these seats designed for, people without arms?
Dear fellow passengers (especially women), please control your purses, shopping bags, and luggage as you board the plane. I am tired of being whacked by your purse as you board. Your purses and luggage should be held in front of you or behind you as you walk down the aisle, not to your side. The next one of you that hits me with your oversized bag full of truly essential items is not going to make it to the final destination of their flight. Instead, I will leap out of my seat and choke you to death right there in the aisle. And don't expect the other passengers to defend you. They will be too busy applauding.
Dear passenger seated behind me. I paid for my seat. In my mind, this means that I am entitled to its use, while you are not. Notice that the back of my seat does not have a built-in grab bar, like the handicapped bathroom stalls you undoubtedly use even though you do not need them. Please do not yank on my seat to pull your fat ass up as you stand. Instead, try using those tree stumps that you call legs to rise from your seat. If you still find it difficult to stand, try using your own armrests to support yourself. The next person who yanks on the back of my seat to sit or stand is going to have their eyeballs ripped from their sockets. Then, when they can no longer see, I will also steal their in-flight snack.
Before I get to those two things, can I just make one observation about airplane seats? Can someone please explain to my why they are not at least as wide at the top of the seat as they are at the bottom? It's no secret that I am chubby. But, my ass and my waist fit in my seat with room to spare. The problem is my arms and my shoulders. Unfortunately, I cannot remove my arms from my torso and place them in the overhead. Well, I could. But it would be very difficult to put them back on. Has anyone ever see a human being whose ass is wider than their shoulders? Scratch that. Let me rephrase. Is it fair to say that most people are broader at the shoulders than they are at the hips? Who are these seats designed for, people without arms?
Dear fellow passengers (especially women), please control your purses, shopping bags, and luggage as you board the plane. I am tired of being whacked by your purse as you board. Your purses and luggage should be held in front of you or behind you as you walk down the aisle, not to your side. The next one of you that hits me with your oversized bag full of truly essential items is not going to make it to the final destination of their flight. Instead, I will leap out of my seat and choke you to death right there in the aisle. And don't expect the other passengers to defend you. They will be too busy applauding.
Dear passenger seated behind me. I paid for my seat. In my mind, this means that I am entitled to its use, while you are not. Notice that the back of my seat does not have a built-in grab bar, like the handicapped bathroom stalls you undoubtedly use even though you do not need them. Please do not yank on my seat to pull your fat ass up as you stand. Instead, try using those tree stumps that you call legs to rise from your seat. If you still find it difficult to stand, try using your own armrests to support yourself. The next person who yanks on the back of my seat to sit or stand is going to have their eyeballs ripped from their sockets. Then, when they can no longer see, I will also steal their in-flight snack.
April 5 - Rant Of The Day
Only in recent years have I noticed a new term that really gets under my skin - "activist judges", a term I only seem to hear during right-leaning broadcasts. Simply put, there is no such thing as an activist judge. It's just a made up term that gets used whenever a judge disagrees with the status quo. What people who use this term never acknowledge is that the judicial branch of government has the specific and intended responsibility to act as a check and balance for the executive and legislative branches, even when its opinion is not in lock step with the majority. Their job is to interpret the letter of the law, not to bob their heads in agreement like robe-wearing lemmings.
Dear Mr.'s O'Reilly, Beck, Limbaugh and Hannity. Please stop using the term activist judge every time a ruling comes down that you disagree with. It makes you sound childish and diminishes the weight of your arguments. (Dear Ann Coulter, please continue to use this term as well as any other terms that pop into that brain of yours. Please do not think about the words that are about to come out of your mouth before you speak them. Please do not deprive us of the entertainment we derive from the three-ring circus that is your mouth, you freak.)
P.S. - Bravo Iowa, for the heroic decision of your activist judges.
Dear Mr.'s O'Reilly, Beck, Limbaugh and Hannity. Please stop using the term activist judge every time a ruling comes down that you disagree with. It makes you sound childish and diminishes the weight of your arguments. (Dear Ann Coulter, please continue to use this term as well as any other terms that pop into that brain of yours. Please do not think about the words that are about to come out of your mouth before you speak them. Please do not deprive us of the entertainment we derive from the three-ring circus that is your mouth, you freak.)
P.S. - Bravo Iowa, for the heroic decision of your activist judges.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
April 4 - Rant Of The Day
I spent several years working for tips and I consider myself to be a generous tipper. I empathize with folks who rely on tips to earn a living. Some of them are truly deserving of all you can spare for a job well done. For example, consider the life of a hotel maid. Ever wonder what it must be like to clean a dozen toilets used by strangers every day of your life? If that isn't worth a fiver, nothing is.
But what the hell is going on with all the tip jars springing up at every self-serve counter in town? I'm sorry, but if I have to stand in line to order and pay, you are not getting a tip from me. I don't care whether you call yourself a barista. You don't know what it's like to earn tips for a living until you have spent a year hawking spaghetti dinners to groups of Japanese tourists a block from Disneyland like I did. I can still remember those mornings my feet hurt so bad I could barely walk after pulling a double shift waiting tables the day before.
I've been there and you haven't, guy at Subway. And furthermore, you ain't getting a tip from me for making my sandwich.
But what the hell is going on with all the tip jars springing up at every self-serve counter in town? I'm sorry, but if I have to stand in line to order and pay, you are not getting a tip from me. I don't care whether you call yourself a barista. You don't know what it's like to earn tips for a living until you have spent a year hawking spaghetti dinners to groups of Japanese tourists a block from Disneyland like I did. I can still remember those mornings my feet hurt so bad I could barely walk after pulling a double shift waiting tables the day before.
I've been there and you haven't, guy at Subway. And furthermore, you ain't getting a tip from me for making my sandwich.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
April 3 - Rant Of The Day
You all know what a patient person I am. (Yeah, right.) That's probably the reason I watch so many newscasts - usually all at once. I just don't have time for a commercial. That's why God invented the remote control.
Aside from Sean "won't let a person get a word in" Hannity and Glen "the world is coming to an end" Beck, I generally like the news coverage on Fox. I don't mind getting a balanced dose of views. In fact, I enjoy Shephard Smith's evening broadcast perhaps more than any other newscast, local or national.
(As an aside, I've had a belly full of Lou Dobbs' nightly whining about illegal immigration, followed by Nancy Grace's 737th show in a row on the trial of Casey Anthony on CNN. But that's another blog.)
So, the other morning I was flipping through the news shows and landed on Fox, where the news anchors were outraged (as usual) by how thoroughly non-conservative and non-traditional something ridiculous was. It was probably followed immediately by a thought provoking story on the world's largest ball of twine.
I can't remember exactly what they were talking about. I just remember that all three of the morning anchors were outraged over the non-traditionalism of it all. That's when I noticed that the blond anchorwoman they always have wedged between the two suit-clad men on the sofa was tugging at her skirt trying to keep from flashing the camera with her baby maker.
Has anyone noticed that they profess to be so "conservative" and "traditional", but the woman on the morning news can barely keep her boobs from popping out? Meanwhile, it's not like the guys are sitting there with their shirts unbuttoned. In fact, their neckties couldn't be any tighter. Meanwhile, "tootsie-bell" has had to learn to walk with her legs crossed because she has been sitting that way for so long, her legs are stuck.
Do I sense a little hypocrisy on the morning set of Fox News? Can you all over there at Fox please let your female morning anchor put some clothes on? I really don't want to have to be able to tell when she is due for her next bikini wax.
Aside from Sean "won't let a person get a word in" Hannity and Glen "the world is coming to an end" Beck, I generally like the news coverage on Fox. I don't mind getting a balanced dose of views. In fact, I enjoy Shephard Smith's evening broadcast perhaps more than any other newscast, local or national.
(As an aside, I've had a belly full of Lou Dobbs' nightly whining about illegal immigration, followed by Nancy Grace's 737th show in a row on the trial of Casey Anthony on CNN. But that's another blog.)
So, the other morning I was flipping through the news shows and landed on Fox, where the news anchors were outraged (as usual) by how thoroughly non-conservative and non-traditional something ridiculous was. It was probably followed immediately by a thought provoking story on the world's largest ball of twine.
I can't remember exactly what they were talking about. I just remember that all three of the morning anchors were outraged over the non-traditionalism of it all. That's when I noticed that the blond anchorwoman they always have wedged between the two suit-clad men on the sofa was tugging at her skirt trying to keep from flashing the camera with her baby maker.
Has anyone noticed that they profess to be so "conservative" and "traditional", but the woman on the morning news can barely keep her boobs from popping out? Meanwhile, it's not like the guys are sitting there with their shirts unbuttoned. In fact, their neckties couldn't be any tighter. Meanwhile, "tootsie-bell" has had to learn to walk with her legs crossed because she has been sitting that way for so long, her legs are stuck.
Do I sense a little hypocrisy on the morning set of Fox News? Can you all over there at Fox please let your female morning anchor put some clothes on? I really don't want to have to be able to tell when she is due for her next bikini wax.
April 2 - Rant Of The Day
Those of you who are grammar freaks will be the first to point out that my blog is often full of typographical errors. We all make mistakes and they should be overlooked, especially when reading casual writing. That's not what this rant is about. But what is with the people who make signs or send out "professional" documents where every plural word contains an apostrophe? Argh!
A few days ago I received a copy of a document that had been distributed by my company to all of its thousands of internal and external clients. The word "fee's" appeared in that document no less than fifty times over the course of thirty pages. This is not an exaggeration.
I am so tired of seeing signs that read something like, "Three Taco's For 99 Cents"!
The fact that some people get confused about when to use the apostrophe is not the part that bothers me. What really gets my goat is the fact that these widely distributed documents and professionally printed signs and banners must have been read by multitudes of idiots who were either too stupid, too lazy, or to embarrassed to tell the author about their mistake. How many proofreaders, typesetters (if there is still such a thing), graphic designers, and printers could possibly look at this and not notice?
Please people. There is no apostrophe in a word that is intended to be plural. So knock it off.
A few days ago I received a copy of a document that had been distributed by my company to all of its thousands of internal and external clients. The word "fee's" appeared in that document no less than fifty times over the course of thirty pages. This is not an exaggeration.
I am so tired of seeing signs that read something like, "Three Taco's For 99 Cents"!
The fact that some people get confused about when to use the apostrophe is not the part that bothers me. What really gets my goat is the fact that these widely distributed documents and professionally printed signs and banners must have been read by multitudes of idiots who were either too stupid, too lazy, or to embarrassed to tell the author about their mistake. How many proofreaders, typesetters (if there is still such a thing), graphic designers, and printers could possibly look at this and not notice?
Please people. There is no apostrophe in a word that is intended to be plural. So knock it off.
April 1 - Rant Of The Day
It's my blog and nobody reads it anyway, so I intend to post a new blog every single day this month where I get to crab and moan about something that makes me crazy. It's what I do best anyway. Since today is April Fool's Day, I'd like to start of with holidays and other specially designated days, especially those created within the last hundred years or so.
Why do we have designated days where we are made to feel as if we have done something wrong simply by not participating? Why do we have to buy flowers on Valentine's day? Why do we have to wear green on St. Patrick's Day? Why do we have to take our mothers out to eat on Mother's day? And why don't I get any credit for doing these things all year long? I took my mother to breakfast just a few days ago. Didn't that count for anything? I took Paul to the mountains to stay overnight in a hotel last weekend. Can I get Valentine's day credit? I'm sick of feeling pressured to buy or do something just because some day on the calendar says I have to.
Let's face it, it's mostly the women among us who keep these pressures at the forefront. While I'm on the subject, ladies, what is with the greeting cards and potlucks? When is the last time a bunch of guys got together to have a potluck? Ever have a man come into your office with a greeting card for you to sign, that was not purchased by a woman?
Ladies, it is not necessary to buy a greeting card every time a co-worker has has a birthday. A simple spoken, "Happy Birthday" will suffice. The same goes for potlucks. I would much rather have a short phone call or email from my friends and family on my birthday, than a whole table full of homemade macaroni salad.
I recommend the following remedy: Take your mother out for a meal and do something nice for her whenever you can. Don't wait for Mother's day. Buy your better half some flowers on a Tuesday in April for no reason. Don't wait for Valentine's day. Call your friends and family once a month to say hello and wish them well. Don't wait for a birthday. And please stop making me feel guilty for not bringing a covered dish every time someone sneezes!
Why do we have designated days where we are made to feel as if we have done something wrong simply by not participating? Why do we have to buy flowers on Valentine's day? Why do we have to wear green on St. Patrick's Day? Why do we have to take our mothers out to eat on Mother's day? And why don't I get any credit for doing these things all year long? I took my mother to breakfast just a few days ago. Didn't that count for anything? I took Paul to the mountains to stay overnight in a hotel last weekend. Can I get Valentine's day credit? I'm sick of feeling pressured to buy or do something just because some day on the calendar says I have to.
Let's face it, it's mostly the women among us who keep these pressures at the forefront. While I'm on the subject, ladies, what is with the greeting cards and potlucks? When is the last time a bunch of guys got together to have a potluck? Ever have a man come into your office with a greeting card for you to sign, that was not purchased by a woman?
Ladies, it is not necessary to buy a greeting card every time a co-worker has has a birthday. A simple spoken, "Happy Birthday" will suffice. The same goes for potlucks. I would much rather have a short phone call or email from my friends and family on my birthday, than a whole table full of homemade macaroni salad.
I recommend the following remedy: Take your mother out for a meal and do something nice for her whenever you can. Don't wait for Mother's day. Buy your better half some flowers on a Tuesday in April for no reason. Don't wait for Valentine's day. Call your friends and family once a month to say hello and wish them well. Don't wait for a birthday. And please stop making me feel guilty for not bringing a covered dish every time someone sneezes!
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Las Vegas Through My Eyes - Part IX
Hollywood discovered Las Vegas. Maybe celebrities had always been a part of the Las Vegas landscape, but not the most popular ones. Nightclubs began to open all over town, turning the Strip into one giant "Studio 54". For some reason, any nightclub with more than one word in its name was unacceptable. Perhaps it was because clubs were opening so quickly that there just wasn't time to build a sign with a second word in the name. Light, Pure, Rain, and Blush replaced the once hip Bachannal Room. Paris Hilton and Britney Spears replaced Steve and Eydie Gorme and were routinely paid six figure fees just to show up and draw publicity for an evening.
Private jets crowded the airport runways, room rates skyrocketed, and twenty dollar bottles of liquor were sold for two hundred. Suddenly, the Strip was no longer a place where anyone could afford to escape the daily grind. The middle class was no longer welcome, or at least that's the way it felt to me. Everything became at once grander than ever, but completely off limits to those of us who work for a living. We were left standing on the sidewalks gazing at the fountains unable to afford to go inside.
The same thing happened to the suburban scenery. Developers blasted away more and more of the hillsides to build mansions. The cost of housing had become unattainable. Safeway was replaced by Whole Foods. And people whose idea of "off-road" was the driveway, suddenly began to consider driving an Escalade or a Hummer as a necessity.
Paul and I began to feel like Las Vegas had become exactly the thing that we had moved there to escape. Traffic was miserable. Prices were astronomical. Life had become an uphill battle and it was clear to us that the house of cards that built Las Vegas was about to fall. We sold our house and after two years of soul searching have relocated to Denver.
On a recent visit to Las Vegas, I found myself sitting beside an older woman who like us, had become a regular fixture at the casino bar we used to frequent. I asked her how she was doing and the look on her face was devastating. Her husband, a project manager for the biggest hotel developer in town, was soon to be out of work. The value of their house had plummeted to its lowest level in ten years. Their 401k had been nearly wiped out. Tears began to well up in her eyes and she said, "We're sixty six years old and we've lost everything. We'll never be able to retire." I was overcome by sadness, not only for my bar acquaintance, but also because the city that won my heart had come apart at the seams.The city had done to its citizens what it had once reserved only for its visitors. It had fooled them into believing that fantasy was reality and it took their money while they were too busy staring at the lights.
Mark my words, one day soon Las Vegas will be back. It will completely reinvent itself, perhaps once again into a destination where the common man can be treated like a king. I look forward to returning to the city that I love, to gaze at it's blinding lights and feel it's electricity coursing through me while simultaneously being soothed by it's warm desert breezes.
Private jets crowded the airport runways, room rates skyrocketed, and twenty dollar bottles of liquor were sold for two hundred. Suddenly, the Strip was no longer a place where anyone could afford to escape the daily grind. The middle class was no longer welcome, or at least that's the way it felt to me. Everything became at once grander than ever, but completely off limits to those of us who work for a living. We were left standing on the sidewalks gazing at the fountains unable to afford to go inside.
The same thing happened to the suburban scenery. Developers blasted away more and more of the hillsides to build mansions. The cost of housing had become unattainable. Safeway was replaced by Whole Foods. And people whose idea of "off-road" was the driveway, suddenly began to consider driving an Escalade or a Hummer as a necessity.
Paul and I began to feel like Las Vegas had become exactly the thing that we had moved there to escape. Traffic was miserable. Prices were astronomical. Life had become an uphill battle and it was clear to us that the house of cards that built Las Vegas was about to fall. We sold our house and after two years of soul searching have relocated to Denver.
On a recent visit to Las Vegas, I found myself sitting beside an older woman who like us, had become a regular fixture at the casino bar we used to frequent. I asked her how she was doing and the look on her face was devastating. Her husband, a project manager for the biggest hotel developer in town, was soon to be out of work. The value of their house had plummeted to its lowest level in ten years. Their 401k had been nearly wiped out. Tears began to well up in her eyes and she said, "We're sixty six years old and we've lost everything. We'll never be able to retire." I was overcome by sadness, not only for my bar acquaintance, but also because the city that won my heart had come apart at the seams.The city had done to its citizens what it had once reserved only for its visitors. It had fooled them into believing that fantasy was reality and it took their money while they were too busy staring at the lights.
Mark my words, one day soon Las Vegas will be back. It will completely reinvent itself, perhaps once again into a destination where the common man can be treated like a king. I look forward to returning to the city that I love, to gaze at it's blinding lights and feel it's electricity coursing through me while simultaneously being soothed by it's warm desert breezes.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Las Vegas Through My Eyes - Part VIII
As the baby boom continued in Las Vegas, it seemed there was nowhere left to go without having your heels nipped by strollers. Thankfully, during the late 1990's, it was Steve Wynn once again to the rescue with a new project he called, "Beau Rivage". The project was to be Las Vegas' first truly upscale hotel and the most expensive to construct to-date. The hotel was built to resemble a lakefront Italian village. Inside, there was an arboretum, an art gallery, and enough fine dining to please any foodie. Eventually, the project was renamed Bellagio. It opened on a windy night and its famous fountains drenched the tuxedo-wearing VIP's who attended its private opening (much to my delight).
It was a sea of tranquility amidst an ocean of chaos. Paul and I often wandered its casino during the quiet evening midweek hours. I can't remember ever playing any of their games, but I remember early breakfasts in the coffee shop overlooking the arboretum and live music performances in its lounges, all for the cost of an admittedly overpriced cocktail.
Sure the Bellagio had art and plants and mood lighting, but there was a lack of something here that was even more apparent to me than what it had. There were no children. In fact, the hotel would not allow any visitors under the age of eighteen to enter its doors unless they were registered guests. The only shrieking I ever heard inside Bellagio was that of a slot player hitting a jackpot, not the shrill scream of child who had just soiled themselves.
Other hotels quickly took notice and a new building boom was underway. The Four Seasons, The Ritz Carlton, and expansions of existing properties, and new undertakings like the Venetian with all-suite facilities and top notch spas began to open. This new trend of understated elegance eventually trickled all the way down to the locals casinos which were no longer considered to be complete without a centerpiece bar and at least one fine dining restaurant, if not three.
The money continued to flood into Las Vegas. It was no longer the exclusive playground of the the McGuire sisters and their aged friends. Celebrities that people have actually heard of began to move in. Swanky neighborhoods were constructed as quickly as possible. Construction companies began to use dynamite to carve the hillsides in an effort to give every buyer a view of the Strip in the valley below. We sometimes attended open houses in these neighborhoods to get interior decorating ideas and to marvel at the walls of sliding glass that separated their gigantic living areas from the roman spa-like swimming pools, their home theaters, and their private wine cellars.
Suddenly it was okay to tell strangers that we were from Las Vegas. We were no longer greeted with eye rolls and snickers. Instead we were more likely to get approving smiles and envious head bobs. Las Vegas had finally begun to grow up. But then something happened.
To be continued...
It was a sea of tranquility amidst an ocean of chaos. Paul and I often wandered its casino during the quiet evening midweek hours. I can't remember ever playing any of their games, but I remember early breakfasts in the coffee shop overlooking the arboretum and live music performances in its lounges, all for the cost of an admittedly overpriced cocktail.
Sure the Bellagio had art and plants and mood lighting, but there was a lack of something here that was even more apparent to me than what it had. There were no children. In fact, the hotel would not allow any visitors under the age of eighteen to enter its doors unless they were registered guests. The only shrieking I ever heard inside Bellagio was that of a slot player hitting a jackpot, not the shrill scream of child who had just soiled themselves.
Other hotels quickly took notice and a new building boom was underway. The Four Seasons, The Ritz Carlton, and expansions of existing properties, and new undertakings like the Venetian with all-suite facilities and top notch spas began to open. This new trend of understated elegance eventually trickled all the way down to the locals casinos which were no longer considered to be complete without a centerpiece bar and at least one fine dining restaurant, if not three.
The money continued to flood into Las Vegas. It was no longer the exclusive playground of the the McGuire sisters and their aged friends. Celebrities that people have actually heard of began to move in. Swanky neighborhoods were constructed as quickly as possible. Construction companies began to use dynamite to carve the hillsides in an effort to give every buyer a view of the Strip in the valley below. We sometimes attended open houses in these neighborhoods to get interior decorating ideas and to marvel at the walls of sliding glass that separated their gigantic living areas from the roman spa-like swimming pools, their home theaters, and their private wine cellars.
Suddenly it was okay to tell strangers that we were from Las Vegas. We were no longer greeted with eye rolls and snickers. Instead we were more likely to get approving smiles and envious head bobs. Las Vegas had finally begun to grow up. But then something happened.
To be continued...
Monday, March 2, 2009
And Then There's Maude
Those of you who have been reading my blog for a while may remember that I was required by the mortgage company to sell my beloved blue sports car in order to qualify for the loan on this place. If you don't remember this, I urge you to take notes as you read. You never know when there may be a quiz.
Since then, Paul and I have been sharing one car, which is fine because we only have a 1-car garage anyway. Also, we are just a five minute walk from the nearest light rail station for those times when we may not have the car available. This worked out okay for a short time, but I grew tired of carpooling with Paul as his daily start time is 6:30 am. Those of you who know Paul will understand that if his start time is at 6:30, then he wants to arrive by 6:00. I don't know what takes place between 6:00 and 6:30 in that office every morning as none of his other coworkers ever arrived that early. Whatever it is, it is apparently important enough to drag us out of bed every morning at 4:30am .
Last week, I felt I had had enough sleep deprivation and decided to figure this train thing out. It turns out that I can grab a train in the morning at 6:55 and still be to work by 7:30, giving me an extra hour to sleep. Unfortunately a transfer to a bus is required and let's face it - I'm not a bus person. Nevertheless, this past Saturday I bought a monthly transit pass to save a few bucks on my daily commute. I had resigned myself to riding the bus and was even thinking of wearing Walmart bags for shoes like some of the other passengers I have seen at bus stops.
On Sunday, we were invited to take a drive up to Idaho Springs, a quaint mountain town, to have breakfast with my father and his wife. The plan was that we would all ride together in their car which is a comfortable Lexus SUV. Instead, they showed up in their 1998 Mercedes E320, a car they purchased new and have babied ever since. We thought it was odd that they brought the Mercedes, but they don't drive it much these days and we just thought they wanted to stretch its legs and let it breathe as it spends most of its time all cooped up in their garage.
Even stranger was the fact that they were insistent that we do the driving. We tried to talk them into taking our SUV as there is plenty of room for all, but they were oddly insistent so we gave in, piled into the Mercedes and headed for the mountains.
When we arrived at our favorite restaurant, I tried to return the keys to my father so he could drive for the rest of the day, but he refused to take the key. Instead he said something to the effect of, "Keep the key. It's your car now." My jaw dropped and we tried to refuse, but they kept insisting that they no longer had any use for the car since, unbeknownst to us, they had decided to buy a gorgeus new sedan the day before we all got together. Eventually, we gave in and accepted the car.
By today, we finally got used to the fact that the Mercedes was ours. The car has a button for everything - even lowering the rear head rests. I drove the car to work today trying to get used to all those buttons embossed with their puzzling German symbols. She's not nimble and she isn't young, but she is a fierce German frauline for sure. Paul has decided that the car's name is Maude; a German name meaning "strong in battle". Maude told me on the way home today that she has always wanted to go to Las Vegas. "We'll see Maude, we'll see. Now put your rear headrests down."
Since then, Paul and I have been sharing one car, which is fine because we only have a 1-car garage anyway. Also, we are just a five minute walk from the nearest light rail station for those times when we may not have the car available. This worked out okay for a short time, but I grew tired of carpooling with Paul as his daily start time is 6:30 am. Those of you who know Paul will understand that if his start time is at 6:30, then he wants to arrive by 6:00. I don't know what takes place between 6:00 and 6:30 in that office every morning as none of his other coworkers ever arrived that early. Whatever it is, it is apparently important enough to drag us out of bed every morning at 4:30am .
Last week, I felt I had had enough sleep deprivation and decided to figure this train thing out. It turns out that I can grab a train in the morning at 6:55 and still be to work by 7:30, giving me an extra hour to sleep. Unfortunately a transfer to a bus is required and let's face it - I'm not a bus person. Nevertheless, this past Saturday I bought a monthly transit pass to save a few bucks on my daily commute. I had resigned myself to riding the bus and was even thinking of wearing Walmart bags for shoes like some of the other passengers I have seen at bus stops.
On Sunday, we were invited to take a drive up to Idaho Springs, a quaint mountain town, to have breakfast with my father and his wife. The plan was that we would all ride together in their car which is a comfortable Lexus SUV. Instead, they showed up in their 1998 Mercedes E320, a car they purchased new and have babied ever since. We thought it was odd that they brought the Mercedes, but they don't drive it much these days and we just thought they wanted to stretch its legs and let it breathe as it spends most of its time all cooped up in their garage.
Even stranger was the fact that they were insistent that we do the driving. We tried to talk them into taking our SUV as there is plenty of room for all, but they were oddly insistent so we gave in, piled into the Mercedes and headed for the mountains.
When we arrived at our favorite restaurant, I tried to return the keys to my father so he could drive for the rest of the day, but he refused to take the key. Instead he said something to the effect of, "Keep the key. It's your car now." My jaw dropped and we tried to refuse, but they kept insisting that they no longer had any use for the car since, unbeknownst to us, they had decided to buy a gorgeus new sedan the day before we all got together. Eventually, we gave in and accepted the car.
By today, we finally got used to the fact that the Mercedes was ours. The car has a button for everything - even lowering the rear head rests. I drove the car to work today trying to get used to all those buttons embossed with their puzzling German symbols. She's not nimble and she isn't young, but she is a fierce German frauline for sure. Paul has decided that the car's name is Maude; a German name meaning "strong in battle". Maude told me on the way home today that she has always wanted to go to Las Vegas. "We'll see Maude, we'll see. Now put your rear headrests down."
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Las Vegas Through My Eyes – Part VII
note: This week I read that another classic Las Vegas show, La Cage Aux Folles, is closing after a run of more than twenty years. Those of you who never got to see this famous female impersonator show really missed a treat, especially in its younger days when the star of the show, Frank Marino still looked like Joan Rivers. I knew the show was doomed when I noticed that Frank's plastic surgeon was unable to keep up with the frenetic pace of Joan's.
As we got to know our new home, we were somewhere between residents and tourists. We were still overcome by the excitement of it all, yet we began to understand what happened "backstage" as well. The late 1990's in Las Vegas was an exciting time. So many cranes dotted the skyline at one time that locals began to joke that the crane was the state bird of Nevada. New neighborhoods popped up and were populated seemingly overnight. Each morning on our way to work, we would note that another letter had been added to the top of the Monte Carlo's new hotel tower; "M", "MO", "MON", etc. The newspaper was always full of commentary on whether the Stratosphere was a monstrosity or an icon, and even a devastating fire couldn't slow its construction. We couldn't wait for the opening of the next big hotel, many of which were built off-strip and catered to locals. Each new hotel was bigger, more lavish, and filled with more amenities than the last.
Then it happened - The Invasion of the Crumb Snatchers. Yes, yard apes, curtain climbers, nose pickers...children. Always a playground for adults, hotels began to take notice that people with children had two things going for them - they had money and they were old enough to gamble. Topless shows began to offer "covered versions". The MGM built an amusement park. The Monte Carlo built a lazy river. The Hilton opened a Star Trek attraction. A Gameworks opened on the Strip. The inside of casinos began to look like the outside of the It's A Small World attraction at Disneyworld; strollers were everywhere.
For some, Las Vegas had changed for the better. Parents could now bring their children to swim with dolphins and ride roller coasters. But for me, the shine was off the apple. The elegantly dressed audiences that filled showrooms began to be replaced by flip flop wearing masses. On the locals scene, casinos began installing bowling alleys, movie theaters, and even indoor playgrounds. The casinos didn't care who filled their slot machines and family-friendly entertainment began to replace adult-themed entertainment all over town. The Walmart crowd had discovered Las Vegas and had claimed it for themselves.
As the city grew, so did the surrounding suburbs. On the one hand we were happy to no longer have to drive twelve miles to the nearest Home Depot. On the other hand, we found ourselves living in a smaller and smaller geographical circle. For me, the end of the excitement of Las Vegas came when parents began to complain loudly about a billboard's photo of a topless woman hiding her nipples with a pair of dice. I thought the billboard was fabulous. But the casino succumbed and took it down. Prada bags were out. Diaper bags were in.
To be continued...
As we got to know our new home, we were somewhere between residents and tourists. We were still overcome by the excitement of it all, yet we began to understand what happened "backstage" as well. The late 1990's in Las Vegas was an exciting time. So many cranes dotted the skyline at one time that locals began to joke that the crane was the state bird of Nevada. New neighborhoods popped up and were populated seemingly overnight. Each morning on our way to work, we would note that another letter had been added to the top of the Monte Carlo's new hotel tower; "M", "MO", "MON", etc. The newspaper was always full of commentary on whether the Stratosphere was a monstrosity or an icon, and even a devastating fire couldn't slow its construction. We couldn't wait for the opening of the next big hotel, many of which were built off-strip and catered to locals. Each new hotel was bigger, more lavish, and filled with more amenities than the last.
Then it happened - The Invasion of the Crumb Snatchers. Yes, yard apes, curtain climbers, nose pickers...children. Always a playground for adults, hotels began to take notice that people with children had two things going for them - they had money and they were old enough to gamble. Topless shows began to offer "covered versions". The MGM built an amusement park. The Monte Carlo built a lazy river. The Hilton opened a Star Trek attraction. A Gameworks opened on the Strip. The inside of casinos began to look like the outside of the It's A Small World attraction at Disneyworld; strollers were everywhere.
For some, Las Vegas had changed for the better. Parents could now bring their children to swim with dolphins and ride roller coasters. But for me, the shine was off the apple. The elegantly dressed audiences that filled showrooms began to be replaced by flip flop wearing masses. On the locals scene, casinos began installing bowling alleys, movie theaters, and even indoor playgrounds. The casinos didn't care who filled their slot machines and family-friendly entertainment began to replace adult-themed entertainment all over town. The Walmart crowd had discovered Las Vegas and had claimed it for themselves.
As the city grew, so did the surrounding suburbs. On the one hand we were happy to no longer have to drive twelve miles to the nearest Home Depot. On the other hand, we found ourselves living in a smaller and smaller geographical circle. For me, the end of the excitement of Las Vegas came when parents began to complain loudly about a billboard's photo of a topless woman hiding her nipples with a pair of dice. I thought the billboard was fabulous. But the casino succumbed and took it down. Prada bags were out. Diaper bags were in.
To be continued...
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Surgery Update
It was a long night. Paul was released from the surgery center at the height of rush hour. By the time we got home it was nearing 6:00. He was so hungry.
The first order of business was food. But the minute that he sat down to eat, blood began to pour from his surgical dressing. True to form, the only thing he was worried about was getting it on the carpet, and not the fact that his body was leaking essential fluids.
We wrapped him up and rushed him to the emergency room. They checked the sutures, cleaned him up, redressed the wound,and ran some blood tests to make sure his blood was coagulating normally. It turns out that he just wasn't quite ready to be released from the surgical center earlier in the evening. After they patched him up and he quit leaking, they let us go home.
He is resting now, although I can't say "comfortably". The percocet seems to have a calming effect. Perhaps I should give him some of it as well!
Luckily, I can work from home as need be so he is well attended to. Again, thanks for all the get well wishes.
The first order of business was food. But the minute that he sat down to eat, blood began to pour from his surgical dressing. True to form, the only thing he was worried about was getting it on the carpet, and not the fact that his body was leaking essential fluids.
We wrapped him up and rushed him to the emergency room. They checked the sutures, cleaned him up, redressed the wound,and ran some blood tests to make sure his blood was coagulating normally. It turns out that he just wasn't quite ready to be released from the surgical center earlier in the evening. After they patched him up and he quit leaking, they let us go home.
He is resting now, although I can't say "comfortably". The percocet seems to have a calming effect. Perhaps I should give him some of it as well!
Luckily, I can work from home as need be so he is well attended to. Again, thanks for all the get well wishes.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Pauls' Surgery Went Well
For those of you following the saga, the doctor just came out to the waiting room here at the hospital and told me that Paul's shoulder surgery went fine. I haven't gone back to collect him yet, but the doctor says we will be able to go home shortly. Unfortunately, he will never play the violin again (but then he never could play the violin anyway.)
Paul will be at home recovering on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday if anyone wants to call and talk to him.
Paul will be at home recovering on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday if anyone wants to call and talk to him.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Las Vegas Through My Eyes - Part VI
Over the next couple of years, I took Paul to Las Vegas many times to give him what I thought was the benefit of my "insider's" knowledge. I continued scanning the Sunday L.A. Times each week. One day, I came across an advertisement for a hotel I had never heard of – a place called "Sam's Town". It seems they had just built a new hotel tower that sounded unique. It turned out that the hotel was nowhere near the Strip, but by this time, I had grown accustomed to exploring outlying areas of the city and surrounding desert during my trips. I didn't care that we wouldn't be on the Strip and the rate was astonishingly low. In fact, it was so low that I apologized to Paul before we ever arrived because I was sure the place would be a dump.
To my surprise, what we discovered was a massive property marketed mostly to local Las Vegans. But this marketing concept had been combined with a hotel tower that could accommodate out-of-towners as well. What we found was a sparkling new high-rise hotel built in a square with hotel rooms along the outside edges of the square. The interior of the square contained a massive sunlit atrium filled with live plants and trees, a manmade waterfall, foot bridges, a revolving bar in the center and restaurants along the edges. The hotel's elevators were glass and offered a view of the atrium as they rose. The rooms were spotless and just as comfortable as any on the Strip. The casino was monstrous and was filled with low denomination (read affordable) machines that seemed to pay jackpots frequently. The food in the restaurants was top notch and dirt cheap, and served by the friendliest employees we had encountered. Sam's Town quickly became our little secret and it was the beginning of what came to be a huge push by other companies to provide adult playgrounds for Las Vegas locals.
During our frequent driving trips between Sam's Town and the Strip, we began to see another side of Las Vegas. This was a side that was purposely hidden from the tourists – a side that the locals kept quietly to themselves. The locals looked at the Strip as a place to avoid, or a place to work, but never a place to spend their free time. Instead they played in the outlying casinos where they actually had a chance to win. In the winter, they climbed the 1,000 foot walls of Red Rock Canyon, golfed in Death Valley, took picturesque drives through the Valley of Fire, and skied at nearby southern Utah resorts. In the summer, they boated on the waters of Lake Mead, and picnicked in the meadows atop Mount Charleston. And at the end of the day, they all went home to their brand new graffiti-free neighborhoods, sparkling swimming pools, and three-car garages.
Meanwhile, those of us in Southern California spent our time standing in line at the DMV, sitting in traffic on congested freeways, and circling endlessly trying to find a parking place near the beach. We spent our summers avoiding any areas where tourists might flock and instead took refuge in our tiny, overpriced, non-air conditioned homes. It may sound like a bargain now, but in the mid-1990's, bungalows in our neighborhood (California-speak for tiny houses with old wiring) sold in the mid-300,000's. Conversely, brand new homes in Las Vegas complete with swimming pools sold for $150,000 or less. The choice was ours to make. Continue to rent forever in the overcrowded Southern California valleys or buy our own home in Las Vegas where we could breathe and soak our toes in our own hot tub. At the end of our lease in 1995, we packed up and moved to Vegas.
Over the next 12 years, the city continued to evolve at breakneck speed. Some was for the better, some for the worse. To be continued…
To my surprise, what we discovered was a massive property marketed mostly to local Las Vegans. But this marketing concept had been combined with a hotel tower that could accommodate out-of-towners as well. What we found was a sparkling new high-rise hotel built in a square with hotel rooms along the outside edges of the square. The interior of the square contained a massive sunlit atrium filled with live plants and trees, a manmade waterfall, foot bridges, a revolving bar in the center and restaurants along the edges. The hotel's elevators were glass and offered a view of the atrium as they rose. The rooms were spotless and just as comfortable as any on the Strip. The casino was monstrous and was filled with low denomination (read affordable) machines that seemed to pay jackpots frequently. The food in the restaurants was top notch and dirt cheap, and served by the friendliest employees we had encountered. Sam's Town quickly became our little secret and it was the beginning of what came to be a huge push by other companies to provide adult playgrounds for Las Vegas locals.
During our frequent driving trips between Sam's Town and the Strip, we began to see another side of Las Vegas. This was a side that was purposely hidden from the tourists – a side that the locals kept quietly to themselves. The locals looked at the Strip as a place to avoid, or a place to work, but never a place to spend their free time. Instead they played in the outlying casinos where they actually had a chance to win. In the winter, they climbed the 1,000 foot walls of Red Rock Canyon, golfed in Death Valley, took picturesque drives through the Valley of Fire, and skied at nearby southern Utah resorts. In the summer, they boated on the waters of Lake Mead, and picnicked in the meadows atop Mount Charleston. And at the end of the day, they all went home to their brand new graffiti-free neighborhoods, sparkling swimming pools, and three-car garages.
Meanwhile, those of us in Southern California spent our time standing in line at the DMV, sitting in traffic on congested freeways, and circling endlessly trying to find a parking place near the beach. We spent our summers avoiding any areas where tourists might flock and instead took refuge in our tiny, overpriced, non-air conditioned homes. It may sound like a bargain now, but in the mid-1990's, bungalows in our neighborhood (California-speak for tiny houses with old wiring) sold in the mid-300,000's. Conversely, brand new homes in Las Vegas complete with swimming pools sold for $150,000 or less. The choice was ours to make. Continue to rent forever in the overcrowded Southern California valleys or buy our own home in Las Vegas where we could breathe and soak our toes in our own hot tub. At the end of our lease in 1995, we packed up and moved to Vegas.
Over the next 12 years, the city continued to evolve at breakneck speed. Some was for the better, some for the worse. To be continued…
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Surgery Postponed
Paul's surgery was unexpectedly postponed until next week. Thanks to those of you who have offered best wishes.
I'll try to have some new blogs up this weekend.
I'll try to have some new blogs up this weekend.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Las Vegas Through My Eyes - Part V
Steve Wynn had a vision of what Las Vegas was to become. He brought to life several new innovations when he willed the Mirage into existence. His architects designed a never before seen layout for the hotel building consisting of three gigantic wings all accessible from the same bank of elevators, shortening the maximum walking distance from the elevator to your room. The casino was practically void of neon. He brought natural light into the casino with a towering dome shaped glass atrium. He filled the hotel with live plants ranging from palms to orchids. He added live animals from the shark tank behind the front desk to the white tigers and dolphins on display. And he built the famous volcano in front of the casino to attract passersby.
The Mirage wasn't merely large or stylish or head-turning; it was all of these things. Steve Wynn had transformed a patch of desert ground into a tropical oasis and had made it impossible for anyone walking past the Mirage to avoid coming inside, even with no cheap buffet. He had more than one-upped the competition. He had blown them away in every conceivable way, except one – value. The Mirage was always too expensive for my brother and I to enjoy as guests. Still, it created an inescapable draw for us. Though we couldn't afford to take advantage of its amenities, it drew us back to Las Vegas again and again, if only to smell the scented air of its casino. It also paved the way for a building boom that few cities on earth have seen.
Circus Circus had always been a gaudy spectacle. A walk through its casino often left me feeling a strong need to wash my hands. As one visiting friend remarked, "It smells like kindergarten." When I pressed my friend to expand on her assessment of the place, she said, "Well, you know when little school children go outside at recess to play on a hot day? And the way they all smell when they come back inside? And how they insist on rubbing against you? It smells like that." I have never been able to describe the place any better than she did.
Nevertheless, it was a cash cow that had catered to gamblers of modest means for decades with its R.V park out back and all-you-can-eat buffet consisting mostly of fried foods and gelatin desserts. The company that owned Circus Circus also changed the desert landscape forever by building their "Mirage" – Excalibur.
At its opening, Excalibur was the largest hotel in the world with over 4,000 rooms. At two people per room, the hotel could have housed 2% of the entire population of the metropolitan Las Vegas area on any given night. The hotel was twice the size of the Mirage, yet it cost less than half as much to build. Its construction was paid for entirely in cash – no construction loan required. Knowing the reputation of the company that owned Circus Circus, our expectations were low. My brother and I knew that the place would fail miserably. How could they possibly fill all those hotel rooms? Surely the place would go bust quickly. We had to see this monstrosity for ourselves.
Our first inspection of the hotel's exterior was exactly what we had expected to see. It appeared to be built from cinder block and it was topped with what looked like turrets made of plastic. It looked more like it belonged on a miniature golf course for giants than on the Las Vegas Strip.
Once inside the cinder block walls, we quickly figured out what had happened to all the neon lighting that the Mirage designers had decided not to purchase. It was everywhere here, spinning and flashing and making us wince. Most of all, I remember my brother's look of astonishment and his comment as he gazed upon the acres of grotesque casino carpet being trod upon by hundreds of gamblers. "There's a butt for every seat!" Little did I know how prophetic those words were. A simple joke uttered inside the Excalibur turned out to be the city's mantra for years to come.
Shortly after that trip, my brother moved to Northern California where he met his wife. I stayed behind in Southern California where I met Paul. My brother and I never got to take another trip that I can remember – just the two of us. Things were changing quickly in my life. And Las Vegas was about to evolve into something else for me besides a getaway destination. It was about to become my home.
To be continued…
The Mirage wasn't merely large or stylish or head-turning; it was all of these things. Steve Wynn had transformed a patch of desert ground into a tropical oasis and had made it impossible for anyone walking past the Mirage to avoid coming inside, even with no cheap buffet. He had more than one-upped the competition. He had blown them away in every conceivable way, except one – value. The Mirage was always too expensive for my brother and I to enjoy as guests. Still, it created an inescapable draw for us. Though we couldn't afford to take advantage of its amenities, it drew us back to Las Vegas again and again, if only to smell the scented air of its casino. It also paved the way for a building boom that few cities on earth have seen.
Circus Circus had always been a gaudy spectacle. A walk through its casino often left me feeling a strong need to wash my hands. As one visiting friend remarked, "It smells like kindergarten." When I pressed my friend to expand on her assessment of the place, she said, "Well, you know when little school children go outside at recess to play on a hot day? And the way they all smell when they come back inside? And how they insist on rubbing against you? It smells like that." I have never been able to describe the place any better than she did.
Nevertheless, it was a cash cow that had catered to gamblers of modest means for decades with its R.V park out back and all-you-can-eat buffet consisting mostly of fried foods and gelatin desserts. The company that owned Circus Circus also changed the desert landscape forever by building their "Mirage" – Excalibur.
At its opening, Excalibur was the largest hotel in the world with over 4,000 rooms. At two people per room, the hotel could have housed 2% of the entire population of the metropolitan Las Vegas area on any given night. The hotel was twice the size of the Mirage, yet it cost less than half as much to build. Its construction was paid for entirely in cash – no construction loan required. Knowing the reputation of the company that owned Circus Circus, our expectations were low. My brother and I knew that the place would fail miserably. How could they possibly fill all those hotel rooms? Surely the place would go bust quickly. We had to see this monstrosity for ourselves.
Our first inspection of the hotel's exterior was exactly what we had expected to see. It appeared to be built from cinder block and it was topped with what looked like turrets made of plastic. It looked more like it belonged on a miniature golf course for giants than on the Las Vegas Strip.
Once inside the cinder block walls, we quickly figured out what had happened to all the neon lighting that the Mirage designers had decided not to purchase. It was everywhere here, spinning and flashing and making us wince. Most of all, I remember my brother's look of astonishment and his comment as he gazed upon the acres of grotesque casino carpet being trod upon by hundreds of gamblers. "There's a butt for every seat!" Little did I know how prophetic those words were. A simple joke uttered inside the Excalibur turned out to be the city's mantra for years to come.
Shortly after that trip, my brother moved to Northern California where he met his wife. I stayed behind in Southern California where I met Paul. My brother and I never got to take another trip that I can remember – just the two of us. Things were changing quickly in my life. And Las Vegas was about to evolve into something else for me besides a getaway destination. It was about to become my home.
To be continued…
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Las Vegas Through My Eyes - Part IV
The next morning I left for my new home in California. But I now had a soft spot in my heart for Las Vegas. It was a place of unrivaled unreality, yet at the same time it was very real. It was an escape from the everyday where anyone could feel exuberant and glamorous – even become someone else for a few days, perhaps a Roman Emperor.
Over the next few years, living in California, my younger brother served as my roommate and best friend. An airline executive today, he was a car salesman at the time often working what he called “bell to bell”, meaning twelve hour days – sometimes longer. It was a job he was not ultimately cut out to do because his only interest was in providing customers with the best value and this was not the most lucrative way to operate. I was making a small hourly wage reviewing closed mortgage packages. From there I went on to become a waiter at a coffee shop. Neither of us ever had much money to spend and we often had days off together during the middle of the week when car dealerships and restaurants were less busy.
We looked forward each week to the Sunday L.A. Times which always had a section devoted to Las Vegas in it. There was usually some inconsequential fluff story about Las Vegas that was followed by advertisements for cheap hotel rooms. It was the first page we turned to and sometimes the only page we read.
Las Vegas was full of incredible deals. We stayed in suites at the Rio for $39.00. We stayed at Bally’s for $25.00 per night. We stayed everywhere a deal was to be had, developing a list of favorites as we went. Perhaps the best deal we ever scored was a room at Whiskey Pete’s on the California/Nevada border for $16.00 per night. When we arrived, we marveled at the brand new hotel rooms at Whiskey Pete’s, complete with shower gel – a new relatively concoction. We laughed as I insisted that my brother give me his $8.00 to compensate me for his half of the room, as if I was a gangster collecting on a large debt. Each time we went to Las Vegas we were amazed to find that the hotels clean, more than comfortable, and sometimes downright luxurious compared to our simple apartment.
We were the kings of the coupon books. We had loyalty to no particular casino and would go wherever we could eat and drink the cheapest, scanning all the marquees carefully for food and drink specials. We could eat so much food at a buffet that we swore the casino would have to turn out a light or two to recoup their profits. Along the way, we discovered that no matter how inexpensive, some buffets were not worth the price of entry. The cheapest buffet we ever found was a breakfast buffet for 99 cents. The buffet hostess gave us a number and promised to call us to our table shortly. We passed our time each losing $10.00 worth of quarters in a video blackjack machine. Once seated in the buffet we were disappointed to find cold food prepared without any care for its appearance or flavor. Our disgusting breakfast had cost us each $11.00. As we left that buffet feeling taken advantage of, my brother remarked, “I will not eat green eggs and ham.” That line became our mantra in the years to come as we sought only value for our money, rather than rock bottom prices. From that day on, we often enjoyed the breakfast buffet at Caesars Palace with its freshly squeezed juice, custom-made omelets, crispy bacon, and $5.99 price tag – no waiting.
Over the years, we became part of a tourist subculture that came to Las Vegas to take advantage of its cheap rooms, plentiful buffets, and free drinks. We slept in suites with floor-to-ceiling Strip views at the Rio. We sipped drinks in the Mahogony lined bar on the 34th floor of the Landmark. We drove down Glitter Gulch, marveling at the lights of The Mint. We took advantage of the spas and pools. We always came home rested and we often spent less than $100.00 each on an entire trip. We knew who had the best rooms, the best food, the cheapest drinks, and the lowest blackjack minimums. Las Vegas had become not only an escape from reality but also a way for two average Joes to unwind and feel like something better than average, if only for a short time. It was a place where we could go and forget about serving food and selling cars. It was a welcome respite from the daily drone of life. And then a man named Steve Wynn came along.
To be continued…
Over the next few years, living in California, my younger brother served as my roommate and best friend. An airline executive today, he was a car salesman at the time often working what he called “bell to bell”, meaning twelve hour days – sometimes longer. It was a job he was not ultimately cut out to do because his only interest was in providing customers with the best value and this was not the most lucrative way to operate. I was making a small hourly wage reviewing closed mortgage packages. From there I went on to become a waiter at a coffee shop. Neither of us ever had much money to spend and we often had days off together during the middle of the week when car dealerships and restaurants were less busy.
We looked forward each week to the Sunday L.A. Times which always had a section devoted to Las Vegas in it. There was usually some inconsequential fluff story about Las Vegas that was followed by advertisements for cheap hotel rooms. It was the first page we turned to and sometimes the only page we read.
Las Vegas was full of incredible deals. We stayed in suites at the Rio for $39.00. We stayed at Bally’s for $25.00 per night. We stayed everywhere a deal was to be had, developing a list of favorites as we went. Perhaps the best deal we ever scored was a room at Whiskey Pete’s on the California/Nevada border for $16.00 per night. When we arrived, we marveled at the brand new hotel rooms at Whiskey Pete’s, complete with shower gel – a new relatively concoction. We laughed as I insisted that my brother give me his $8.00 to compensate me for his half of the room, as if I was a gangster collecting on a large debt. Each time we went to Las Vegas we were amazed to find that the hotels clean, more than comfortable, and sometimes downright luxurious compared to our simple apartment.
We were the kings of the coupon books. We had loyalty to no particular casino and would go wherever we could eat and drink the cheapest, scanning all the marquees carefully for food and drink specials. We could eat so much food at a buffet that we swore the casino would have to turn out a light or two to recoup their profits. Along the way, we discovered that no matter how inexpensive, some buffets were not worth the price of entry. The cheapest buffet we ever found was a breakfast buffet for 99 cents. The buffet hostess gave us a number and promised to call us to our table shortly. We passed our time each losing $10.00 worth of quarters in a video blackjack machine. Once seated in the buffet we were disappointed to find cold food prepared without any care for its appearance or flavor. Our disgusting breakfast had cost us each $11.00. As we left that buffet feeling taken advantage of, my brother remarked, “I will not eat green eggs and ham.” That line became our mantra in the years to come as we sought only value for our money, rather than rock bottom prices. From that day on, we often enjoyed the breakfast buffet at Caesars Palace with its freshly squeezed juice, custom-made omelets, crispy bacon, and $5.99 price tag – no waiting.
Over the years, we became part of a tourist subculture that came to Las Vegas to take advantage of its cheap rooms, plentiful buffets, and free drinks. We slept in suites with floor-to-ceiling Strip views at the Rio. We sipped drinks in the Mahogony lined bar on the 34th floor of the Landmark. We drove down Glitter Gulch, marveling at the lights of The Mint. We took advantage of the spas and pools. We always came home rested and we often spent less than $100.00 each on an entire trip. We knew who had the best rooms, the best food, the cheapest drinks, and the lowest blackjack minimums. Las Vegas had become not only an escape from reality but also a way for two average Joes to unwind and feel like something better than average, if only for a short time. It was a place where we could go and forget about serving food and selling cars. It was a welcome respite from the daily drone of life. And then a man named Steve Wynn came along.
To be continued…
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Las Vegas Through My Eyes - Part III
Encouraged by my recent good fortune, I succumbed to the Dunes’ enticing marquee and walked into the closest annex of the Dunes casino, an extension of the main casino called the “Dunes Oasis”. In later years, I heard locals refer to it as the Dunes “O’anus”, but it was the first time I’d ever seen the inside of a large casino so it was exciting to me.
The entrance to the casino was flanked by neon palm trees. The vibrant carpet inside was dizzying. In years to come, my younger brother and I often wondered whose job it was to look at a swatch of wildly colored carpet, and place an order with confidence, “We’ll take three acres of the pink and orange stuff.”
Each side of the main Dunes Oasis interior walkway was lined with gaming tables. I stood looking at the top of one of them, trying to understand the layout. There were no other players at the table. The dealer could tell that I was apprehensive so she said that she would be happy to teach me to play. Nervously, I followed her instructions and plunked down a few dollars to exchange for chips. The table minimum was high - $3.00, but I bravely sat down at the table anyway, putting myself in the dealer’s hands. I don’t remember now whether I won or lost, but either way it was fascinating and I had finally had the chance to sit at a real blackjack table and play!
I left the Oasis with renewed confidence and made my way toward the big daddy of them all – Caesars Palace. Years after my first visit, I read a book that explained that “Caesars Palace” has no apostrophe in its name because the casino was not the Palace belonging to a specific “Caesar”. It was a palace that belonged to all who entered its doors, and we were all “Caesars” – emperors to be adored and worshipped with excess. Though gigantic compared to its neighbors, Caesars only had one gaming area with tables. There was also a high limit slot area, some less expensive slots scattered around, and of course their famous newly built sports book with its theater sized screens. The whole place was much smaller than what is considered today to be the acceptable size of a casino aimed at local players.
The main gaming area was a round room, called the "Olympic Casino" which still exists today I believe. The ceiling had rows of crystals hanging in lines that met in the center of the room’s opulent domed ceiling. The dealers all wore medallions with the likeness of an emperor on them. Some of the customers wore these medallions as well, but only a few. It was immediately understood that to wear one these medallions meant that you were a VIP – an invited guest of the casino.
There were dozens of gorgeous cocktail waitresses working the crowd, all wearing what appeared to be roman togas that were cut short to show off their shapely legs. The head of each cocktail waitress was crowned with a perfect cone of hair whose end supported a long strands that hung down to the waitresses’ shoulders. It was years before I realized that these were actually wigs.
Betting minimums at Caesars Palace were higher than at the Dunes. The lowest I could find was an astronomical $5.00 per hand or spin of the wheel. I was far too nervous to play blackjack here, but I was intrigued by the roulette wheel. I understood nothing about the game, but I was sure that if I restricted my bet to red or black that I could feign confidence.
I placed a few dollars on the table and was handed a couple of $5.00 chips. I put one of the chips on black and surveyed the other players. The other players were dressed so elegantly. One older man and his wife looked like they had come from a black tie function. She wore an aqua full-length evening dress and had taken great pains to match her eye shadow. Carefully created grey curls hung down in front of her bejeweled ears. The other players bet wildly spreading their brightly colored chips all over the center of the table. Somehow, the croupier managed to straighten up everyone’s chips before the roulette ball fell into a slot on the wheel. While the players waited breathlessly, most puffed away on complementary cigarettes they had just plucked from a large highly polished wooden box that was kept full by the casino.
The ball fell and bounced around the wheel before coming to rest in a black slot. Some players whooped while others remained quiet and stone faced. The mounting tension was too much for me to handle so I scooped up my two $5.00 chips and made my way to the cashier’s cage.
To be continued...
The entrance to the casino was flanked by neon palm trees. The vibrant carpet inside was dizzying. In years to come, my younger brother and I often wondered whose job it was to look at a swatch of wildly colored carpet, and place an order with confidence, “We’ll take three acres of the pink and orange stuff.”
Each side of the main Dunes Oasis interior walkway was lined with gaming tables. I stood looking at the top of one of them, trying to understand the layout. There were no other players at the table. The dealer could tell that I was apprehensive so she said that she would be happy to teach me to play. Nervously, I followed her instructions and plunked down a few dollars to exchange for chips. The table minimum was high - $3.00, but I bravely sat down at the table anyway, putting myself in the dealer’s hands. I don’t remember now whether I won or lost, but either way it was fascinating and I had finally had the chance to sit at a real blackjack table and play!
I left the Oasis with renewed confidence and made my way toward the big daddy of them all – Caesars Palace. Years after my first visit, I read a book that explained that “Caesars Palace” has no apostrophe in its name because the casino was not the Palace belonging to a specific “Caesar”. It was a palace that belonged to all who entered its doors, and we were all “Caesars” – emperors to be adored and worshipped with excess. Though gigantic compared to its neighbors, Caesars only had one gaming area with tables. There was also a high limit slot area, some less expensive slots scattered around, and of course their famous newly built sports book with its theater sized screens. The whole place was much smaller than what is considered today to be the acceptable size of a casino aimed at local players.
The main gaming area was a round room, called the "Olympic Casino" which still exists today I believe. The ceiling had rows of crystals hanging in lines that met in the center of the room’s opulent domed ceiling. The dealers all wore medallions with the likeness of an emperor on them. Some of the customers wore these medallions as well, but only a few. It was immediately understood that to wear one these medallions meant that you were a VIP – an invited guest of the casino.
There were dozens of gorgeous cocktail waitresses working the crowd, all wearing what appeared to be roman togas that were cut short to show off their shapely legs. The head of each cocktail waitress was crowned with a perfect cone of hair whose end supported a long strands that hung down to the waitresses’ shoulders. It was years before I realized that these were actually wigs.
Betting minimums at Caesars Palace were higher than at the Dunes. The lowest I could find was an astronomical $5.00 per hand or spin of the wheel. I was far too nervous to play blackjack here, but I was intrigued by the roulette wheel. I understood nothing about the game, but I was sure that if I restricted my bet to red or black that I could feign confidence.
I placed a few dollars on the table and was handed a couple of $5.00 chips. I put one of the chips on black and surveyed the other players. The other players were dressed so elegantly. One older man and his wife looked like they had come from a black tie function. She wore an aqua full-length evening dress and had taken great pains to match her eye shadow. Carefully created grey curls hung down in front of her bejeweled ears. The other players bet wildly spreading their brightly colored chips all over the center of the table. Somehow, the croupier managed to straighten up everyone’s chips before the roulette ball fell into a slot on the wheel. While the players waited breathlessly, most puffed away on complementary cigarettes they had just plucked from a large highly polished wooden box that was kept full by the casino.
The ball fell and bounced around the wheel before coming to rest in a black slot. Some players whooped while others remained quiet and stone faced. The mounting tension was too much for me to handle so I scooped up my two $5.00 chips and made my way to the cashier’s cage.
To be continued...
Monday, January 19, 2009
Rocky Mountain Bighorn Sheep
Yesterday, the weather was so spectacular that we just had to get out for a drive in the mountains. We came across a herd of bighorn sheep, the Colorado state animal. According to the web, they are found only in the Rocky Mountains. Aren't they beautiful?
Friday, January 16, 2009
Las Vegas Through My Eyes - Part II
With less than a hundred dollars to my name, I couldn’t afford to gamble. But I had never been in Las Vegas before, so I had to try at least once didn’t I? I made my way down to the motel’s small casino where there were about twenty slot machines to choose from. It seemed that no two were alike. The whole process of gambling intimidated me, but I assumed that I would need to buy a roll of quarters from the cashier. The universal ease of playing a slot machine had not been lost on me.
I made my way to a slot machine and begin inserting quarters and pulling the handle. Within a few pulls, three red 7’s appeared on behind the glass. I had hit a jackpot! A large casually dressed woman sidled over to me to tell me that she had been playing that machine all weekend and asked if she could borrow a few dollars of my jackpot. I declined and put all my quarters into a plastic bucket so the cashier could change them into folding money. I walked out of the little casino with eighty or ninety dollars that I didn’t have just moments before! I was all alone and surrounded by neon. I felt grown up – invigorated – excited by the possibilities of the night. Who knew what I would see and experience?
I walked toward the Strip from the motel. In those days, the Strip was much smaller, but seemed even more out of place against the suburban streets that surrounded it than it does today. The whole city had maybe 400,000 residents. Any building that was more than ten stories tall looked mammoth compared to the surrounding small suburban structures.
When I reached the corner of Flamingo Road and Las Vegas Boulevard, I was like a deer in headlights – neon headlights. The buildings themselves were not particularly impressive; but the marquees were a sight to see! The Dunes sat on the site where the Bellagio stands today. Its marquee must have been twenty stories tall. The whole thing was lined in red neon whose bulbs were illuminated in succession making the lights appear to snake up the sign's humongous support beams ending at a point at the top shaped somewhat like a spade on a playing card.
The top of the marquee advertised the showroom’s latest topless review. It had a name that exuded electricity, excitement and burlesque – all in two words. The show producer’s name was proudly displayed over the show’s name as if that would make it even more compelling to come and see the show. I had never heard of this show’s producer but I was sure that everyone else had.
There were no pedestrian bridges allowing people to stroll slowly from casino to casino, just throngs of people and cars all converged on the same intersection. All of the people were very enthusiastic and you could tell there was something different about this crowd. Cars and people jostled through the intersection seeing which group could push the other out of the way. The lights of the marquees danced and sang. Bally’s, The Dunes, The Flamingo Hilton, and Caesars Palace all jockeyed for position enticing customers with food, drink, shows, and loose slots. There was a charge in the air that was palpable. There was an unspoken promise being whispered to my subconscious by all that surrounded me; a promise of earthly pleasures and excitement just waiting to be plucked as easily as picking up a penny from the ground.
To be continued…
I made my way to a slot machine and begin inserting quarters and pulling the handle. Within a few pulls, three red 7’s appeared on behind the glass. I had hit a jackpot! A large casually dressed woman sidled over to me to tell me that she had been playing that machine all weekend and asked if she could borrow a few dollars of my jackpot. I declined and put all my quarters into a plastic bucket so the cashier could change them into folding money. I walked out of the little casino with eighty or ninety dollars that I didn’t have just moments before! I was all alone and surrounded by neon. I felt grown up – invigorated – excited by the possibilities of the night. Who knew what I would see and experience?
I walked toward the Strip from the motel. In those days, the Strip was much smaller, but seemed even more out of place against the suburban streets that surrounded it than it does today. The whole city had maybe 400,000 residents. Any building that was more than ten stories tall looked mammoth compared to the surrounding small suburban structures.
When I reached the corner of Flamingo Road and Las Vegas Boulevard, I was like a deer in headlights – neon headlights. The buildings themselves were not particularly impressive; but the marquees were a sight to see! The Dunes sat on the site where the Bellagio stands today. Its marquee must have been twenty stories tall. The whole thing was lined in red neon whose bulbs were illuminated in succession making the lights appear to snake up the sign's humongous support beams ending at a point at the top shaped somewhat like a spade on a playing card.
The top of the marquee advertised the showroom’s latest topless review. It had a name that exuded electricity, excitement and burlesque – all in two words. The show producer’s name was proudly displayed over the show’s name as if that would make it even more compelling to come and see the show. I had never heard of this show’s producer but I was sure that everyone else had.
There were no pedestrian bridges allowing people to stroll slowly from casino to casino, just throngs of people and cars all converged on the same intersection. All of the people were very enthusiastic and you could tell there was something different about this crowd. Cars and people jostled through the intersection seeing which group could push the other out of the way. The lights of the marquees danced and sang. Bally’s, The Dunes, The Flamingo Hilton, and Caesars Palace all jockeyed for position enticing customers with food, drink, shows, and loose slots. There was a charge in the air that was palpable. There was an unspoken promise being whispered to my subconscious by all that surrounded me; a promise of earthly pleasures and excitement just waiting to be plucked as easily as picking up a penny from the ground.
To be continued…
Las Vegas Through My Eyes – Part I
Las Vegas has had a major impact on my life. I experienced it both as a tourist and as a resident over the course of twenty years. For better or worse, it’s part of the fabric of who I am.
Yesterday, I read with sadness that the Folies Bergere in Las Vegas is closing. The Folies Bergere was the last of two traditional Vegas revues with gorgeous topless showgirls and fantastic costumes. When I first began visiting Las Vegas some twenty years ago, shows like this not only provided entertainment, they made the audience members feel glamorous as well. They were unlike anything that could be experienced anywhere else in the United States and they had an effect on me, along with the rest of the Vegas experience, of removing me from the reality of daily life. They transported audience members to a gentler time when people still dressed up to go to dinner. It made me nostalgic and I thought I'd write about some of my experiences in Las Vegas and how I watched it evolve over the years.
I first experienced Las Vegas while passing through on my way from Denver to Los Angeles. I had just turned twenty one and I was flat broke. My younger brother had an available bedroom in his apartment in Southern California and had invited me to come and start a new life. Real estate was booming in California and I quickly landed a job shuffling mortgage paperwork for World Savings in Costa Mesa, California while I was still living in Denver. On a July Friday afternoon, I loaded up my convertible with what few possessions I had and that night I hit the road.
My mom had booked a room for me in a motel that she had seen from her hotel window during past trips to Las Vegas. The motel had looked clean to her and it was cheap. I drove all night long through the Utah desert and arrived in Las Vegas just before noon the next day. I hauled my television and my microwave upstairs to my motel room to keep them from being stolen. Those of you who remember how heavy even small appliances used to be will know that this was no easy feat. I cranked up my noisy wall air conditioner and quickly passed out from exhaustion. Several hours later, I woke up refreshed and ready to see what I could see of Las Vegas that night, knowing I had to hit the road in the morning. I had a new job to start on Monday and I still had three hundred miles to drive.
To be continued…
Yesterday, I read with sadness that the Folies Bergere in Las Vegas is closing. The Folies Bergere was the last of two traditional Vegas revues with gorgeous topless showgirls and fantastic costumes. When I first began visiting Las Vegas some twenty years ago, shows like this not only provided entertainment, they made the audience members feel glamorous as well. They were unlike anything that could be experienced anywhere else in the United States and they had an effect on me, along with the rest of the Vegas experience, of removing me from the reality of daily life. They transported audience members to a gentler time when people still dressed up to go to dinner. It made me nostalgic and I thought I'd write about some of my experiences in Las Vegas and how I watched it evolve over the years.
I first experienced Las Vegas while passing through on my way from Denver to Los Angeles. I had just turned twenty one and I was flat broke. My younger brother had an available bedroom in his apartment in Southern California and had invited me to come and start a new life. Real estate was booming in California and I quickly landed a job shuffling mortgage paperwork for World Savings in Costa Mesa, California while I was still living in Denver. On a July Friday afternoon, I loaded up my convertible with what few possessions I had and that night I hit the road.
My mom had booked a room for me in a motel that she had seen from her hotel window during past trips to Las Vegas. The motel had looked clean to her and it was cheap. I drove all night long through the Utah desert and arrived in Las Vegas just before noon the next day. I hauled my television and my microwave upstairs to my motel room to keep them from being stolen. Those of you who remember how heavy even small appliances used to be will know that this was no easy feat. I cranked up my noisy wall air conditioner and quickly passed out from exhaustion. Several hours later, I woke up refreshed and ready to see what I could see of Las Vegas that night, knowing I had to hit the road in the morning. I had a new job to start on Monday and I still had three hundred miles to drive.
To be continued…
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
So This Is Winter
You know how the weather seems to stay clear until you wash the car? Well, as I write this I can’t help thinking that the Gods are getting ready to wallop Denver with mounds of snow and frigid temperatures because I wrote this blog. My, I’m self-important aren’t I?
Before we moved here, I was really uneasy about how we would deal with the winter season. We haven’t lived in a climate where average daily highs fall below fifty degrees in over twenty years. But we have had it really easy so far. Most all of the snow that has fallen has been restricted to the mountains, where the ski resorts and the Colorado River benefit. So far, we haven’t had more than two or three inches at a time down here in Denver. We did have a couple of days of cold, but it was quickly over, even warming up to the sixty degree mark.
I see on the news today that the Plains are dealing with unbelievably frigid temperatures – as low as thirty seven degrees below zero! Yet we are supposed to climb to somewhere just under fifty degrees here. Those of you in California and Florida may think that fifty degrees sounds cold, but those of you in the Midwest know that fifty degrees is practically barbecue weather.
And so we wait and we watch as the Midwest gets the worst of the winter season, wondering when our turn will come. And surely it will. For those of you suffering in the cold right now, our thoughts are with you. Stay warm and safe. And hey, you can always come to Denver for a weekend warm up.
Before we moved here, I was really uneasy about how we would deal with the winter season. We haven’t lived in a climate where average daily highs fall below fifty degrees in over twenty years. But we have had it really easy so far. Most all of the snow that has fallen has been restricted to the mountains, where the ski resorts and the Colorado River benefit. So far, we haven’t had more than two or three inches at a time down here in Denver. We did have a couple of days of cold, but it was quickly over, even warming up to the sixty degree mark.
I see on the news today that the Plains are dealing with unbelievably frigid temperatures – as low as thirty seven degrees below zero! Yet we are supposed to climb to somewhere just under fifty degrees here. Those of you in California and Florida may think that fifty degrees sounds cold, but those of you in the Midwest know that fifty degrees is practically barbecue weather.
And so we wait and we watch as the Midwest gets the worst of the winter season, wondering when our turn will come. And surely it will. For those of you suffering in the cold right now, our thoughts are with you. Stay warm and safe. And hey, you can always come to Denver for a weekend warm up.
Friday, January 2, 2009
The Omen
Yesterday, Paul and I took advantage of the holiday to go skiing at Copper Mountain. We rented skis, bought $150.00 worth of "discount lift tickets", and drove two hours to the ski resort. We had a couple of very short runs just to get the hang of it again before taking a lift all the way to the top of the mountain. Following beginner trails, we slowly made our way all the way from the top of the mountain to the bottom, where we had decided we would get a cup of coffee and have a rest break. It was a great day.
Three hundred yards from the bottom of the mountain, Paul gently took his first tumble of the day. He had lost a ski, so as I approached, I stopped to retrieve the ski so that I could hand it to him where he lay a few yards down the slope. While I bent to get the ski, I expected him to prop himself up and dust himself off so we could finish the run. But instead, I arrived to see his nose scraped and swelling up and him unable to lift himself off the slope.
It seems he had fallen in just such a way that he hit shoulder first, with the face following along. The ski patrol had to bring him down on a stretcher/toboggan. Once at the bottom, he was taken by ambulance to the medical center where they confirmed that he had broken his arm in the shoulder area. Today, we are off to speak with the orthopedic surgeon.
Is this a sign of things to come? Well, happy damn New Year to you too!
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