Today was a stressful day in a month full of them; work's been crazy and life seems to be going by at 78 RPM.
Time to slow down with organic chicken breasts cooked with shallots, mushrooms, fresh rosemary, and wine (champange actually). Mmmm.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Comfort Food
Today was a stressful day in a month full of them; work's been crazy and life seems to be going by at 78 RPM.
Time to slow down with organic chicken breasts cooked with shallots, mushrooms, fresh rosemary, and wine (champange actually). Mmmm.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
But It's Free!
A trip to the mall on President's Day with my significant other was the usual exercise of fun coupled with routine annoyances. The shopping part was fun; we haven't done a good mall run in a while, and we actually got a great many things we needed around the house. The one thing we noticed immediately however, and yesterday wasn't the first time, was that every time we were being rung up by a salesperson we were forced into the following exchange:
Salesperson: Do you have a [INSERT STORE NAME HERE] card?
Us: No...
Salesperson (now in earnest): Would you like to sign up for one?
Us (wearily): No, but thank you.
Salesperson (more earnest): But it's free!
Us (more wearily): No, that's okay.
Salesperson (dubious): Okay...
We experienced varied versions of this same exchange about five times. It didn't matter whether we were buying sportswear or videogames, the riff was the same annoying beat. After a couple hours of this, coupled with dodging poorly-steered strollers, lackluster food-court Chinese eats, and looking at endless racks of what seemed to be identical pairs of jeans, I began to feel as if I was being flogged with a cat-o-nine-tails.
We spoke about getting buttons made up to wear: NO STORE CARDS THANKS. YES, I KNOW ITS FREE, DON’T CARE. I find the whole "free" thing dubious. Years ago discount cards were a good way to ensure customer loyalty—shop with us, get a discount. Winners all around.
No, now these companies have gotten greedy. I actually signed up for one card yesterday, and I was asked for my name, phone number, address. Guess were that info is going kids? They'll sell it off to be placed on a marketing list, and we know the wonderful security employed by such companies in guarding our info from identity theft, which is, well, pretty much no security at all. One wonders if that immediate $5 savings on a videogame and future 10% discount on used games is worth the ongoing hilarity of having your identity ripped off, or of simply being spammed to death.
I doubt it.
Salesperson: Do you have a [INSERT STORE NAME HERE] card?
Us: No...
Salesperson (now in earnest): Would you like to sign up for one?
Us (wearily): No, but thank you.
Salesperson (more earnest): But it's free!
Us (more wearily): No, that's okay.
Salesperson (dubious): Okay...
We experienced varied versions of this same exchange about five times. It didn't matter whether we were buying sportswear or videogames, the riff was the same annoying beat. After a couple hours of this, coupled with dodging poorly-steered strollers, lackluster food-court Chinese eats, and looking at endless racks of what seemed to be identical pairs of jeans, I began to feel as if I was being flogged with a cat-o-nine-tails.
We spoke about getting buttons made up to wear: NO STORE CARDS THANKS. YES, I KNOW ITS FREE, DON’T CARE. I find the whole "free" thing dubious. Years ago discount cards were a good way to ensure customer loyalty—shop with us, get a discount. Winners all around.
No, now these companies have gotten greedy. I actually signed up for one card yesterday, and I was asked for my name, phone number, address. Guess were that info is going kids? They'll sell it off to be placed on a marketing list, and we know the wonderful security employed by such companies in guarding our info from identity theft, which is, well, pretty much no security at all. One wonders if that immediate $5 savings on a videogame and future 10% discount on used games is worth the ongoing hilarity of having your identity ripped off, or of simply being spammed to death.
I doubt it.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
A Time Too Short
I lost a friend this month. Indeed, writing this is difficult and I purposely gave myself some time to get some distance, so to speak. It's funny perhaps that my first true entry here is regarding death, but preachers always tell us that death is only the beginning and so maybe it all fits together.
On Friday, February 3rd I got that call that no one wants to get. My good friend Dominic was calling to tell me the news: our friend Nick had passed away the night before. Nick had just turned 43 this January. I was disbelieving, but Dom's demeanor made it clear he wasn't joking. I spent the rest of that afternoon in a daze, feeling like I'd been kicked in the stomach, and I didn't relish the thought of telling the other members of our circle the news.
I met Nick back in 1987? 1988? It was long ago, nearly twenty years now. I was working for a computer rental company, then one of the largest in the country (now long since dissolved). I worked in the "back lab" with the less-experienced techs and one day I met a fellow recently transferred from the warehouse. (In those days guys moving from the warehouse into the lab and learning the ropes wasn't unusual.) It took me a while to get to know Nick. He took a lot of good-natured ribbing from his ex-warehouse buddies and seemed like a nice guy right from the start. One fellow in particular, one Glen, always got after Nick for buttoning the very top button of his shirt. Glen would chase Nick around the warehouse every other day and nag him until he reluctantly undid the offending button. Nick had a style all his own, even then, and we all assumed he always had. Nick was a big guy, but gentle and soft-spoken, and he walked with a silent but shuffling gait.
Eventually Nick and I became friends in that easy-going way, where you hardly remember how it happened but instead it just feels like the other person has always been there. It was a relaxed friendship that waxed and waned those first years; we shared a love of Def Leppard and heavy metal (as it was in the '80s) in general, and we went to a number of concerts—'Leppard, KISS, and others, including the 6-hour "Monsters of Rock" at New Jersey's Giant Stadium. We traded CDs, grabbed lunch, and helped each other at work. Several years running our little work group—consisting of Nick, me, our mutual friend Dom, and whomever else we could grab—headed over to the local watering hole and shared a December holiday toast by belting down a shot of dark rum. Nick and I gained work experience and moved into the front lab. Eventually I shared a face-to-face worktable with Nick and when I later left the company in 1991 he inherited my vaunted "notes"—a stack of worn index cards filled with crabbed notes about jumper settings and techie data that he accepted as gingerly as if I had offered him the Dead Sea Scrolls.
As the years went on Nick was always there. Nick, Dom, and I made a yearly summer pilgrimage down to the beach and it became tradition--ride down, get breakfast near the boardwalk (always at the same place, although it changed owners at least three times), hit the beach for a few hours, grab lunch on the boardwalk (pizza or sausage sandwiches was key, this was the Jersey shore after all), play miniature golf on the rooftops (who paid was often decided by a skeeball competition earlier), hit the arcades, and then stop for dinner on the way home. Those dinners were great vehicles for long discussions about work, life, and family. We didn't care if we sat in the middle of a fancy Italian restaurant stinking of sand and Coppertone, our hair askew in that unique beach style; it was about fellowship. Those trips were some of my best times with Nick, and one summer we even spent a long weekend at Wildwood in an attempt to extend the experience.
Nick drifted easily into my larger group of friends, and he was happy to join in whatever we did. Nick played D&D with us (more on that later), went to movies, did lunches. Nick never stood out as a leader, but he was always present and his humor and unique nature was always an obvious and welcome presence. We had many lunches at Bennigan's (where Nick happily ordered the gut-busting Death By Chocolate every time) and many, many Chinese dinners in which we would grab James, Dave, or whomever we could, circle around a big round table, and share everything.
My memories of Nick are legion: His inept shuffling of cards at a poker game (I missed the event but came in as everyone was doubled over with laughter) or the hasty evacuation of all players once Nick raised (Nick couldn't bluff and the rare event of a Nicky raise often led to cries of "Nick's got a full house!" and insanely rapid folds) and the time Nick lost so much money playing one night that I, to the bemused delight of everyone else, made a show of giving Nick 35 cents toll money for his ride home. (For a better telling on Nick's poker days, see the great write-up at http://schizohedron.blogspot.com/) I can remember Nick on the beach wearing black socks and sandals, or his rubbing suntan lotion on his chest and his dense chest hair (we didn't nickname him Sasquatch for nothing!) turning the lotion into a useless white shampoo. I recall Nick lumbering into the shower at Mark's shore place and stepping on the tiled shower lip and collapsing it, to Mark's horror. I remember a white hair, white knuckle ride Nick took us on once as we followed (read: tailgated) another car down the GS Parkway (Nick was deathly afraid of getting lost). More often than not Nicky simply cracked us all up with something he did, or more often tried unsuccessfully to do.
Nick was a favorite D&D player. He wasn't what you'd call a hardcore gamer by any means, and he didn't pore over the rules they way Mark or Willie or I do, but he always offered helpful suggestions, tried to decipher what must have seemed impossibly complex rules, and in his usual selfless way participated just because it made us happy. Playing with Nick was always fun because he didn't know every rule or monster, and so the rest of us saw things through his fresh perspective and the magic came back to the game. I was in the process of rewriting Nick's character sheets the week he died, and our tiny group will save Buckey the Halfling Thief and Roth the Cleric for future adventures.
Nick also faithfully joined us in huge RISK battles (he never won but he came dangerously close in one of our very last games and the thrill on his face was great to behold), and would regularly play the other weird boardgames I regularly throw at our group. Nick particularly liked Puerto Rico and Bohnanza ("the bean game" in Nick-speak). Our last boardgame night was New Years Eve, and we played Puerto Rico and Bang! and toasted in 2006. Happily, I snapped off a few pictures that evening. It was a good night. I had to fight off the urge at Nick's wake to surreptitiously slip a game die into Nick's coffin, in case he ever wishes to join us in our future games. He will always be a presence at our table, whatever game we play.
I miss Nick already. I think of his goofy but lovable way. I think of him gaming with us. I think of him walking into my place and always giving Mojo (my tabby) a peck atop the head (Nick's gentle nature made him one of the small group that could actually hold Mojo without the beast immediately going into a panic). I think of those shore trips and the Chinese dinners. I'm sorry he will no longer be there for these things. I'll miss that child-like naivety he possessed. There will be a void in our group, and even an old agnostic like myself must believe he has gone to a better place.
I'll always be your friend Nick and somehow, someway, we'll meet again.
On Friday, February 3rd I got that call that no one wants to get. My good friend Dominic was calling to tell me the news: our friend Nick had passed away the night before. Nick had just turned 43 this January. I was disbelieving, but Dom's demeanor made it clear he wasn't joking. I spent the rest of that afternoon in a daze, feeling like I'd been kicked in the stomach, and I didn't relish the thought of telling the other members of our circle the news.
I met Nick back in 1987? 1988? It was long ago, nearly twenty years now. I was working for a computer rental company, then one of the largest in the country (now long since dissolved). I worked in the "back lab" with the less-experienced techs and one day I met a fellow recently transferred from the warehouse. (In those days guys moving from the warehouse into the lab and learning the ropes wasn't unusual.) It took me a while to get to know Nick. He took a lot of good-natured ribbing from his ex-warehouse buddies and seemed like a nice guy right from the start. One fellow in particular, one Glen, always got after Nick for buttoning the very top button of his shirt. Glen would chase Nick around the warehouse every other day and nag him until he reluctantly undid the offending button. Nick had a style all his own, even then, and we all assumed he always had. Nick was a big guy, but gentle and soft-spoken, and he walked with a silent but shuffling gait.
Eventually Nick and I became friends in that easy-going way, where you hardly remember how it happened but instead it just feels like the other person has always been there. It was a relaxed friendship that waxed and waned those first years; we shared a love of Def Leppard and heavy metal (as it was in the '80s) in general, and we went to a number of concerts—'Leppard, KISS, and others, including the 6-hour "Monsters of Rock" at New Jersey's Giant Stadium. We traded CDs, grabbed lunch, and helped each other at work. Several years running our little work group—consisting of Nick, me, our mutual friend Dom, and whomever else we could grab—headed over to the local watering hole and shared a December holiday toast by belting down a shot of dark rum. Nick and I gained work experience and moved into the front lab. Eventually I shared a face-to-face worktable with Nick and when I later left the company in 1991 he inherited my vaunted "notes"—a stack of worn index cards filled with crabbed notes about jumper settings and techie data that he accepted as gingerly as if I had offered him the Dead Sea Scrolls.
As the years went on Nick was always there. Nick, Dom, and I made a yearly summer pilgrimage down to the beach and it became tradition--ride down, get breakfast near the boardwalk (always at the same place, although it changed owners at least three times), hit the beach for a few hours, grab lunch on the boardwalk (pizza or sausage sandwiches was key, this was the Jersey shore after all), play miniature golf on the rooftops (who paid was often decided by a skeeball competition earlier), hit the arcades, and then stop for dinner on the way home. Those dinners were great vehicles for long discussions about work, life, and family. We didn't care if we sat in the middle of a fancy Italian restaurant stinking of sand and Coppertone, our hair askew in that unique beach style; it was about fellowship. Those trips were some of my best times with Nick, and one summer we even spent a long weekend at Wildwood in an attempt to extend the experience.
Nick drifted easily into my larger group of friends, and he was happy to join in whatever we did. Nick played D&D with us (more on that later), went to movies, did lunches. Nick never stood out as a leader, but he was always present and his humor and unique nature was always an obvious and welcome presence. We had many lunches at Bennigan's (where Nick happily ordered the gut-busting Death By Chocolate every time) and many, many Chinese dinners in which we would grab James, Dave, or whomever we could, circle around a big round table, and share everything.
My memories of Nick are legion: His inept shuffling of cards at a poker game (I missed the event but came in as everyone was doubled over with laughter) or the hasty evacuation of all players once Nick raised (Nick couldn't bluff and the rare event of a Nicky raise often led to cries of "Nick's got a full house!" and insanely rapid folds) and the time Nick lost so much money playing one night that I, to the bemused delight of everyone else, made a show of giving Nick 35 cents toll money for his ride home. (For a better telling on Nick's poker days, see the great write-up at http://schizohedron.blogspot.com/) I can remember Nick on the beach wearing black socks and sandals, or his rubbing suntan lotion on his chest and his dense chest hair (we didn't nickname him Sasquatch for nothing!) turning the lotion into a useless white shampoo. I recall Nick lumbering into the shower at Mark's shore place and stepping on the tiled shower lip and collapsing it, to Mark's horror. I remember a white hair, white knuckle ride Nick took us on once as we followed (read: tailgated) another car down the GS Parkway (Nick was deathly afraid of getting lost). More often than not Nicky simply cracked us all up with something he did, or more often tried unsuccessfully to do.
Nick was a favorite D&D player. He wasn't what you'd call a hardcore gamer by any means, and he didn't pore over the rules they way Mark or Willie or I do, but he always offered helpful suggestions, tried to decipher what must have seemed impossibly complex rules, and in his usual selfless way participated just because it made us happy. Playing with Nick was always fun because he didn't know every rule or monster, and so the rest of us saw things through his fresh perspective and the magic came back to the game. I was in the process of rewriting Nick's character sheets the week he died, and our tiny group will save Buckey the Halfling Thief and Roth the Cleric for future adventures.
Nick also faithfully joined us in huge RISK battles (he never won but he came dangerously close in one of our very last games and the thrill on his face was great to behold), and would regularly play the other weird boardgames I regularly throw at our group. Nick particularly liked Puerto Rico and Bohnanza ("the bean game" in Nick-speak). Our last boardgame night was New Years Eve, and we played Puerto Rico and Bang! and toasted in 2006. Happily, I snapped off a few pictures that evening. It was a good night. I had to fight off the urge at Nick's wake to surreptitiously slip a game die into Nick's coffin, in case he ever wishes to join us in our future games. He will always be a presence at our table, whatever game we play.
I miss Nick already. I think of his goofy but lovable way. I think of him gaming with us. I think of him walking into my place and always giving Mojo (my tabby) a peck atop the head (Nick's gentle nature made him one of the small group that could actually hold Mojo without the beast immediately going into a panic). I think of those shore trips and the Chinese dinners. I'm sorry he will no longer be there for these things. I'll miss that child-like naivety he possessed. There will be a void in our group, and even an old agnostic like myself must believe he has gone to a better place.
I'll always be your friend Nick and somehow, someway, we'll meet again.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
My First One
Done it. I've joined the masses and decided to post my thoughts for the eyes of the world.
I've been driven to do this by forces that I cannot control, but there is no choice but to go with the flow and see what develops. I'll try to write when I can, keep it interesting, and keep you guessing, gentle reader.
Stay tuned!
I've been driven to do this by forces that I cannot control, but there is no choice but to go with the flow and see what develops. I'll try to write when I can, keep it interesting, and keep you guessing, gentle reader.
Stay tuned!
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