September 2006 Archives

Loyal Major Readers have probably noticed that I haven't written anything in a while. This post will also be one of the last for a while. Here's why.

A while ago, I wrote about my efforts to convince the Seattle Times to include the perspectives of non-believers in their weekly "Faith and Values" section. The postings generated a lot of traffic (for this site, anyway) with two commenters making the point that "secular options in the newspaper are abundant" such as "Dear Abby" and "Miss Manners," so there's nothing wrong with one small section devoted to religious views once a week.

I didn't really have a good response to that, as I sort of agreed with them even though there was something about it that nagged at me as being beside the point. Nevertheless, I let the issue drift and just continued to flip past "Faith and Values" each week on my way to the comics. That "Fox Trot" is a hoot!

Today, however, two things prompted me to return to the issue and try to state my point more clearly and emphatically.

I really need to start posting more of my immediate reactions to local news stories so I can be recognized as the Nostradamus that I am.

Last week, for example, I read about Starbucks' decision to stop honoring a coupon for a free iced coffee they had sent via email to employees. Even though they encouraged employees to forward the coupon to family and friends, they failed to predict how prolifically it would spread. Their excuse was that the coupon had been "redistributed beyond the original intent and modified beyond Starbucks control." I myself received three copies of the coupon, but I don't go to Starbucks as a matter of principle so I never tried to use it.

Starbucks' response is pathetic. It demonstrates gross incompetence in their marketing department coupled with a contemptuous regard for its customers. When I heard about it, I predicted that a lawsuit would emerge.

And I was right! Today's Seattle Times reports that a class action suit for $114 million was filed in New York.

I usually like my postings to have more meat on them, but can I just say that I am loving The Dresden Dolls' album "Yes Virginia"?

There, I said it.

The 1973 film, The Wicker Man, occasionally popped up on late-night "ON-TV" -- the cable TV precursor my family subscribed to in the early 1980's. It's a bizarre, twisted movie about a British police officer (Edward Woodward) searching for a lost girl on the Scottish island of Summerisle. The inhabitants of the island deny she ever existed, but the police officer keeps probing until he discovers a terrible truth about the island and its inhabitants. My mom and I loved it, and watched it a number of times. It was highly questionable to allow a twelve-year-old to watch it, but I had parental guidance so it was OK. And my mom wouldn't let me watch A Clockwork Orange until I was fourteen, so she did have some principles!

There's a remake of The Wicker Man out now starring Nicholas Cage. It's currently sitting at a dismal 13%-fresh rating on Rotten Tomatoes. Among the user comments on IMDB, are the following gems:

Funny, when Amy and I chose to not get married, we didn't get the press coverage that Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie are getting.

Maybe it's that our names don't lend themselves to "Brangelina"-esque mash-ups.

That, and, you know, we're not famous celebrities.

Yet.

The Tigers won the first of a four-game set against their closet AL Central rivals, the Minnesota Twins, last night. To say they needed to win the game is an understatement. The Twins have surged in the second half as the White Sox have started curling up. They have emerged as the Tigers' biggest threat.

I wish I could say that the Tigers restored some of my confidence last night. After going 9-19 over the last month, it certainly was nice to see them on top again, and the 7-2 score makes it look as if they achieved the win in a masterful fashion. But as I look at the box score, I see some significant warning signs.

Curses!

Three years ago this very minute I was witness to the most amazing event I can imagine. Despite months of anticipation and countless hours of preparation and research, my intellect was overwhelmed and I was swept with a wave of pure joy and awe. I confronted the sublime -- a boundlessness and enormity that escapes all attempts to represent or explain it -- and I wept stronger and longer than at any time in my adult life. My life changed forever as I watched part of myself spring forth into being. I was in the presence of the most beautiful and wonderful thing in the world.

And it was covered in blood and mucous.

Happy birthday, little boy.

My college roommate Karl used to utter the title to this blog post whenever someone of privilege complained about how tough some aspect of life was.

I couldn't help but think of Karl's sarcasm when I read this weekend's Seattle Times (yes, it's another trashing of the Times).

On Saturday, one of the interior sections featured the article "Pump price becomes a real pain for agents," a story about how high gas prices are hurting real estate agents. Sample quote:

This summer, with a full [SUV] tank running $50, [Marty] Marks has taken action.

"I started using regular gasoline rather than premium," said the veteran agent.... "I thought my car needed the premium, but apparently it doesn't. It's running fine."

And then, on the front page on Sunday's paper, this graphic depicted the rising price of housing in the Seattle area.

So, forgive me if I'm not running out to contribute to the real estate agent gasoline fund right away. I think a little bit of that 6% commission on $410,000 can keep your SUV running a little while longer. I think the folks earning
$5.15/hour may have a stronger case for hardship.

[Full disclosure: The article quoted above refers to an agent in Dallas, TX, but still.... Also, it makes me wonder: why the hell is the Seattle Times running a feature article on a real estate agent from Texas?]

In Montessori schools, kids rarely are pulled out of the program unless the family moves, and they attend from the age of three through middle school, so that pretty much means we'll be dealing with the same sets of parents for the next eleven years. We've had a few group get-togethers with other families recently, and I've tried my best to make good first impressions and not set things off on the wrong foot with anyone.

During our last picnic, I had to take Ray to the bathroom. After he took care of his business, I took care of mine, and as I went to zip myself back up, the zipper pull on my pants fell off into my hand. The zipper was still down, mind you.

My mind raced with all the things I'd be expected to do throughout the rest of the picnic. Squatting, sitting, playing, bending over, holding a toddler ... all activities designed to cause maximum gaping in the crotch area of my pants. Great.

Luckily I had on a longish shirt that mostly covered the affected region, but I was self-conscious for the rest of the event, and Ray couldn't figure out why I wouldn't lift him up over my head. Hopefully, no one noticed and I won't have to spend the next eleven years known as the father who exposed himself to his son's entire class.

This hard-hitting news item topped today's Seattle Times.

How to wear them? Hmmm. Let me guess:

1. Insert left leg into left pantleg
2. Insert right leg into right pantleg
3. Pull jeans up over hips and buttocks
4. Zip up fly
5. Button/snap waist (depending on model)

Tomorrow's story: "Hats. For the Head or the Feet?"

Why do our local papers suck so bad???

Amy and I were discussing our first album purchases the other night. I was reminded of how behind the curve I was when it came to music, and even life in general.

I often feel as if I've lived my life one step out-of-phase of everyone else. By "phase," in this instance, I mean a major segment of life, like "high school" or "college."

I look back and realize that my high school years were largely spent figuring out the things that most of my peers had nailed down in junior high school -- e.g. girls, pop culture, fashion, interpersonal relationships, etc. Until my senior year, I was largely an outcast, developmentally behind and socially immature compared to my classmates.

The first couple years of college were in many ways an extension of high school. I lived at home, dated significantly younger women (i.e. high school students), and wandered aimlessly about my curriculum. Of my first ten college courses, I dropped 6 of them; I changed my major four times and my minor twice. It wasn't until my third year that I started making sense of everything, and by my fourth year I had finally figured out what I wanted to do only to run smack into graduation before being able to fully realize my goals.

The soundtrack of my life reflects this out-of-phaseness, too.

I saw my friend Kacey yesterday. She and her partner Chris have been working on the exterior of their house since last summer.

We chatted on her front stoop. She described all the scraping, painting, and fixing that she and Chris have done this summer, and what they have left to do. I told her all about Ray's various antics and our preparations for his upcoming first day of school.

Then we stood and stared silently at each other for a moment. Eventually, Kacey laughed and said: "That's about all I've got." I laughed, too, and said: "Yup. Me, too."

And that also explains the relative silence on this blog. Unless you really want to hear about some reports I have to write at work or about all the thousand-and-one wonderful things that my little boy has done recently. Because that's about all I've got right now.