The Valley of the Shadow

I just returned from a trip to Boise (The Treasure Valley) where I had gone to visit my 87-year old mother. On the third day of my visit there, she died.

I am not using euphemisms like "passed on" or "met her maker" because I am writing in my blog and not engaged in polite conversation with well meaning individuals who tap dance around the subject because let's face it, no one wants to talk about death.

It should not have been a surprise to me that my mother died. She had confessed to me four years ago that she thought she had breast cancer. But being a Christian Scientist, she refused any kind of medical examination or treatment. So she received none.

She managed to maintain relatively well for the first few years. But it was obvious, the cancer was taking its toll. It wasn't like my father's stomach cancer, mind you. When he was diagnosed 19 years or so ago with it, it ravaged his body in a matter of months. And his pain was painfully obvious.

Not so with my mother. She stood by her faith and walked through the valley of the shadow of death. She just moved much slower than she had before admitting to having cancer.

In defense of my own guilty conscious, I tried to convince her to see a doctor. I flew to Boise and tried to organize an intervention. But she stubbornly refused and everyone in my family (including my mom) skirted any further discussion about her obvious disease. From then on, we simply averted our eyes to the growing tumor and the signs that my mother was sick.

It became more and more difficult to ignore in the past several months. The first thing to fade was her mobility. Up until that past few months she had still been walking to the store and working in her yard. But then she began having trouble finding her way back home or locking herself out of her house.

Next came the memory loss. I noticed it more and more on my weekly calls to her. She would repeat the same story several times during the course of a conversation. Then she began to not recognize who she was talking to. Many of the conversations began to focus on stories of her childhood because it was firmly rooted in her brain whereas the present skipped away off the surface.

Two weeks ago, my mother didn't answer the phone when I called. A call to my brother living in Boise brought me the information that she wasn't getting out of bed any longer. I booked a trip to Boise.

I wasn't really prepared for how bad off she had become. I'd seen her in June when I drove my family there for a visit. Although thin and complaining about not being able to get around easily, she was still taking care of herself and eating. Now, after renting a car I drove directly to her house from the airport.  I walked in her house and found her in her bed looking more frail and emaciated than I could have imagined or bear.

She didn't really recognize me at first, but she smiled a gentle smile. My sister-in-law helped my mother sit up  in hopes she would make it out of bed to go sit in her easy chair. It was obvious that the effort was taxing. She made it to her dining room where a row of dining room chairs served as islands for her to rest as she made the trek. She made it to the second chair before saying she just needed to rest. Then she just wanted to go back to her bed.

I spent the rest of the afternoon sitting in a chair next to her bed reading as she lay there, occasionally opening her eyes and pulling up a blanket tighter around her. Finally, I got up to leave. I asked my mother if she was okay and that I needed to leave to check into a hotel. She said she was fine and that I should go take care of what I needed to. I told her I loved her. She said she loved me, too and that I was very special.

The next day was spent trying to make my mother comfortable and get her to eat or drink something. It ended again with me sitting next to her bed, occasionally adjusting a pillow for her or giving her a drink of water. Towards evening I said goodbye and told her I loved her and returned to my hotel for the evening. My brother was spending the night at my mother's house at that point.

The next day when I got to my house, my brother wasn't there. I found my mother in her spare room. I asked her what she was doing there and she said that she had gone to the bathroom and it was as far as she could get. I asked her if she wanted to go to her room and she said she just wanted to lay there for awhile and rest. At that point my brother returned. He had been at the store picking up a few things. He tried giving my mother some water, but she couldn't drink it.

I got a wet wash cloth and wiped down her forehead and she told me that that felt good. Then she gasped and her eyes fluttered. Then she left the valley.

I won't go into the details of the tears and phone calls as we dealt with the aftermath of my mother's death and the emotional waves that still beat away at me. My mother had prearranged her own cremation, but it was up to my brothers and I to put together a memorial service and deal with the bureaucracy of death and its rituals.

Afterwards, as I walked through the empty house that I had grown up in, I was struck by the fact that it would soon pass on to strangers who would never know the history of this place that had stood for more than sixty years and seen the death of both my father and mother. It would likely be razed and subdivided to make way for townhouses or apartments. And the graves of pets and memories of flashlight tag and touch football in the backyard would be buried by concrete foundations and driveways.

I need to go back to Boise in a month or so and help sort through what is left of our family's life in that house before it is opened up to strangers to paw through the remnants for bargains or hidden treasure at an estate sale. My only hope is that my mother's faith has taken her to a better place and her spirit is free of the place. She never did like strangers in the house.

Worldview

I have noticed that my worldview has changed dramatically as I age. I suppose it is natural to evolve from concretely knowing everything in a rigid "this is how I see it" manner to my current river rock worldview. I have concluded that I really don't know squat.

But does anyone really know squat?

I have given up completely on any organized (or unorganized) religion and am totally baffled by people who actually go to church. Although I profess to being a Democrat, I really don't have any tolerance for politics of any kind. I just detest Democrats less than I detest Republicans. And don't even mention Libertarians or other splinter whack job parties to me.

I recently mentioned something in my usual flip manner to my nephew about one of the crappy things about being in your 50s is that you finally realize that you have accomplished just about all that you ever will. He muttered something about that being a depressing thought. It is easy for him in his 20s to say that. He still has a worldview that includes potential.

Oh, I've read the books about all of the stuff you can achieve after 50. They usually cite examples of people like Ronald Reagan which immediately makes me want to puke.

I guess my worldview is a bit pissy most of the time. I don't mean to be cynical and negative. I just seem to gravitate in that direction based on experience.

On the positive side, my children soften my worldview substantially. I want there to be hope for them. They make me remember that there was a time that saw things with a sense of awe having never experienced them before. They still believe in magic (though they are beginning to suspect much of it is created by papa and mama playing tricks on them).

I'd truly like to believe in magic again. I'd love to believe that our country is the greatest in the world and that we, as Americans always do the right thing. I'd like to believe that George Washington never told a lie, the Civil War was fought for human rights and that government works for your good.

But I know differently. Very little of what we were taught when I was growing up was true. We were victims of PR and marketing designed to make us believe a history that didn't exist. One need only listen to any political speech by any candidate to learn that nothing every changes in the political realm. Everyone is always claiming they will change things or return them to the way they were.

But they are always empty promises.  Always. Even candidates with good intentions eventually conclude that you can't beat the status quo. The American political machine has been around too long to change. And it is based on political machines that plowed along long before America existed.

But I digress...and rant...and verbally chase my tail.

The problem with successfully chasing your tail is that you are inevitably going to get bitten.

How's that for a worldview?

Once in a blue moon

There will be a blue moon tonight, so this is one of those once in a blue moon occasions people talk about. A moon is considered blue if it is the second full moon in a month (though Wikipedia claims a moon is considered a blue moon if it is the third full moon in a season with four full moons, but that is just crazy talk). Once in a blue moon actually takes place every 2.7 years. But saying something only happens once every 2.7 years doesn't have the same ring to it as saying it only happens once in a blue moon.

It is a sad, yet fitting fact that there is a memorial service for Neil Armstrong (the first person to walk on the moon)  is being held today.  I was eleven years old when Armstrong took his fateful first step on the moon. Coincidentally, the NASA mission was called Apollo 11.  I love these cosmic signs.

But I digress.

I saw the blue moon when I was walking to the train station this morning. I snapped this photo with my cell phone. The blue moon looked much larger than it does in this photo. I want to point out that I added the arrows so you could distinguish the moon from the trees, dumpster and fences that are also in the photo. The arrows were not there when I snapped the photo. That would have been really odd.

 I did not know it was a blue moon at the time. Blue moons look like every other full moon. Ironically, they are not blue and no one seems to know why they are called blue moons. Though Wikipedia offers several possible reasons. But again, that is just more crazy talk.

I think most of Wikipedia is crazy talk that results from letting any random individual spew opinion as gospel.

But I digress.

I am looking forward to showing the blue moon to my children this evening and trying to explain the whole second moon in a month, third in a season of four moons that aren't really blue but we call them that.

On second thought, I might just say, "Hey look at that full moon."

Art, where art thou?

I grew up in Idaho without lots of access to museums or great art. We did have a history museum with a pretty cool two-head calf, however. But that technically isn't art.

Since I didn't have access to museums or art galleries, much of my understanding of art came pictures of art in a set of Childcraft 1950s era encyclopedias we had when I was growing up. I spent hours looking at pictures of paintings by Van Gogh, Rembrandt, Picasso, Renoir, Matisse, Manet, Gauguin, Lautrec, Da Vinci, Botticelli, Degas and other masters. I just loved the way they made me feel.

When I got older, I took a few art classes in college because I enjoyed art, not because I wanted an easy "A." Still, I never had an opportunity to view an actual work of classic art until I moved to Seattle in the early 1980s.

Not that I actually got to see any of the works of the masters in Seattle. It wasn't until I took a trip to London    in the early 1990s that I laid eyes on a genuine famous artist's work at the National Gallery. It was there that I saw works by Leonardo Da Vinci and Van Gogh as they were intended to be seen -- in person and at a leisurely pace.


Since then, I have joined the Seattle Art Museum and been herded around for special exhibits. Most recently I saw a exhibit of Gaugin's work (which I wasn't overly impressed with). There were so many people at the exhibit that you really couldn't stop and appreciate it.

On a recent business trip to Washington D.C. I managed to visit the National Portrait Gallery and the National Art Gallery. There I saw more art by famous artists than you could shake a stick at. But if you did shake a stick at the art, I imagine you would be swarmed by guards since there seemed to be one at every painting just daring you to touch them (the art, not the guards).

The amazing thing about the museums in D.C. is that they are free! And they aren't crowded, or at least they weren't when I was there. So I could actually stand in front of a Van Gogh as long as I wanted without being nudged out of the way by other art lovers (though the museum guards did start to get a bit twitchy that I was standing in front of the same painting for a long time).

The problem was, there were too many works of art. After awhile, I couldn't see the art because of all of the paintings (this is a weak analogy to not being able to see the forest for the trees). My head was spinning as I moved from room to room trying to soak it all in. After awhile, all I wanted to do was leave. I just couldn't look at one more work of art because it no longer had any impact.

How sad is that?

To me, art needs to connect with you at an emotional level. When you binge on it, you are going to get sick.

So I ended up at the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History where I got burned out looking at fossils and then the National Archives where I got burned out looking at old historical documents.

I sure miss my Childcraft books.

Blogger's note: Yes, this is post number 1000. But since I made such a big deal about number 999, I didn't really feel like hyping it up too much by saying something like, "That's 1000 small posts for a man, 1000 giant posts for mankind," (rest in peace Neil Armstrong).  Anyway, I did it. So there.

But I digress.

It's not like it's art or anything.

999 posts

As of August 4, I have officially been blogging for eight years and this is my 999th post. I still haven't decided what the topic of post 1000 should be. I generally pride myself on not having a purpose for blogging. And I have maintained that philosophy for eight years.

I'd like to think of myself as the poster child of persistence when it comes to blogging. Despite a lack of readers, inspiration and purpose, I have kept cranking out posts when other, more creative bloggers have fallen by the wayside. Being mediocre helps.

Oh, I've gone through my share of phases. I started as Tim-Elvis, morphed into Tim-id and then became Time. I spent a great deal of time Photoshopping my face onto various animate and inanimate objects, animals and people. I don't think many people appreciate the labor required to Photoshop your face on a bowl of Kimchi stew. Nor did everyone appreciate my fascination with putting my face on famous paintings. I vaguely recall one person commenting that they found it offensive that I would butcher the masters by putting my face on them.

To which I believe I replied, "Smack my ass and call me Sally."

Regardless, my enthusiasm for slapping my face on paintings, animals and food has waned a bit. I even resorted to recycling many of my images because, hey, no one really looks at my blog so who will remember that I'm used the image of my face on a photo of Bigfoot at least four times.

Few people probably realize that Dizgraceland actually had three spin off blogs including the Monkey Playing Cymbals blog, Ich Bin Gunter blog and Quixotic, a blog in which I tried to explain Don Quixote chapter by chapter in a way even a Monkey Playing Cymbals could understand. Those blogs fell by the wayside as I realized that maintaining one blog was challenge enough when you also had to contend with real life.

Real life in the eight years since I began blogging included getting married, buying two new houses and having two children. Sometimes I am surprised I have time to go to the bathroom let alone write in my blog.

There have been times in the eight years I've been blogging that I have actually had people who commented on my blog on a regular basis (including people as far off as Australia and England). In the early years I felt like I had a community of blogger friends I could count on to insult me (in a nice way) on a regular basis. Sadly, none of them remain.

I've come to the conclusion that the virtual community of bloggers and people who comment on blogs mirrors reality. People enthusiastically pop into your life with the best intentions and then get distracted by brighter, shinier objects they see on the side of the Information Highway. You have to accept blogger friends as tourists stopping by long enough to point and take a few pictures before hopping back on the bus.

So as I approach the milestone of my one thousand posts, what will I write about? Should I make it my farewell blog and tell people how it is time to move on?  Or should I announce a major redesign of Dizgraceland and a new direction as I embark on my next thousand posts?

Well being that this is a .44 Magnum blog, the most powerful blog in the world, you got to ask yourself one question. Do you feel lucky? Well punk, do you?

Taking crap from Yeti

I thought about calling this post, "Does a Yeti shit in the woods?" but I decided to take the high road and call it "Taking crap from Yeti." Regardless, it was inspired by a program I watched while on the elliptical machine at the gym the other day.

The program was "Mysteries at the museum" on the Travel Channel. The segment was about the International Cryptozoology Museum's Yeti scat sample. Apparently, Cryptozoologist Tom Slick (I kid you not) watched a Yeti take a dump in the foothills of Nepal in 1959 and picked up the Yeti-doo to prove Yeti's exist.

For some cryptic reason, the "International" Cryptozoology Museum is located in Portland, Maine. And in case you aren't clear on what Cryptozoology is, it is the study of animals or creatures who most people don't think exist, like Bigfoot, Yeti and a man who doesn't pee on the toilet seat.

I doubt Tom Slick considered himself  a Cryptozoologist. He was the wealthy son of a Texas millionaire and hung out with people like Howard Hughes. He went to Yale (which apparently doesn't really mean squat when it comes to higher education if you consider George W. went there too).

In addition to having lots of money and having a reputation of being a playboy, Slick also liked to lead expeditions looking for mythical creatures like Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster, Yeti and the Trinity Alps giant salamander (an alligator sized salamander reportedly living in Northern California). It was on one such expedition that Slick spied on an unsuspecting Yeti relieving itself, and, as the startled (and somewhat embarrassed) creature ran off, Slick swooped in to scoop its poop.

Slick shipped the poop off to a lab in Paris and had it analyzed to try and prove it was Yeti poop. Sure enough, the lab confirmed that the sample Slick sent them was indeed poop. They just couldn't say whose poop it was. They did discover a parasite in the poop, so one could conclude thatYeti would benefit from a few de-worming tablets.

What the Travel Channel didn't dwell on in the Mysteries at the museum episode was how the Yeti poop ended up in Portland, Maine near displays of Jackalopes and models of the Loch Ness monster. I'd wager someone bought the poop on eBay (although I did a search on eBay for Yeti poop and could only find a listing for fake Yeti/Bigfoot poop for $29).

The bigger question in all of this is not whether Yeti exists, but why so many people put so much energy into trying to prove it. If these creatures exist, they obviously don't want anything to do with people. Because the likely outcome of contact with people would be being locked up in a cage or killed and stuffed. I wouldn't want anything to do with a species that spies on you when you are taking a dump and then swoops in an puts your poop into a bag (not unlike most dog owners).

Perhaps it is because I am on the downward slope of my life's journey, but I have become more and more particular about my priorities in life. Chasing after Yeti's or Bigfoot is not one of them. Nor is gazing at Yeti poop in a museum (though I did spend 30 minutes watching a program about it). I don't want to be lying on my death bed recapping my life's accomplishments and shake my head wondering why I scooped up a pile of Yeti poop and thought that had significance.

Instead I can marvel that I wrote an unread blog dealing with burning topics like why clams are happy and explorers picking up Yeti poop.

Sigh...

You can't elect a leader

Do you think any major corporation would ask all of it's employees to vote to pick their next CEO? Or, do you think any successful business would pick someone who has never had any experience running a business to run that business? So why do we continue to choose people to run our various governments by popular vote?

That being said, I am not one of those people who refuses to vote because they believe their vote doesn't matter (although I tend to feel that way). I have voted in every election I could since I was 18. Jimmy Carter was the first president I voted for.  I try to use my vote to at least minimize the potential damage any single elected official can cause by selecting people who at least appear to be mentally competent and don't say stupid stuff in the voter pamphlet write ups.

This rules out 99 percent of the Republican and Independent candidates.

If a candidate uses the term "Obamacare," they are toast.

I will not vote for people who include website addresses like: www.TheTruthRocks.com; scaryreality.com; colonizespace.blogspot.com; holisticgovernor.org.

I will not vote for people who state that they have no experience as an elected official but have been self-employed as a hair stylist for 19 years. I have nothing against hair stylists, but knowing how to color and perm hair doesn't qualify you for the Senate. Congress maybe, but not the Senate.

Having less than no experience is worse:

As an hourly employee I have developed the skills to lead and plan. The future will have many challenges and respect for many cultures is a part of my life and our communities. For a month the privilege to severe, would be a great honor, I sincerely would appreciate your vote.

Apparently you also don't need to know how to spell to "serve" in Congress.

I don't think being good with your hands qualifies you either:

I am hardworking, mechanically inclined and very detailed.Your vote will make the difference. Elect me to be your champion and get you back in charge.

I will not vote for anyone who includes nicknames like "Doc," "Stocky," or Goodspaceguy.

I also weed out candidates based on their voter pamphlet photos. I never vote for anyone who wears a hat in their photo, especially a cowboy hat or beret. I also don't vote for people who look constipated in their photos. Although I have a beard, I am not inclined to vote for people with beards (especially women).

I will not vote for people who use vague, hackneyed statements like, fight for you." Or, "carefully and constructively – securing a safe future for citizens of all ages, especially our children." And, "Our country has long been admired by the restof the world for her great example of liberty and prosperity—a light shining in the darkness of tyranny." (The guy who said this also had a goatee without a mustache...so a double whammy.)
I will not vote for people who state mindless drivel like:

I believe the number one issue in the 2012 U.S.Senate election should be impeaching President Barack Obama specifically for Obama’s decision to give America’s state of the art military spy drone technology to Iran (and through Iran to China and Russia).

Or:

I will not represent you, I will represent us. My experiences are vast and varied giving me a balanced perspective. I have military background, formal education, farming, travel and hosting of a hundred youth from around the world.

And:

Our moral compass is so far out of whack Americans don’t know North from right or left from down. I believe we have to return this great Nation to our Judeo-Christian values and beliefs in our God given rights. (This guy wore a cowboy hat in his photo.) Or:

I’m running for Governor on a single platform: I want to raise the tax on a pack of cigarettes by $10.00 per pack. $5.00 will be added in 2015 and an additional $5.00 in 2016. The tax increases will reduce current consumption and stop kids from starting.

And:

I run to raise issues others avoid. For example, many water districts add industrial grade fluoride to drinking water – fluorosilicic acid. It contains lead and arsenic and leaches large amounts of lead from pipes. The body excretes these chemicals poorly; they accumulate lifetime. They are most harmful to fetuses and infants (reducing IQ), diabetics, those with arthritis and thyroid, kidney, and heart disease. Blacks and Hispanics are impacted more than Whites.

Finally:

I believe that all humans are good by nature. It takes a lot of hard work to turn bad. Here in Washington we must find good people to govern, we need to fulfill our destiny of justice and equality. I believe the time has come to speak of kindness and love. Those who speak of despair are practitioners of hate. They should keep away from our highways, from our homes, from us. (This guy wore a beret and had a beard.)

Let's face it, voter's pamphlets are about as chock full of BS as personal ads on the Internet. I wish someone would just say, "I want to be Senator because it sounds really cool and you get your own office in Washington D.C. with people to bring you coffee and you don't have to pay for it (the office or the coffee). I don't really plan to have any impact on anything, but I'll do my best not to fuck things up any worse than they already are. Oh, and I want to eat in the Senate cafeteria any time I want. I hear it has pretty decent sandwiches."

I'd probably get elected if I shaved my beard.

Failure to communicate

"What we got here is...failure to communicate."
--Strother Martin, Cool Hand Luke

I'd like to think I am a fairly decent communicator. I've spent my entire career distilling words to make them understood by the lowest common denominator. But I'm beginning to believe that the Internet and electronic "communications" has destroyed most people's ability to actually communicate.

Case in point, Craig's List. For some reason, I got it in my head that it would be kind of fun to buy a moped to drive the mile or so from my home to the train station for my daily commute. Well actually the reason I had that idea in my head was a Groupon e-mail about half off on an electric moped. Even half off, the electric scooter cost about $1500 plus shipping. Even for an obsessive compulsive personality such as mine, $1500 is a bit steep.

So I did what I normally do, I Googled moped and opened up a new universe of transportation options using vehicles that reach maximum speeds of 35 mph but can get 90 miles to the gallon of gas. The electric versions only reach speeds of about 20 mph but eliminate gas altogether.

Why not just get a motorcycle? I don't want to go through the training required to license and ride a standard motorcycle and I don't really have any desire to be a middle aged man on a chopper picking bugs out of his teeth. Plus everything in the Puget Sound Region is either at the top of a hill or at the bottom of a hill. I've mastered driving around in a car, but I just don't have the energy to figure out how to master the local hills and freeways on a motorcycle. A moped/scooter that can't go over 35 mph and doesn't require any special license or training just seemed a more reasonable option when all I want to do is make a round trip to the train station.

Anyway, I set off on a quest to find a moped/scooter, gas or electric, that didn't cost an arm and a leg (or risk losing one). The prices were all over the map, but the cheapest vehicle I could find new was about $750 and still involved shipping. So that brings in Craig's List. I figured someone would be selling one locally at a bargain price.

One of the many downsides of Craig's List is that you have to do a lot of sifting to find what you are looking for. You can search for scooter or moped and get an ad for a Bowflex exercise machine (I'm not kidding). But I did manage to find quite a few scooters/mopeds including this ad:

2010 tao tao 49cc Runs Great pushstart and kickstart well kept, minor scratches from a fall goes 30-35mph depending on riders weight motorcycle helmet included comes with two keys just recently had them ordered must sell soon $500 for pictures text or call: Dell xxxxxxxxx

Not being a text or call kind of guy, I used the e-mail address provided by Craig's List and sent the following message:

Hi, 
If the scooter is still available, could you send me photos? 
Thanks 

The next day I get this reponse:

whats ur mobile phone number

That's it. No photos. No "thanks for your interest in my scooter." So I reply with my cell phone number assuming the seller doesn't know how to send photos via computer but can send them via a cell phone. 

But I don't get any reply.  So a couple of days go by and I decide to text the person thinking that perhaps they don' t check their e-mail often and are more comfortable with text messages. I send the following text:

Could you send photos of the scooter listed on craigs list? Thx

I threw in the "Thx" as a concession to the moronic text language I believe this person was used to. In a few minutes I get the response:

There already posted.

Okay, I had checked Craig's List the night before and there were no photos with his ad. But I go back and sure enough the seller has added two blurry photos of a scooter. Plus he had lowered the price he was asking.

I realize that I am in marketing and take for granted that anyone selling something would go out of their way to be at least polite to a potential buyer. But this was ridiculous. Would it have killed this person to have responded with something like, "I've posted a couple of photos on Craig's List. But I've attached some as well. Just want you to know that I've reduced the price and it's a super bargain. Let me know if you have any questions or want to schedule a time to see the scooter."

I really wanted to text the person back and say, "Gd luck sellin ur scooter moron :)." But I imagine the mental midget would have responded with "So ru goin 2 mk offer?"
Anyway, I've pretty much given up on the scooter idea. I've done enough research to determine that owning a cheap Chinese scooter without a minimal mechanical aptitude would probably be a move I'd regret. Apparently you have to adjust carburetors and clean spark plugs a great deal to keep the things working. I have difficulty keeping my Sonic Care toothbrush running. So I don't want to spent each morning trying to kick start a scooter and then give up and drive my car or walk anyway.

I have had many similar experiences with Craig's List. I realize it is free, but I wish they would require people posting to take a rudimentary literacy test. In the meantime, I'll stick with eBay.

Out damned Spotify!

Actually I like Spotify. And in case you don't know what I am talking about (which is highly likely), Spotify is an application that let's you listen to what seems like an endless supply of music on your computer for free. Sounds like Pandora you say? Not. Pandora only lets you type in a song or musician you like and then plays stuff like it. Spotify actually plays what you want when you want it.

I haven't a clue how it works. You download an application (that so far our IT people haven't forbidden) that pops up when you log on. It looks like a media player. You can browse new music or type in your favorite musician or song and it will pull up an amazing number of songs by that artist or cover songs of that artist's work. You can then create your own playlists.

For example, when Doc Watson died recently, I had a hankering (country word for urge) to listen to the song "Tennessee Stud." Not only did I find Doc Watson's version of the classic blue grass song, I found 21 other versions by various artists. Now I can listen to an hours worth of "Tennessee Stud" non-stop to satisfy my OCD nature.

I also have a playlist with twelve versions of "Con Te Partiro" including one by Donna Summer (which is pretty sucky). Right now I am listening to the Beatles. Well, actually, it is Beatles cover music, because apparently not all artists have bought into the Spotify model and allow their works to be played for free. This can be kind of annoying when you are trying to listen to Pink Floyd and all you can find is versions of the Wall played on pan flute.

I am not sure how Spotify makes money. They do have premium versions that allow you to play the music without ads, offline and on your mobile device. But I don't really have the need to pay $9.99 for the premium when the free version works just fine for me. Why buy the cow when you get the milk for free?

I suppose I shouldn't say that. They may take away my free version. And what would I do without 40 versions of Cotton Eye Joe?

Pondering the grim reaper

There is nothing like going to a funeral to make you think about the inevitability of death. Technically it wasn't really a funeral. It was a memorial service. The person had died a couple of weeks earlier and had already been cremated.

I did not know this person well. They were not a a close friend or family. I had worked at the same company with them at one time and had mutual friends and acquaintances. But I had known the person for years. And then one day I heard that she had died unexpectedly in an accident in her home.

The term "died unexpectedly" seems so odd. We all know that eventually we will die. We just don't expect to die. We don't wake up in the morning expecting to die that day.

But I digress. Bottom line, I went to the memorial service for this person I knew but hadn't seen in years because I couldn't really fathom that in the blink of an eye she was just gone. I stood in the foyer of the church greeting acquaintances who also knew this person, chatting awkwardly trying to ignore the reason we were all here.

It was an abbreviated Catholic service interspersed with hymns, Bible readings and incense. I am sure it was a standard type thing organized by a shocked family not prepared for an untimely death (Untimely death. Now that is better than "dying unexpectantly"). Even the memorial program was obviously developed from a template. It hadn't been proofed and contained the name of some other person from a previous memorial service.

The priest checked his watch throughout the service and wrapped it up. I imagine the chapel was booked for the next event and he had a schedule to keep that couldn't be thrown off by death, untimely or not. We were herded into a reception hall where cookies, coffee and tea were served by church volunteers.  And then the testimonials began.

I looked around the room at the people in a circle beginning to tell their stories of the person who had startled everyone by passing. And almost all of them were people from her workplace. Like me they had passed her in the hallways or sat in meetings with her and were concerned when she didn't show up for work as expected on Monday.

But I noted sadly that outside of work acquaintances and some distant family members, there was no one else. Where were her friends? Oh, I realize that people can work together and be friends, but I've learned over the years that these people are only temporary friends. You are thrown together more often by circumstances than choice. So when someone leaves a workplace, people rarely stay in touch.

I left after someone noted that the deceased had always brought pastries to the parking attendants in the building she worked at.

People say that funerals and memorial services are for the living, not the dead. It is supposed be an opportunity for people to come to closure over the passing of  friends or family. I can't help but think that they end up just making us focus on our own mortality. So when we walk out the door of the church or reception hall, all we want to do is wrap ourselves with that comfortable denial of our daily routines that keep the inevitability of death safely tucked away where it should be.

Because life is about living, not about dying.

Our days are numbered

No, Harold Camping isn't up to his old trick of predicting the end of the world. I was just fascinated yesterday when I noted the date was 6/6/12, because six plus six equals 12. I thought it was pretty profound and pointed it out to several of my co-workers. None of them seemed to share my enthusiasm about this phenomenon or see any significance in it at all.

Technically it isn't as impressive when you think of it as 6/6/2012, because six plus six doesn't equal 2,012 unless you were taught math in Arkansas. But 6/6/12 just reeks of profundity.

Oh, it's no 6/6/76 (which was the day the movie The Omen debuted in theaters...I saw it on that day so I know this is a fact).  The movie producers were trying to play off the significance of the mark of the devil (666). They kind of glossed over the seven in 6/6/76.

I suppose you can read something in just about every date if you play with the numbers long enough. Calendars are a bit ludicrous anyway if you think about it. They are a vain attempt to quantify something infinite (time) with something finite (number of days there have been people on the planet).  And the calendar we have is pretty arbitrary anyway. Who got to pick which day was 1/1/1 (which adds up to three and could therefore have religious significance...trinity an such)? I think it was Pope Gregory XIII. But who died and left him Pope? Well, technically Pius V.

But I digress.

I kind of wished I had written this on 6/6/12 instead of 6/7/12. Though six plus is 13 and 13 plus 12 equals 25. And two plus five equals seven which is today's date. Tomorrow is 6/8/12. Six plus eight equals 14. Fourteen plus 12 equals 26. And six plus two equals eight which is tomorrow's date.

 I think I'm on to something.

I just can't wait until 7/5/12 when every thing adds up to 12 again. Though 12 plus 12 equals 24 and two plus four equals six which won't be the date.  But six is half of 12.

Nevermind.

I don't always drink Tequila, but when I do, I drink Cabo Wabo

I just got back from a week in Cabo with my family. This sort of explains why I haven't been blogging religiously. Not that I have every been religiously blogging. I'm more or less an agnostic. I do pray if there is a god (or gods) he or she or they will forgive me.

But I digress.

This was probably my 6th trip to Cabo. Four of those were via cruise ship so they consisted of riding a boat to the pier at 8 a.m., grabbing a cab to downtown Cabo San Lucas, dodging souvenir sales people and time share sharks and stopping at Sammy Hagar's Cabo Wabo bar and downing a shot or two of Cabo Wabo tequila and buying a t-shirt before dashing back to the pier to catch a boat back to the cruise ship.

It wasn't exactly the way to get the true flavor of Baja, but it was best you could do on a three hour shore excursion. Plus you had to get back to the ship in time for the buffet. Life must have priorities.

The last two trips to Cabo we have stayed at all-inclusive resorts closer to San Jose Del Cabo, but we have kept up the tradition of going into Cabo San Lucas and we still stop at Cabo Wabo for my traditional shot of Cabo Wabo tequila with a bottle of Corona. I am not certain how much longer I can carry on this tradition. My young children won't buy the "daddy is taking medicine" line much longer when I'm conducting the "salt, shot, lime" ritual.

The Cabo Wabo ritual is changing in other ways. I have stopped buying Cabo Wabo t-shirts because they are pretty pricey and never seem to change. And if the truth were to be told, I never did like Sammy Hagar's music. I realize "I Can't Drive 55" is a classic, but it isn't really that great of a song.

But as tequilas go, Cabo Wabo is pretty smooth. When taken for medicinal purposes of course.

Silly love songs

"You'd think that people would have had enough of silly love songs."
-- Paul McCartney, Silly Love Songs

I am not sure why they call love songs, love songs. Most of them aren't really about love. They are about someone being in love (or lust) with someone who doesn't love them. So by all rights, they should be called stalker songs, loser songs or simply country songs. But I suppose they lose that romantic marketability if you tried to call them what they are -- whiny crap.

But a rose is a rose.

Not that I didn't spend a good portion of my youth moping around listening to "love" songs. The 70s and 80s were full of really bad ones. There's nothing like raging hormones to make a teen aged boy susceptible to lyrics like, "You left in the rain without closing the door, I didn't stand in your way" or "Every now and then I get a little bit lonely and you're never coming around."

Of course, I also liked the lyrics from one of Harry Nilsson's songs that went something like, "You're breaking my heart, you're tearing it apart, so fuck you."

I still tear up at that one.

Barbara Streisand's song Evergreen was big when I was in my teens, too. It was from the movie A Star is Born starring who else, Barbara Streisand and Kris Kristofferson (singer/song writer who wrote Bobbie McGee that Janis Joplin made famous). If you aren't familiar with A Star is Born, it is about a drugged out rock star at the end of his career (Kristofferson) who meets an up and coming talent (Streisand), falls in love and gets her career on track. To make it a perfect love story, he kills himself in a car accident so he doesn't drag her career down.

I tear up on that one, too.

Let's no forget My Heart Will Go On from the movie, Titanic. It gets you all lovey, weepy about a one night stand between a young couple who meet on the Titanic (hooking up wiht someone on a cruise is never a good idea). Rose and Jack end up floating in the icy waters of the Atlantic after the ship sinks. Rose is floating on a piece of debris and Jack is in the water holding on to her hand telling her never to let go. He freezes to death and Rose romantically breaks off his frozen fingers from her hand and lets him sink to the bottom of the ocean and as the song says, Rose's heart goes on.

Ouch.

In the nickname of time

Etymology of the "nickname": The compound word ekename, literally meaning "additional name", was attested as early as 1303. This word was derived from the Old English phrase eaca "an increase", related to eacian "to increase". By the fifteenth century, the misdivision of the syllables of the phrase "an ekename" led to its reanalysis as "a nekename". Though the spelling has changed, the pronunciation and meaning of the word have remained relatively stable ever since. 

 --Wikipedia

I have always had a nasty habit of giving people, even complete strangers, nicknames. Perhaps it is because my  legal name -- Tim -- is a nickname for Timothy. Ironically, many people call me Timothy thinking that is what my name should be.

But I digress.

Although I do give friends and family endearing nicknames, I have less than flattering names for strangers I see on a regular basis, say at the train station or on board the trains I ride every day to and from work. It is kind of a perverse hobby I have to pass the time while waiting for the train.

For example, there are a group of cackling women who walk their yapping little dogs along the train platform on a regular basis. I have nicknamed them the Haggis Sisters. They started out as the Harpy Sisters, but I kind of like the play on words of Haggis. There is also a man who shuffles by the station in a jogging suit on a semi-regular basis that I call Freddy the Fart.

I have nicknames for my fellow passengers as well. Since I am a creature of habit, I stand in the same spot at the platform everyday. It is precisely where the train door will be for the first car when the train pulls into the station. I am generally the first person there and I guard my spot very jealously because I like to be the first person through the door when it opens so that I can get my usual seat on the water side of the tracks. So I really get pissy when other people arrive late and try to crowd my spot. The three worst offenders are Lennie (a hulking man who invades my personal space and reminds me of the slow character in Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men), Thumper ( a man who reads the Bible while waiting for the train) and A-hole (another guy who invades my personal space and races me for the door when it opens).

In the afternoon commute there is Phlegm, an annoying potbellied loud mouth who is constantly making disgusting sounds in between moronic pronouncements. And then there is Pepe Le Pew, a large man with questionable hygiene habits who gets pretty ripe when it warms up on the train.

Not all my nicknames are for fellow commuters. There is One-Note Johnny, the lousy saxophone player who plays the same song day after day in the plaza outside my office window. And there is Perry the Poser who works out in my downtown gym and never loses sight of himself in the mirrored walls around the weight room. Let's not forget Chia Pet, a woman with an unfortunate hair style who also works out at the same gym.

I think I would have made a great mafia don, what with my affinity for giving people nicknames.

Or not.

Yet another opinion about opinions

I write a lot about opinions. More precisely, I write about people not drawing a distinction between an opinion and fact. Because nothing sets me off more than someone making a declaration about something they know nothing about and stating it as Gospel.

So it was with great pleasure that I read Seth Godin's blog post "Is everyone entitled to their opinion?" Godin is a best-selling author who writes about marketing in a very refreshing way. Anyway, Godin says there are two things that disqualify someone from being listened to: Lack of standing and no credibility. If someone has no influence over your work (i.e. they aren't a respected art critic or a frequent purchaser of art) it is okay to ignore their opinion if they diss on your art. And ditto if their opinion isn't based on experience or expertise.

Amen. Finally someone has pointed out that just because you have an opinion it doesn't mean it matters. It is one of the problem with many people's interpretation of democracy. They think it means that everyone's opinion is equal and needs to be listened to. Wrong. It means the majority of the people with same opinion get to give the finger to the minority (at least on any given election day) that have a different opinion.

Now I don't think Godin was really talking about democracy in his blog post. He was determining whose opinion matters in relation to the product you are marketing. He uses an example of someone in Accounts Payable hating the company's new logo.Godin says if you are the person responsible for that logo you should (and must) ignore that opinion. That person isn't the target market for the logo.

At one level, Godin is trying to encourage people to do great work without worrying about the negative reaction from people who don't matter. After all, you can't please everyone, so you might as well please the ones writing the checks.

In a kind of related topic, I went with my family to see a Gauguin exhibit at the Seattle Art Museum last weekend. I was kind of stoked because I had a somewhat limited and romanticized view of Gauguin. I knew he had hung out a bit with Van Gogh. And I knew he had ran off to Tahiti to paint.

As we moved around the gallery with the hordes of other art lovers with our audio tour devices I quickly discovered that Gauguin wasn't the romanticized character I'd pictured him as. He'd gone to Tahiti in an effort to produce enough commercial art that would appeal to the Paris market and keep him from having to get a real job. And since Tahiti was the paradise he'd envisioned (it was actually quite up tight due to the influence of religious missionaries) he made up stuff to paint and copied picture post cards he bought.

And in my opinion, his art kind of sucked. It seemed crude and contrived.

But my opinion doesn't matter. For one, Gauguin is dead and is beyond caring what I think, and his art is worth millions despite my opinion of it.  Now if I was a mult-millionaire and donated large sums of money to the Seattle Art Museum, they might care that I don't like Gauguin's art. But because I am merely a dues paying member of the museum, my opinion only merits a blank stare and a call to security to "watch this guy."

But I digress.

In conclusion, I just want to say, "Bless you Seth Godin." Because the next time someone offers me their opinion and they have no standing in my universe or credibility, I am at liberty to say, "No thanks, I already have one."

A chip off the old writer's block

Having been a blogger since August 2004, an aspiring writer since junior high and a professional writer (in theory)  since I graduated from college, you would think that writer's block would not be an issue, especially for someone who could basically give you a thousand words about whale vomit without blinking. But you know, sometimes you just don't have anything to say.

This, of course, doesn't apply to my three year old son who always seems to have something to say. Just none of it makes  sense to anyone but him. But he states everything with a great deal of authority, so I believe he will be very successful someday.

I'm not so sure I am really suffering from writer's block as much as a lack of time and inspiration. I traveled more in the last month or so then I have in quite some time and I don't really blog when I travel anymore. It just alerts everyone that you aren't home (not a good idea from a home security standpoint) and frankly, when I am in my hotel room I'm pretty much occupied flipping through channels looking for episodes of Doomsday Hoarders and I don't have time to blog.

I think part of my problem is also being self conscious that I am approaching my 1000th blog post and feeling pressure to produce something really great to mark that auspicious occasion. I'm sure a thousand blog posts seems nothing to my fellow blogger Baggy who seems to crank out a thousand posts a week. But it seems like a pretty big number to me.

Not that everyone of my posts has been the most awe inspiring prose mind you.  I evolved like everyone who has blogged for some time has. You go through phases in the beginning of trying to hard, or posting mundane stuff (not unlike Facebook status reports). And if you get people following and commenting on your posts, you can fall into the trap of writing crap you think they'll want to read. But the best blog posts are those where you just forget anyone might be reading and write for yourself.

And that is usually the only person who is reading it anyway.  I have written some many random posts that I honestly forget writing some of them and read them with rapt interest when I stumble onto them in my archives. At times it is almost as if someone else wrote them. And if you subscribe to some of my drivel about space time continuum and multiple universes, maybe some one of my other selves did.

Since I missed my goal of blogging my 1000th post on February 29, I am now going to shoot for August 4, 2012 to coincide with my blogger anniversary. That shouldn't be too hard to accomplish. Of course I'll have to think of something to write.

That could be a problem.

Don't quote me

"Don't quote me." -- Mark Twain (not)

Someone mentioned the other day that they had listened to a program on NPR about all of the quotes attributed to Mark Twain that he never really said. I was disappointed a bit that Twain never said, "“Everybody talks about the weather, but nobody does anything about it,” but I wasn't surprised. As a Journalism major, I learned very quickly that very few people speak eloquently enough to actually get a coherent quote for them. Thus you paraphrase.

As a PR writer I also learned that the best quotes for your press releases were the ones you wrote yourself and got your CEO to approve. The same goes for speeches. We all know (or should know) that President's of the United States don't write their own speeches. That is why they sound so articulate (George W. Bush being the exception...you have to be able to read in order to deliver a good speech).

I imagine most quotable quotes are probably contrived in one way or another. Let's face it, unless you are making a canned presentation, very few people spout original prose worth remembering. Case in point is a conversation I heard at the train station this morning:

Station agent (to female customer): "Morning, how are you?"

Female customer: "Oh, it's Friday..." Hilarious laughter.

End of conversation.

Even if you do spout something worth quoting, chances are you stole it from someone else.

You can quote me on that.

Out of the wild JetBlue, yonder

I have never flown on JetBlue Airlines. And after reading all of the news about a JetBlue pilot being locked out of the cockpit by his co-pilot because of "erratic behavior," and then being subdued by passengers and hauled off the plane tied to a stretcher, I'm not sure I ever will fly JetBlue. There's just something about "erratic behavior" and "pilot" that tweaks an uneasy feeling in me.

It's not that I'm afraid of flying. I'm more afraid of crashing. I particularly don't like landings where you bounce and slide a bit before stopping.

But I digress.

In the JetBlue incident the pilot apparently came out of the cockpit and walked to the back of the plane muttering about "them bringing us down" and bombs. If I had been a passenger on board that airplane, I would have considered that a red flag. I would have also considered having the co-pilot (the person who usually gets on the speaker and tells you what altitude you are flying at and what side of the plane to look out to see the Grand Canyon) locking the belligerent Captain out of the place where he is supposed to be flying the plane another major red flag.

I wonder if it occurred to any of the passengers who rushed the Captain and wrestled him to the ground that maybe he might have been acting belligerent because the co-pilot was hijacking the plane. Fortunately for everyone on board, that wasn't the case. The plane, destined for Las Vegas, ended up in Texas. So it was a tragic journey all around.

There seem to be a rash of airline personnel having "episodes" on board airplanes of late. I seem to recall a flight attendant getting on the PA system on board plane a couple of months ago and ranting about the plane crashing. Now granted, this would be a bit more entertaining than them droning on about how to use a seat belt and where to find the list of premium beverages in the in flight magazine that are available for purchase (with a  debit card because they no longer accept cash...presumably because the flight attendants pocketed much of it). But I prefer that my flight crew having undergone some psychological screening before putting them in charge of several tons of airplane that could easily fall from the sky like a brick if their cheese randomly slides off the cracker (if you catch my drift).

Not that I don't understand why someone who flies two or three flights a day with a plane load of people who don't seem to comprehend the concept of fastening a seat belt or staying in their seat when the Captain (belligerent or not) has turned on the "fasten your seat belt" sign, would go postal. I start feeling like Jack Nicholson in the Shining just riding as a passenger on a plane after sitting next to someone who needs to use the restroom six times in a two-hour flight. I'm sure if I were a flight attendant in coach, I would seriously consider opening the cabin door at 50,000 feet every time I passed it.

That being said, I still am going to think twice before booking JetBlue and I'm going to look pretty hard into the cockpit while I'm getting on any plane to look for any signs that all of the Captain's dogs aren't barking at the same cat.

I don't moon over Miami

I just got back from a business trip to Miami. First, I want to be very clear that, although it is warm and has palm trees and an ocean view, I have never been overly fond of Miami. So it really was a business trip and not a pleasure trip.

A flight from Seattle to the East Coast is always a daunting proposition. I tried to ease the pain a bit by using some miles to upgrade to First Class on the flight to Miami (via Houston). It helped, though it didn't totally make up for having to catch a 4 a.m. shuttle to the airport. And although First Class is a thousand times better than coach, it isn't what it used to be. The service is basically what you used to get in coach before the airlines stopped serving food. The only think that is reminiscent of the First Class of bygone years is that they give you a hot towel before they give you food. And the food comes on actual plates.

One of the challenges of flying to the East Coast is that you lose three hours. But you still arrive exhausted even though you have simply been sitting on your behind for seven hours watching DirectTV. I caught a taxi to my hotel, checked in and ordered overpriced room service. When I finally fell asleep, I woke at 3 a.m. to the sound of a party going on in the apartment/condo building across from my 19th floor room. Lots of loud music, screaming and people dancing on the balcony.

I put a pillow over my head to shut out the noise. Then the PA system in the hotel began blaring "You may now return to your rooms. The fire alarm was false." WTF?

This set the tone for most of the trip. Each afternoon when I returned to my room after a conference session I heard someone down the hall from my room practicing the trombone. Who practices trombone in a hotel?

So I was relieved when the conference was over and I could head home. My last memory of Miami was dealing with the surly ticket counter people at United.

My coach flight home was long and uncomfortable. The DirectTV unit in my seat would only let me hear the music track and none of the dialogue. I discovered this after paying for it.

I almost kissed the floor when I got to Sea-Tac Airport.

Prologue: When I checked my credit card bill from the hotel in Miami, they had charged me for my room and for a complete stranger's room (another $900 in charges). The accounting person at the hotel corrected it but seemed put out about the whole thing,

Is it little wonder Dexter and the National Inquirer are based in Miami?

Night of the Living Beach Boys!

I watched the Grammy Awards last night just to remind myself how old I am and out of morbid fascination to see what the Beach Boys looked like on their 50th anniversary.

I'd seen Brian Wilson perform a few years back in what was billed as a Beach Boys concert. But he was the only Beach Boy there and he just kind of shuffled across the stage while much younger musicians covered the vocals, keyboards and guitar. At least there were four of them on stage at the Grammys. And although it wasn't overly embarrassing, it wasn't pretty.

But as geriatric as the Beach Boys looked, at least I knew who they were. I can't say the same for 99 percent of the musicians performing, presenting or nominated. If they hadn't wheeled out oldies like the Beach Boys, Paul McCartney, Glen Campbell and Tony Bennett, I wouldn't have recognized many of the 20 somethings hip hopping across the stages.

To his credit, Paul McCartney's voice still has it. I do miss the Beatles, though part of me is glad that John and George didn't survive to make a come back. I prefer to remember the Beatles the way they looked singing on top of their Apple Records studio for the album Let it Be.

As for the rest of the token aged musicians, Glen Campbell seemed sober, so that was something. Tony Bennett didn't seem like he knew where he was, but he sounded okay.

I am bummed that I miss Lady GaGa making her entrance on the Red Carpet being carried inside of what looked like an egg from the movie Alien. I did enjoy the blank look on her face when the camera zoomed in on her during the Beach Boys performance.

I was pleased to see the Civil Wars perform a 10 second version of their song Barton Hollow as a opener to Taylor Swift's performance. Judging from the crowd's response, I was the only one who recognized them. So I am not totally out of it.

I was pleased that 23-year old Adele walked away with six Grammys. Though until the Grammys, I had never heard of Adele. Great voice though.

To make up for my woeful lack of knowledge of the current music scene, I am listening to the Grammy playlist on Spotify. By this time next year I should still be woefully lacking in my knowledge of the current music scene. But I am hoping Paul Revere and the Raiders will perform.