Author: Dave

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my sixty-three day weekend


Tonight’s blog wouldn’t have happened without the wonders of the BlackBerry. I simply would’ve had no time. But, through the wonders of this excruciatingly small thumb-keyboard, I’m able to write as we wing our way southward – home. Yes, i’s hard on the thumbs and eyes, and it’s fairly slow going (although I must say, not nearly as slow as one may think, I’ve become quite speedy on this thing), but it let’s me feel less guilty about my horrid record of late. So, let’s get to the words – I wouldn’t be thumbing this if I didn’t have stuff to say now, would I?

Today was my last day seeing coworkers in Oregon before sabbatical, and with everyone offering goodbyes and handshakes and well-wishes, I walked out of that building at 5pm feeling like it was all over. Alas, it’s not; I have three more days at my home-base sawmill before I can really call it all off.

Today was a good one, though. Especially in terms of the stress I’ve been feeling lately. I worked in earnest this morning, knocking several high-priority items off the “to-do before I go” list. It felt amazing. With every clicking keystroke in the notes and missives that closed those outstanding items, I felt a weight lift. I started dispositioning new things that would go beyond the end of the week as things my unlucky coverage would be responsible for instead of me, and I archived all my in-flight work to gather dust while I’m out enjoying life.

It was a wonderful feeling, watching that normally ever-expanding list of things to do shrink but not grow; just whittle away one item at a time towards zero. I think I rally needed the confidence that seeing that list dwindle gave me; it was like a shot in the arm. And for the first time in a the past couple hectic weeks I left work feeling uplifted and excited. My thoughts for the first time turning more towards the work I won’t be doing over the next sixty-three weeks than the work I have to get done before I can go.

I was thinking about Saturday morning, that first morning, and I decided that the first thing I’ll do is wake up and put the Beatles’ “I’ve Got A Feeling” on the stereo. Why?, you ask, well, I’ll tell you. Back in middle school’ ’round about, oh, seventh or eighth grade, my best buddy Kyle and I used to convene at one of our places before clas on the first day of school. We’d come together for one reason, to listen to the Beatles’ “I’ve Got A Feeling.”

I don’t remember how we picked the song, as it really has nothing to do with “firsts,” or starting something new, and there certainly are more germane numbers we could’ve chosen, but, after a few years it had become quite the tradition. Even during our “falling out” years in highschool, I’d queue up the song solo before that first class on that first day.

I took the tradition with me to college, and even into the early morning hours before my first day on the job at my the very sawmill I trudge to each day now. I even spun “I’ve Got A Feeling” on my way home from the hospital to change clothes just after Keaton was born. It’s become a part of my “new start” ritual, some sort of ward against bad mojo, a habit that I’ve come to enjoy.

So, this Saturday, that first day of my sixty-three day weekend, I plan to take my time getting out of bed, showering, dressing, and primping – and instead head straight for the stereo to plug in the iPod and lazily head-nod my way through an extra-loud playing of “I’ve Got A Feeling.”. Yeah, that sounds absolutely brilliant.

Oh, and, before I go. The new Most Serene Republic album leaked earlier this week, much to my embarrassment, as I had no idea it was even due. But, apparently it was due, and now it’s here. I’ve loved everything this band has under their belt this far, and listening to this album these past few days at work has given me high hopes that it’s going to be another winner. So, if you can get it, get it – however you do so.

And, with every single word of this done solely from a BlackBerry on a plane, I’m out.

Goodnight lovers.

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aging


Sunday night in Oregon – state to state to state. Tomorrow is the Monday of my last week of work, y’all. Thinking about it being this close, it’s kind of like that sensation you felt back in middle school when summer vacation was only a week away (have I really not used that comparison yet?). I’m a little shocked that it came so quickly, but I honestly can’t wait. Nine weeks off… I only hope I can drag myself back to the sawmill when it’s all over. I also hope that some time off during the day to be bored and think will improve my dismal blogging beat-rate of late. I think it will. A short one tonight, as I’m woefully behind on sleep and can barely keep my chin from my chest.

Last week when we touched down in Austin, it was already near 10pm local time but neither of us had eaten anything for dinner. We struck out from the hotel in search for a late meal and ended up at a local Texas steakhouse. The place was already locking the doors, but kindly offered to serve us the last meal of the evening. We had the whole bar area to ourselves, and before long struck a conversation with the young blonde bartender. Soon enough, the conversation turned to what we could do the following night after our customer meeting, when we knew we’d likely need to nurse our wounds at the teat of some local Austin music and libations.

“Well, there’s the ‘Midnight Rodeo,’ she said.” “That sounds interesting,” we reply, awaiting more details. “Oh, but…” she begins, “… I think it might be college night tomorrow night. But… I think they let in all ages.” We looked at each other, defeated. Suddenly, we were “all ages.” She didn’t even realize what she said could’ve made us feel old, it was hilarious. As we walked from the building, we both proclaimed that we could very well “be in college,” and asked what she knew anyway. Sigh… aging.

T-minus five days and counting folks…

Goodnight.

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poof! i’m in texas


Poof! I’m in Texas.

I wasn’t planning on coming here, but here I am. Work’s monopolized my time the past few evenings, leaving me with zero time to do the things my nights are normally for: playing with Keaton, talking with Sharaun, and writing. And now, thumb-typing this entry into my BlackBerry as we fly over the desert, I can’t help but feel an acute sense of lost time and anxiety.

I’ve been getting steadily worse over the last couple days. My mind swimming with this thing and that thing which need to get done before my sabbatical officially starts next Friday. Most of it is loose ends at the sawmill which need to be wrangled before I check out, but a good bit is simple stuff like, “How’m I gonna get the lawn mowed in the few random days I’m at home between trip X and trip Y?”

More than anything, though, I feel this strange sadness. This awful sensation that I’ve been forsaking Sharaun and Keaton by being so utterly consumed with work. The early mornings and late nights stealing their portion of me.

Being me, and knowing me, I recognize this weird homesick feeling as one of my natural responses to stress. My gut tells me to run, to hide, to lock myself away with only the things I need and love: it’s my desert island flight response. I still look for that womb when things get a little hectic.

I guess, despite all my planning, everything still somehow managed to get the drop on me, and I’m in a preparation tailspin. Honestly, I don’t think I’ll ever achieve the sense of “readiness” I’m sprinting after, and I’m just a little bit worried I’m going to have a hard time breaking away. I mean, I know that come Friday, I’ll have no problems washing my hands of it all for nine weeks – I guess I’m just wanting a “cleaner” break… Or something.

This is it. Too hard to write on this thing with my thumbs. Barebones tonight, no flourish, no flare. Goodnight.

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no. shut up.


Works sucks. No. shut up.

I am totally serious. Work is killing me. Right now. Every day. Just a little bit every single day. I don’t write at night because I work instead. Not fun.

I just don’t know, you guys. Don’t know if it’s my pending sabbatical (nine weeks of not-work), or if it’s the fact that work is at one of its “peaks” right now. Maybe both, as that would make most sense… But, whatever the reason, I’m suffering from a severe case of the “oh no I have to go to work tomorrow morning” blues. Much worse than I’ve had it before. Things are just so busy, and I’m having a hard time commanding the focus I’m usually able to. I think it’s just high time I was out of there. Thankfully, I have only nine more days left as you read this.

Last week I was helping Sharaun get some of her party planning done (Sharaun’s rolled her life-odometer to the big three-oh this past weekend). I knew she was stressing, and it seemed like a good time to work on the musical playlist she had planned: the top few songs from every calendar year she’s graced this Earth (plus some standard perennial party faves). I had a lot of them on-hand already in miscellaneous 80’s directories, but we still needed to go down a fairly long list and “acquire” a few more (of course, we did so by exchanging real, gold-backed, American currency for the digital representations of said songs). Anyway, as I downloaded each bit of party fuel, I queued them up in Winamp and we did some real-time “checking” of each to ensure quality. This, inevitably, turned into a living-room danceparty, starring my wife.

I loved it, because I could see she was having so much fun. With each new (old, actually) track that came across the speakers, she’d get more and more excited. “Oh. My. God.,” she’d say, “This song is the best!” Sometime later, as the string of hits continued to deliver, she paused and remarked, “See… people won’t get nearly as much from this as I do. People just don’t like music the way I do.” It was like she was reminding me of one of the reasons she’s the best. “Yeah,” I replied, “Most people don’t really care. But, don’t let it get you down.” Anyway, who cares right? It’s just beats and words in the background, anyway.

Anyway, the mix worked out great, and the party was a good time for all. I’ll post some pictures as soon as I get around to it.

The other night I decided to trawl through the music collection on the ol’ harddrive and find something that I haven’t listened to in a long time. Turns out I stopped on a live album recorded when The Quicksilver Messenger Service played Winterland in 1968. As one familiar with the “San Francisco” sound at that time, you may suspect that this performance is nothing more than a humongous set of noodling on old blues numbers, each wandering off into the tens of minutes, some if it interesting, some of it boring. Anyway, it sounded good to me, and it was the sound at the time. Put ’em on a bill at the Fillmore with Country Joe, the Dead, Jefferson Airplane, Moby Grape, and Beefheart – and you’d pretty much sum up the late 60’s west-coast sound. And, before I move on, check out the Concert Vault website, which apparently bought up the rights to all Bill Graham live material from 1965-1980 (Winterland, the Fillmores, etc.), as well as the entire King Biscuit Flower Hour catalog. Interesting indeed…

Goodnight.

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soylent green is teachers!


Happy Wednesday night, lovers. I didn’t write yesterday because I was preoccupied with workstuffs. Have no fear, however, as I’ll only be able to blame work for another couple weeks. Let us commence.

The other day I was talking to a friend and he happened to mention that his wife had recently secured a part time teaching gig at a local middle school. English, if you must know. Anyway, this got me thinking back to my own middle school days, and the teachers that I had as I went through the education system. More importantly, it got me thinking about teachers as people.

I’ve long known, now that I’m grown and mature and ever-so intelligent, that teachers are, in fact, real, living, breathing, humans. I suppose, if you had me hooked to a polygraph (and I had no thumbtack in my shoe), I’d be forced to admit that I’ve always known this – but the attitude allowances afforded the young gave me leave to ignore it when I was, myself, in middle school. Kids are expected to be immature, that’s why we made a word for it. Adults know pre-teen kids are going to be hellions, particularly the boys. So, despite knowing all along that teachers were indeed people, with red blood not unlike my own, I used the long leash of youth to treat them otherwise. In fact, I/we treated them downright awful, quite unlike people, in fact.

I can remember standing outside our English classroom prior to the bell, quietly informing everyone who passed by that they would be expected to throw paperballs at the teacher at precisely 1:15pm on the classroom clock. I’d never orchestrated anything of the kind before, and wasn’t even sure it would work, as it had come to me rather suddenly. Sure enough, all around the room I could see the clandestine preparations, the attempted silent paper-crumple, the tucking of the intended missiles behind Trapper Keepers and under legs. Then, as the appointed time rolled around, the room was alive with bridled energy. I knew that, should no one cast the first stone, nothing would happen. So, I raised my arm and let my crumpled paper fly. A deluge of wadded paper followed. The participation and output were worth being proud of. Some kids threw one, some threw multiples, and even the goodest of the good had no qualms about adding their wads to the lot when the onslaught was anonymous, but I saw them.

I really remember writing this next one before, but I searched the archives… and I could find it.. soo…

I also remember the time my 7th grade gym teacher overheard me telling my friends that my dad could pick locks. They had just given us a lecture on the locker room requirement for Master combination locks, as they were the most secure lock available, when I not so quietly told my cronies something along the lines of, “They’re not secure, my dad can figure out the combinations in a few minutes.” I was, of course, lying; straight-up 100% fabrication. My gym teacher was a gem though: when he overheard my hubris, he stopped his lecture and walked over to our group (the group ‘W’ bench) to challenge me. “Your dad can pick Master locks, son?,” he asked. “Yeah,” I say nonchalantly, not making eye contact as a show of cool. “OK,” he says. And that was that. Until, that is, I came back in to re-dress for class. That’s when he walked up to me with a cardboard box full of locked Master locks, must’ve been more than ten in there. “Take these to your dad for me, son. We don’t have the combinations and could really use them,” he added, smug with self satisfaction. Not knowing what to do, I took them.

When I got home, I had no choice but to come clean to my dad. I told him about how I’d bragged, how I’d lied, and how the gym teacher had called me on the carpet for the whole bit. Now, I don’t pretend to be in my dad’s head, but I like to think I identify with the spirit of what he did next. After listening and nodding, he rose, fetched the Yellow Pages from the cupboard above the phone, and flipped to the ‘Ls’ for “locksmith.” “Yes,” I heard him say, “I have some Master locks to which I’ve lost the combination, is there any way you can help me get them open?” Silence, as he listened. “Uh-huh,” he said, “I see. I’ll be right over. Thank you very much.” Then my dad and I, and the box of locked Master locks, got in the Nissan Sentra and drove the five minutes to the local locksmith. When we got there, the smithy looked up each lock in turn by serial number in a blue book emblazoned with the “Master” logo. And, one by one, opened each one and affixed to each a Post-It with the combination. With each lock opened and annotated, he rang us up at $3 each. My dad paid, and we were on our way.

When I came to gym the next day, I carried a box of opened locks, each with its combination attached. I walked right into the gym teacher’s office and handed over the box. After opening it and inspecting the contents, I could read the surprise on his face. “Tell your dad thanks from me,” he said as he set it aside, his tail not quite as between his legs as I’d hoped – but still sounding defeated nonetheless. Triumphant, I walked to my locker to change. I don’t remember making a big deal of my achievement to the crew, mostly I guess because I was afraid they’d ask how I did it and word would get back to the teacher. No, I wanted him to be deflated, I wanted him to be beaten, I wanted to be the winner.

As an aside: Not but a few years ago, I had the opportunity to tell that very gym teacher (who’s still teaching in that same gym, by the way) what had really happened. Surprisingly, he remembered the event clearly – but had forgotten it was me who had hornswaggled him. When I told him what we’d really done, paying for combinations at the locksmith, he was surprised and a touch vexed, I think. He’s a good guy, and a friend of ours that we see every now and again when we’re back home – but I still think he secretly hates me just a little for that one.

Oh, and, talk about a cool dad, huh?

But, as clearly as the above described behavior demonstrates my point – I haven’t even gotten to the whole reason I picked this topic today… the most demonstrative story of them all; proof that, to us, teachers just weren’t classified as genetic kin.

It was the time we found out where our Algebra teacher lived. We had recognized the van in the driveway while riding bikes through the neighborhood the weekend before, it was unmistakable. We snuck out the following Friday night, armed with eggs. The mission was simple: egg her van. Something, however, went wrong when one of our co-conspirators pulled a can of spraypaint from his jacket. Before we had time to protest (and, not that we would, with the evils of peer pressure, and all), he had shaken it and tittled it towards the van. When we left, running, the van now prominently displayed in bright green: 2 + 2 = 5. Ugh, to this day I shudder when I think about her finding that in the morning. Knowing full well that she was a chosen target, and that she more than likely would see the perpetrators on Monday, yet having no way to catch them.

I think about it now, how expensive auto body work is. How paint ain’t cheap, how aggravating it is to spend time righting something you never wronged in the first place, how frustrating it is to have no one to blame, and how violating it is to be victimized in the place you feel most comfortable.

Sorry teachers, I owe ya.

No proofreading – go! Goodnight.

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hopelessly given over to anticipation


Monday night and I’ve not got much for you. My mind is wandering day and night, thinking about the nine weeks off that are just around the bend. At work, I think about drinking beer in a tent in Munich. At home, I read Muir Trail hiking diaries on the online. Between the two, I listen to music as I drive and think about lounging on the beach at Hawaii. Hopelessly given over to anticipation, it’s like Christmas at eight years old.

The new Rogue Wave leaked today and I’m sitting here listening to it, a freshly assembled pile of bits plucked from this machine and that machine, downloaded willy-nilly swarm style and magically reassembled on my end through the power of Bram Cohen. Sharaun’s at the gym and I decided to pause the episode of PBS’s History Detectives I was watching in favor of checking out some new tunes at volumes she simply wouldn’t allow. Besides, I noticed when queuing up the History Detectives that the TiVo is recording a new episode of that abysmal So You Think You Can Dance show she so enjoys, which means that’ll come on when she gets home. I figured I better enjoy some tunes while I have the chance. Man I hate “dancing” shows… Anyway, this album sounds fine enough.

About the lack of writing: I had partial entries for both Friday and Monday, but couldn’t pull it together enough on either of them, so gave up with a paragraph or two on each. Friday’s was about an unsettling experience I had at work. The kind that makes you all nervous and tweaky kinda like you know something bad is happening. This particular experience was so unnerving to me that I decided I wouldn’t be able to focus until I was able to truly clear my head of it. So, I up and left the sawmill and went home. That’s where I wrote the one or two paragraphs that I could never fill out. Y’know, the ones about the thing at work that set me off. Yeah. Monday’s entry was a half-written try at a new blog “feature” I’ve been wanting to debut, called “music appreciation,” or somesuch… I haven’t decided yet. Even with sights set so high, I just couldn’t make it happen. And, to be honest, I’m only writing a paragraph now about not being able to write paragraphs then because I need another paragraph now. Gripping, no?

Goodnight.

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should’ve taken the direct flight


I should’ve taken the direct flight. But, no, that’s not how my brain works.

When I got to the airport today, way early, in hopes of enjoying a leisurely beer and dinner, I might add, I learned my Frontier Airlines flight had been altogether canceled (I wasn’t too excited about flying on Frontier, I had no precedent by which to judge their service, but, hey, they were way cheap and I’m out to raise the stock price at the old sawmill, y’know?).

Anyway, the desk agent informed me that she’d already re-booked me on a Continental direct flight back home to Northern California. Now, I’ve been on that Continental flight before, and it’s a sweet deal. No connection means time and hassle saved. In fact, I would’ve originally booked the direct flights to and from Houston had they not been more than double the lowest fare (yeah, Frontier…). Anyway, I should’ve taken that direct flight on Continental. If I had, I’d be in the air right now, worry-free, kicking back and trying to get some sleep or something. But, as soon as the Frontier agent told me the flight was canceled, I started thinking about miles.

I am obsessed with miles. In fact, the other day I spent a way inordinate amount of time trying to figure out how to pay my monthly mortgage with a miles-earning account. I also recently gave myself a pat on the back for “gaming” the United Visa card process, applying separately for a 1st-year-no-fee card for each Sharaun and I, using each other as the other’s referral for a total of 26k free miles; I’ll cancel them both before the annual fee sets in a year later. Again to the point: I am obsessed with miles. So, instead of jumping on the through-flight on Continental, I instead asked if there were any United flights I could get.

“No seats on United,” she replied, “‘sides, you’ll have a connection.” “I don’t mind the connection,” I said, thinking of the miles, “Do you think they’d be able to ‘find’ some seats for a 100k flier?” Now, I must admit, I was lying. I was a 100k flier a few years back, but haven’t been since. However, it worked, and she somehow located some seats which they would “probably” give to a VIP like myself. She sent me over to the United desk with a voucher thing stating that Frontier would endorse the tickets, and next thing I know I’m booked home through Denver on United. To make the rosy situation even better, I’d be arriving a full hour before I was scheduled to get in on my original Frontier itinerary. Supremely satisfied, I headed off to the gate to catch my plane.

Man, I should’ve taken that direct flight.

Turns out, that United flight out of Houston sat on the tarmac for over an hour. I wasn’t too concerned, as I had ample time to make my connection in Denver, so I sat back and listened to some Bob Dylan on the iPod. When we got into Denver, it was going to be a tight connection, but it was in the same terminal and only a short walk away so I figured I’d make it – I’d just have to do a late dinner as there’d be no time in between. I hustled to my connecting terminal to find… dum dum dum: delayed. Yeah, “aircraft servicing” has : waylaid me for another hour. So, here I am in Denver, waiting for my flight, blogging on the bartop, two beers in the black, and in a pair two-day-old boxer shorts that are really starting wear out their welcome.

Hey, at least I got my miles… they do give miles for push-rescheduled flights from other airlines… right?…

Goodnight!