Category: travel

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crappy bureaucratic machine

These little piggies... got crushed by an anvil, or something.
Inching closer to Friday, this week maintains its steady crawl. It’s ’round about nine and I’m watching some TiVo’d Andy Griffith. I didn’t do a thing tonight, fell asleep on the couch shortly after getting home from work. Didn’t work on the witch, didn’t shave, didn’t do anything.

Guys. Really. I mean, I thought I was finally done giving this presentation. For a week in Taiwan I parroted this stuff, and at two conferences already before that. I flew to Houston to present it, I presented it over the phone. I can do it blindfolded, on one foot, while whistling. I can do it in pig latin with no slides, I can recite it backwards while jumping through fire, I can roll out of bed and give the whole thing completely straight-faced in nothing but my skivvies. Please, please, don’t make me fight traffic over to the Bay to give it two more times… I might collapse. Oh lord…

Everyone is saying I’m guilty of fraud, just because I added a few letters to a doctor’s evaluation of Sharaun’s knee. OK, OK, I’ll back up and start from the beginning. Sunday, Sharaun tweaked her knee while playing soccer. At first she thought it was OK, but later that night it had swollen pretty bad was really hurting her. Bad enough that we drove to a friend’s to borrow some crutches so she could better get around at work the next day.

Anyway, since she can’t really make phone calls from work, I called the next day to try and get her an appointment at our doctor. Turns out there wasn’t anything until Thursday that she could manage to make it to. Since she was/is in pretty bad shape, I asked if there was anything else we could do. I told them that I was pretty sure she’d need to see a specialist, and that we just wanted to get a referral so she could do that. Our doctor’s office suggested she go to an “urgent care” clinic and get checked out, that way his referral to a specialist would be good enough for insurance, and she wouldn’t have to wait until Thursday. So, Monday night we spend roughly three hours at the urgent care place, where the doctor’s assessment was that she’d need an MRI and further evaluation. Before leaving, we got carbons of some paperwork with his assessment which we figured, according to what I’d been told on the phone earlier that day, would satisfy insurance’s requirement for seeing a “primary care” physician before being referred to a specialist.

So, the next day I called the our normal doctor back and relayed what the urgent care place said about Sharaun needing an MRI. However, this time I got a different story. For an MRI, she’d have to come in and be seen at the doctor – which is exactly what we were told we’d be avoiding by going to the urgent care. So I explained what I’d been told the day before, and that we’d spent three hours at the stupid urgent care, and blah, blah. Finally, the nurse relented somewhat and said that if the paperwork from the urgent care doctor stated she needed an MRI, I could fax it to them and they’d in turn fax it to the insurance for approval – bypassing another appointment. Awesome, I got the fax number and pulled out the paperwork from the urgent care.

Now, guess what y’all? That crap-doctor at urgent care didn’t even write the word “MRI” on this little paper. I mean, there’s all sorts of stuff on here – but the key statement says, “You have an internal injury to L knee, needs further eval.” He even captured such astute observations like, “… walks with limp..” and, “… swelling.” Great. Now I have no proof that this quack ever recommended an MRI, and Sharaun’s gonna have to go in for another appointment before she can see a specialist. So, here’s what I did:

Easy right? I just added the word “MRI” in parentheses after his “… needs further eval.” statement. I didn’t even bother to try and match his script, or the color of his ink. I didn’t even really think about it. The doctor wanted to see MRI, so I put MRI. I faxed it all over and am awaiting the response from whatever triad of governing bodies it requires to get a damn specialist referral through insurance. Crappy bureaucratic machine.

I’m spent.. I have nothing more. Dave out.

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bland and without passion

The lines make me tired.
Riding in the back seat on the way home from a weekend in Oregon. My driving shift just ended and now it’s my turn for a nap or something. According to the battery meter on this laptop, I only have about 26% left to write – that’s cool, because seeing the scenery go by out of the corners of my eyes is kinda making me sick. We just passed a town called Balls Ferry – I’m laughing on the inside.

Oregon was awesome. I flew in Friday night around 11:30pm, just as Sharaun and Ben were driving up to the Portland airport – timed perfectly. We spent Saturday bumming around, and ended up getting a new pack for Sharaun at RIE (the no-sales-tax-havin’ policies in Oregon made it a good buy), as well as some nice long underwear for me – you know, to keep the boys warm on cold overnight campouts. Saturday night was a mini family reunion of sorts at Ben’s folks’ place, where Ben and his siblings came together for some BBQ ribs and a multitude of other foodstuffs. Went to bed that night on an air mattress with a full belly and happy heart.

Sunday morning we woke up early, thanks to the cell-phone alarm (those things have really changed the way I do a lot of stuff), and packed up for the road-trip to Smith Rock. We stopped in the touristy town of Sisters on the way down, and walked a few shops before grabbing lunch at some place where I had an awesome prime rib sandwich. (My goal here is to *not* mention food in every paragraph, so as not to appear a complete glutton). Less than an hour later we had pulled up to the bivy camping area at Smith Rock and were picking pads and setting up camp.

Smith Rock is an awesome state park, they’ve put a heck of a lot of work into the place to make it very people-friendly. With it’s hundreds of climbs, it’s a seriously popular destination for sport climbers from around the world – and at almost any time you can see people tied in and climbing all over the rock-face. I likened it to be at a skatepark, watching some really good skateboarders at their best. Watching those climbers was great, we sat and watch a couple groups for a quite a while on our hikes, it’s just to fascinating – kinda makes a fella wanna try out the sport, y’know? (Maybe if I didn’t have to haul all the extra poundage up with me, I’d give it a go).

Anyway, we did a couple short hikes to some scenic spots. Really nice hikes, strenuous but not very long at all so not killers. The camping was also great, since the weather was gorgeous I didn’t bother putting the rainfly on the tent, giving us a great view of the stars at night. It’s great waking up and looking through the mesh at a sky full of stars, especially out there where there’s no artificial light to obscure any – it’s like the whole sky is speckled. When I was leaving Houston on Friday, I was actually thinking I’d rather go home to Sacramento and relax – but after the weekend I’m really glad we went. The combination of all the recreational time and work-related travel-time I’ve had lately has really been like being on some blissful extended vacation. Going back to the office for a four-day week tomorrow is gonna be like putting the shackles back on.

That’s it for me today, bland and without passion, but that’s it. Dave out.

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balls y’alls, balls

On the move again.
Balls y’alls, balls. Once again I’m sitting through this 5hr presentation. Man, I thought I’d seen the last of it back in Taiwan, but here we go again. I mean, for real, I know this thing by heart now – even the parts that aren’t mine. It’s like we’re the cast of Cats or something, can you imagine how bored they must’ve been of performing that play? I bet any cast member could fill in for any other cast member. I mean, I could speak to everyone’s stuff – but I probably couldn’t answer all the questions like they can. Really, I don’t even care. My stuff is at the very end, so I’m gonna blow through it and get out of here.

Well, everyone I know back in my hometown in Florida has abandoned ship and is heading for higher ground. (Everyone is, or everyone are? Is, right?). Anyway, there were mandatory evacuations in Rockledge, my old stomping grounds, even though the only people the cops were actually forcing out were mobile home owners. I suppose that’s good, God has demonstrated again and again his opinion of mobile homes. He hates them so bad, he’s made them tornado and hurricane magnets – poor mobile home people. But really, if it’s in the definition of your house’s name that it can be easily moved – you might’ve thought you’d have some idea. Anyway, to all my people in Florida who may be reading this entry huddled by candlelight in an emergency shelter – good luck and hope you and your stuff stays put and stays dry.

I’m not too excited about flying right now, another 3hr+ flight to Portland. We had a 7am meeting this morning, and since my head is still on PST time it was really a 5am meeting to me. Waking up at 6am (4am in my brain) after staying up to watch Kerry’s midnight RNC rebuttal was tough, so I’m pretty freaking tired – so I plan on sleeping the entire flight. Having to wear dress shoes today is not helping my busted big toes either, and they are throbbing in my shoes now as I type. As soon as I get outta here I’m throwing these clunkers in the trunk and putting on my flip flops. Easier to get through airport security that way too, since I’m obviously not hiding any bombs in my Reefs.

I was thinking about how seasoned I am now to the whole traveling thing. Back in college, I remember getting on a plane in Florida to go to my job interview in California – and only vaguely remembering how to do the whole thing. I think the last time I’d flown before that was when the whole family moved to Florida in the first place., twelve years prior Now it’s all familiar, the security check-in, the terminals and baggage claim, everything. While I’m far from what I’d consider a frequent traveler (comparing myself to some others I work with), I do travel enough that I consider myself and airport and rental car veteran. Give me a hotel room, a company meal-ticket, and some frequent flier miles – and I’m good to go.

Sometimes, when I’m in a crowded pace, I like to stare around at the ladies and play a game in my head called “who would I do?” It’s a pretty simple game really, I just look around and pick out girls who, if it came down to it, I would hump. Now, since the game is all hypothetical, it’s not a problem being married or anything – and it’s fair to assume, for the purpose of the game, that all girls who I chose to do would indeed give in to my attentions. So, right now, at the George Bush International Airport in Houston, Texas, terminal C37 – there are about eight girls around me who qualify. I mean, that girl over there with the long brown hair: I would totally do her. Oh, and this older-berry of indeterminate ethnic origin sitting to my right: totally do her. Blondie in the pinstriped pants across the aisle here: put her on the list, ’cause I’m totally doin’ her. Anyway, you get the picture.

Guess that’s it for a Friday night, I’m sure no one’ll be reading this until Monday morning anyway… but at least I only missed a day this week. Dave out.

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untucked

Open me.
I’m gonna try my best to not let this week’s travel keep me from writing, but if there’s nothing going on worth writing about then I don’t mind skipping a day. I think that could be a potential pitfall actually, forcing myself to write every day regardless of whether or not there’s something to write about. Because Thursday I leave early for Houston, I’m attempting this Wednesday double-up to get myself ahead on the days. I’ll spend Friday once again up in front of customers, wearing my best “I know what I’m talking about” face. Pull some ill-fitting khakis over my ass, tuck in a nice blue dress shirt, brush my hair and fill my breast pocket with business cards. The portrait of a corporate slave, bowing and scraping for a paycheck and some stock options. Why couldn’t I have been a cowboy or rock star?

I’m sitting in a hotel in Houston, belly full of beer, steak, garlic-mashed potatoes, and some kinda Jack Daniels ice cream. Business travel is at least nice for the meals. The flight wasn’t bad, and I got a lot done this morning before leaving. Y’know those ultra-productive days where everything seems to fall into place? When you’re able to get everything that you wanted to done and more? I love those days. Tomorrow it’s back to work, but for now I can sit here and watch W address the RNC. Then I guess Kerry is gonna talk in Ohio, it’s a fun-filled night for politicos.

Last night the Killers at the Boardwalk was a good show. As usual, the tiny Boardwalk was packed wall-to-wall with the cream of Sacramento’s emo-youth. Tousled, jet-black haired, lanky youngsters with dark thick-rimmed glasses and untucked concert tees. Doing their best to wear their angst and societal aloofness on their sleeves for all to see. Girls decked in once-again-cool 1985 makeup and hairstyles, with plenty of pink and poof. And me, a guy in his late twenties. A guy wearing jean shorts bought as Sams, Reef flip-flops, and a red and blue striped preppie shirt, untucked. With a brown corduroy Nike hat covering my thinning hair, I realize I’m fast becoming the outsider at these shows – and I like it. I wanna be that old guy my friends I and I saw at the Ween concert back in 1994, the one we laughed at because he wasn’t wearing what we were wearing and looked so out of place. The one who just didn’t care and came out to hear some good tunes. What am I talking about?

I’m not writing anymore, Dave out.

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in front of God and everyone

I remember those panties like yesterday.
Today I woke up at 5am and, despite laying quietly in bed for another 15min, couldn’t make myself fall back to sleep. Since getting back from Taiwan I’ve once again been lucky and experienced no “jetlag,” but I can’t help but think my early-morning pep is somehow related to the 15hr time-change I went through this weekend. I already decided that if it happens again tomorrow I’m going to make the best of it and go spray the yard for crabgrass before work. Intro paragraph over.

Whooosh!! (Sound of the blog being sucked through a hole in time, back into the year 1990.)

As a new relatively new teenager, I can remember walking from my house to my then-girlfriend’s house, she lived about a half-mile away (if you cut through some backyards, crossed a ditch, and walked through the woods). I used to love that walk because I knew we were going to make out when I got there. If her parents were home, we’d “go for a walk” and end up off in the woods somewhere rolling in pine needles. If her parents weren’t home we’d just watch TV on the couch when we came up to breath. It was exhilarating, nothing in my life yet could compare to it. I fondly recall swigging a couple gulps of mouthwash prior to leaving my house, maybe a squeeze of toothpaste too for good measure, and trying to swish it around in my mouth for the whole walk to her house. The thought being I’d be minty-fresh upon getting there. To this day I can recall walking under the smothering Florida heat while my cheeks burned, begging me to spit out the Scope.

We had different places to go, but our main objective was to get as far away from civilization as possible. I mean, if any items of clothing were going to get removed, we wanted to be as far out of sight as possible. We’d follow firebreaks or worn trails into the woods for ten minutes or so and then track off into the brush, blazing our own trail to a nice secluded spot. We’d hit the dirty dusty prickly ground as if it were a featherbed, lips instantly locked and hands instinctively roaming. Something about being outside made it all the more exciting, two semi-clothed, hormone-filled kids wrestling in the underbrush. Usually we’d head for nice “hidden” areas, a small copse of trees or grass-rimmed depression we could slip out of sight into. A couple times though, I can remember deliberately walking extremely far out into an open field of knee-high grass and going through our whole routine standing up in front of God and everyone. I mean, where we were there was no one around for miles – but to stand in an open field with the sun beaming down on you as pull her shirt through arms stretched high above her head is, at fourteen, otherworldly.

Whooosh!!

Two big weekends coming up. This weekend we’re headed south to Mt. Whitney, where we’ll attempt to summit the tallest peak in the “lower 48” states. I’m actually pumped because we’re taking both Friday and Monday off work, and camping on a Friday and Monday instead of working on a Friday and Monday just sounds so much better. We’ll spend Friday night camping at about 8000ft in a bid to acclimate our bodies to the higher elevations before moving up to the ~14000ft mark to summit. Should be a great time, and I think with the extra days I may be able to set a pace that will see me to the top and back – providing I don’t get sick. The following weekend I’m off to Houston for a customer visit, and instead of flying home will be meeting Sharaun and Ben in Portland (they’ll have road-tripped their way up earlier in the day). Then we’re headed for a weekend of hiking, camping, and possibly fishing at Smith Rock. I’ve never been to Whitney or Smith Rock, so I’m really excited to see, camp, and hike both.

Then that’s that then. Dave out.

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wayne presents

Moses brought them down from a mountain.
Sometimes water sounds and tastes infinitely better to me than soda, like right now – I’m drinking water and it “tastes” great. Intro paragraph over.

Tonight I mowed my sickly lawn with tender-loving care. I edged her, used the blower to clean her of stray cut grass, fertilizered her, weed-controlled her, and all around pampered her. But that’s not what’s important about this story – the important part is the soundtrack I chose for the task. A few days ago I downloaded an album by a group called The Horns of Happiness, simply because I liked their name (alliteration does a whole heck of a lot for me for some reason). Occasionally I’ll do this, grab an album on name alone, and usually it’s a bust. Like they say, you can’t judge a book by it’s cover (as illustrated beautifully by the turds contained within the kickass album covers of Molly Hatchet). Anyway, the album was perfect for our oddly Fall-like weather this week. Some strange hodge-podge of disjointed tunes, sometimes reminding me of anything from the Microphones to Neutral Milk Hotel to Sufjan. Anyway, it’s quickly climbing the charts in my head, gunning for number one with some animal drive? yeah. The music was good, and the lawn’s already showing signs of improvement. Whew! What a relief.

Speaking of our unseasonably Fallish weather of late, bending my mind more and more to thoughts of Halloween. If I haven’t said it before, I freakin’ love Halloween. Ever since I was a kid and my brother and I used a pair of my dad’s old slacks and one of his old flannels to make a mask-covered basketball-headed dummy which we then ritualistically covered in 99? fake blood from Kmart and hung from the basketball goal above the garage. I will repeat, Halloween is awesome. This year will be our second annual Halloween party, and I swear I’m fated to finish the backyard the day before or something. I just want it done y’all, I just want it done.

Man, sometimes I get super sick of people sending e-mails around without checking them out online first for accuracy. I have a family member who is very religious, and therefore very republican and very pro-Bush. Being so republican means that this person is also vehemently anti-democrat and anti-Kerry. What bugs me is how these anti-Kerry pro-Bush mails seem to circulate like wildfire among these “churchy” e-mail “clubs.” Like a right-wing party line, these retired-couples-cum-internet-surfers dutifully forward any piece of tearjerking, awe-inspiring, mushy God-crap that lands in their inbox along down the line to the next person who needs a “virtual hug” from the Lord. Now, I know I’m on the edge of offending people here – and I don’t mean to. You’re more than welcome to need a virtual hug from the Lord, heck maybe even I do, but that’s not my point.

It’s the political mails that really get me – mostly because these donation-plate-stuffing senior citizens just blindly believe whatever trash washes up on their AOL accounts’ shores and proceed to propagate said nonsense to those of us who actually bother to “fact check” the cyber-missives. Without so much as a thought on the accuracy of whatever the internet rumour-mill churned out last, they jot their insightful comments on top of the long line of those before them and proceed to add another column of carats to the left margin of an already unreadable body of mis-tabbed and oddly-spaced text. “I think this is disgusting, shame on us if we elect these men,” reads a comment in the 15th attachment I had to open on the way to the original e-mail which is still another 10 nested “envelopes” down.

And hey, I’m not even that guy who says anything negative about the dems or Kerry is necessarily wrong. Maybe, somewhere out there, there’s a mail about Kerry/Edwards that’s fact-based and worth distributing. But most of this stuff is ridiculous. Where does it say in the Bible that you’re duty-bound to God to forward this rubbish? Thou shalt be staunch republican, may thou never neglect thy duty to forward any e-mail which let’s thy distribution list know thy as such. I mean, you think Edwards flips people off as he runs? Think Kerry’s wife really runs overseas sweatshops? Or maybe that he’s voted to kill every defense weapons bill since ’88? They’re all crap folks, all crap.

To be fair, there’s no shortage of the same going around about Bush – and the tree-huggers can be just as bad about forwarding mails painting him as the grandest fool of an evil-dictator ever to grace the earth? so I suppose it goes both ways.

And to all my relatives, if you’re reading this, I love you dearly.

Time to go check e-mail and get ready for bed. Oh yeah, here’s a picture I drew last week in Taiwan while a co-worker was doing his portion of our presentation. It was the 8th or 9th time we’d given the same presentation to customers, and I guess I was just getting bored. Enjoy.

G’nite all, Dave out.

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you wouldn’t want it to get too cluttered

Man, that's longer than Tracy.
Ugh man, I’ve got that ten-hour plane-flight funk going on. You know, that thin sheen of been-up-too-long sweat and grease all over my body. Coupled with the stretched, frazzled feeling you get from bring travel-worn – I’m ready to sleep in my own bed. I got bumped from business class on the long leg of the flight, so I’m in the next best place – the exit aisle with no seats in front of me, on the aisle seat. I actually think this would be fine were the arm rests just a tad freakin’ wider so as to accompany my ate-too-much Taiwanese food hips. I mean, my wallet is pressed so tight against the armrest that it’s holding the seat-recline button in perma-depress – which is really pissing me off. The only problem with sleeping in this seat is that I tend to naturally lean out into the aisle to keep from laying my head on the shoulder of the attractive young Japanese woman sitting painfully close to my hip pocket in the seat next to me. I think they are stewardesses, I hope they don’t mind the snoring.

Got home to find the lawn in a shambles. See, we had some decorative concrete curbing (mow-strip) installed one Friday while I was gone, and apparently the install crew got the sprinkler treatment during their job (at least this is what I imagined happened). To fix this problem, they decided to simply turn off the main water (they had no choice really, not being able to access the controls in the garage or anything). Anyway, Sharaun didn’t notice the sprinklers weren’t coming on until the lawn told her by turning a nice I’m-dead brown. Not her fault, how’s she supposed to know. She ended up calling me at a customer in Taiwan, where I proceeded to work through an extremely frustrating 20min debug process in which we attempted to figure out why the sprinklers weren’t working. Eventually, and without even getting divorced, we figured it out and got them up and running again.

But you know me, I take a lot of pride in the yard. I mean, I’ve worked dang hard to keep it looking OK. And now with the appearance of the dreaded crabgrass the week before I left, the large spotty-brown thing I once took so much pride in is just a neighborhood eyesore. I know it sounds trivial, but you don’t know how much it frustrated me to be greeted by that sad sight upon pulling up to my beloved house after a two-week stint overseas. Anyway, I hit it double-hard today with a nice dose of crabgrass killer and some kinda turf-builder, and it’s been getting enough water – so perhaps the majority will grow back. I mean, I guess when it comes down to it, who cares right? But man, that seriously bummed me out.

This weekend was sufficiently laid-back: hung with friends, cleaned the house, worked a tad in the yard. The thing is, I’m really gonna be slammed this week at work. I have several commitments which I placed “on hold” when I was traveling, and they will be coming back to judge me this week. I’ve got to make good on some promises, and one involves getting a big project done by tomorrow evening. It’ll be tough, but I think I can swing it – even if I have to work late. What’s worse is, I have to take Friday and Monday off because we’re climbing Mt. Whitney this weekend. Don’t even get me started on how woefully unprepared I am for that. I should’ve been running every day for months, instead I’ve been stuffing myself with Chinese food and Bloody Marys – just hoping my weary legs can carry my clinically obese ass up that mountain. We’ll find out I suppose.

I promised you guys the scans of the Taipei Hooters menu that I boosted one night whilst at dinner. It’s funny for a couple reasons, both of which I think are obvious. Firstly, these girls have no hooters. I mean, c’mon y’alls, we all know the “hooters” in Hooters isn’t really talking about owls like the logo may lead you to believe. They mean boobs! No, I’m for real, that restaurant Hooters is all about boobs. Anyway, we took to calling the place “Hoot” because the “ers” was actually pulled around the back of the shirt being that there was nothing in front for it to stretch across. Secondly, at Hooters in Taiwan you can order all sorts of seafood. Shock! Seafood at an eatery in Taiwan?! These people live and breath fish man. Pat even complained one morning because his bacon at breakfast tasted of fish – and that’s what I mean, everything there is seafood. Oh, it may not be seafood overtly – like fish or prawns or whatever. But you can almost bet that it was made or cooked with seafood or some seafood “essence.” I’m being unrealistic for the sake of comedy of course, but really? they love some seafood. And yes, I know it’s an island. Anyway, without further ado – the Taipei Hoot menu:


Janet was our waitress, and mighty attractive if I may say. You could land a plane on her chest, but she was cute nonetheless. Note that you can order “Chips and Salsar” or the “Fried Fishman Platter.” You can keep the fishman thanks, I’m not feeling terribly cannibalistic today – but salsar, now that sounds new and exciting.
Here’s the flipside, where you can feast on such delicacies as “Curly Squid” and “Pork Knuckle.” Man, when did Hoot go all gourmet? To be fair though, the “Fried Mushroom” only costs lantern-house-menorah-sailboat, pretty good if you ask me.

I think it would be cool to sell a shirt that had nothing on the front but the words “Where I stand.” Then on the back there would be a short list of items and two columns, “Yes” and “No,” with a box for each column after each line-item in the list. Before I get to the list, lemme say that the purpose of this shirt is controversy. You take the few most-debated political and social issues today and list them out – then sell all the yes/no permutations. I imagine a list something like the following:

  Yes No
There is a God.  
Capital punishment is just.  
Keep abortion legal.  
Affirmative Action is rad.  
Gay people will burn.  
Three AK47s? No problem.  
Welfare works!  

Anyway, you wouldn’t want it to get too cluttered, so I think that list would be enough to enrage enough people. Then you wear it around see, and people know right away where you’re at. Maybe I should make these shirts. I mean, there’d need to be 128 of them to get every possible combo – then you could keep stats like which permutation (combination?, I forget my statistics) was most popular and stuff. It could be a whole website, people could even vote on the next issue to be added to the short-list. Hmm? Oh yeah, and for any of you entrepreneurial bastards out there – I’m pretty sure that’s my intellectual property now that I wrote it down, so don’t even think about it.

And I’m out, g’night.