Inauguration Photos

Some of the better photos I’ve seen of the inauguration have come from this set at the Big Picture.

January, 1993

Today, technically, is 19 January 2008. Thanks to the fine record keeping of a friend, I can now read a letter I wrote on 15 January, 1993. I am not going to reproduce the note, but I came across several things that I’ll put into the form of factual statements.

• I was mixing my own custom ink colors for the pen I was using.
• I hand-wrote the letter using printing since I really liked to write in “print.”
• My handwriting style adopted several characters that my Spanish teacher used. Especially, lowercase “y” and “a.”
• I had been shopping at a music store in Westlake, OH, called My Generation. I purchased a DG Archiv recording of Goebel performing Bach’s sonatas for violin and harpsichord. I would re-purchased this set again, in this decade, when I picked up Musica Antiqua Köln’s 10-CD collection of the Brandenburgs and “Kammermusik” of Bach.
• I ate at Wendy’s by myself for lunch.
• I went to some store called LDI which sold electronics. I don’t remember this store today.
• I had just recently received a bootleg copy of Adobe Photoshop 2.0.
• I had expressed interest in purchasing speakers for my synthesizer. I wouldn’t get anything close to this until I graduated college in 1996.
• I note my grandmother set the table for dinner at 4:30 PM. We dined at 6:45 PM.
• I report that the concertmaster for the English Concert is now Monica Huggett; Simon Standage has left. This evidently was a temporary move; so slow did news of these ensembles carry into the U.S. Standage had formed his own ensemble in 1990 (Collegium Musicium 90).
• I detail reading a book entitled Imposters in the Temple about college professors.
• I claim I’d like the benefits outlined in the book, and would like to become a college professor. My friend I was writing today is a college professor.
• I say I want my face on CD and book covers. Today, I’ve done both (albeit, my face was not on the cover of the book, but inside).
• I ask my friend and his roommate to listen to the music of Antonio Vivaldi. I write the composer’s name in cursive, similarly to the way the composer signed his own name.

Slacker and the USPS

Dr. Becker felt he got swindled. His family bought an online streaming radio device that he claims was defective. He used the U.S. Postal Service to return the unit for replacement. After failing to receive the replacement, he follows-up only to find the company, Slacker, never received his defective unit. Unsatisfied with the customer service he received after writing e-mails to the company, he is now boycotting the company and is urging others to do the same.

I have no use for Slacker. They could fold tomorrow and I wouldn’t shed a tear.

But I see the real problem he had is with the U. S. Postal Service, hereby referenced as USPS. Fly Like an Eagle. They took his package, he paid money, and it never found its home back at Slacker H.Q. He almost admits wrong doing by not paying for package tracking or insurance. He’s angry. He’s out over $100 for a product he never got an hour’s worth of enjoyment out of.

Granted, I’ve had issues myself with Amazon.com and the USPS. Amazon both times improved the situation. Once I received a refund, and the second time, I received a duplicate item sent since the first was lost. As per Dr. Becker’s wishes, Slacker could have sent a replacement unit. Instead, they stuck to their policy and placed blame where it should be placed, with the USPS.

I have no doubt that shipping companies lose a lot of packages, letters, and parcels each year. How many I cannot say, but I have only had these bad experiences with the USPS.

Today, they offer to take more money from you, if you want. I’ve written about this years ago on the Internet, but let me proffer a typical scenario.

John walks into the post office, to send a package to his mom. Inside is a picture frame he’s bought, with a photo of his family. He’s also included a letter and a book he’s returning to his mom that she lent him. He approaches the counter.

• Sir, when would you like this to arrive?
• What are my choices?
• First class or priority, 2-3 days for each really.
• Well, what’s the difference? They could both take up to 3 days?
• Yes, sometimes priority is quicker, but first class might be slower.
• Okay, well, priority, let’s go with that…
• Okay sir, would you like insurance for this? A return receipt? Whaddabout stamps?
• Ummm…
• Sir, please, I don’t have all day. People are waiting.
• Well, this stuff is important… sure, return receipt, ah… insurance… no stamps.
• Well, if you want all of that, please step aside and fill out these forms, front and back. Next time, fill these out before you get in line.
• How much is this going to cost me?
• We’ll see when you’re back in line.

What I find upsetting is that I can hand over something to someone, pay them money, and they can take it from me, never give it to the person I’m trying to send it to, and that’s okay. What I find upsetting is that to proffer any assurances, I have to be inconvenienced with more fees and more wait-time.

Do they treat packages (or letters) differently if I’ve paid for insurance? And what does the delivery receipt do? Please tell me! In my experience, I’ve sent stuff, gotten the receipt, and the recipient never received the package! “Sir it was received.” I told them, “Uh, no, it wasn’t. I never got it.” “Well, we have confirmation, sir.”

You get stuck in these loops of lunacy.

While Dr. Becker may boycott Slacker, I’d like to boycott the USPS.

I tried avoiding the USPS in paying bills. The thought and worry over my bills being received on time led to the following debacle.

I switched paying my primary credit card bill with my bank’s online bill pay system. I have an account with Wachovia.

So, I have this account as a regular debter, and type-in to pay a certain amount. It processes, and I log-off.

15 days later, I get another bill from the credit card company that claims I’ve never paid the bill. I login to my Wachovia account online to find that there is absolutely no record of my transaction. Honest to God, I paid the bill and marked as much in pen on the paper bill I received (“paid in full, 12/24/08″).

So I call Wachovia. After 15 minutes of a phone tree, I talk to a live human. I give him my social security number, and he recites it back wrong. I only picked up on this after I said “yes.” What a mistake. Now, he has to ask me for every piece of identification I have. Address. Maiden names. Debit card numbers. Address. Phone number. I know he thinks I’m scamming him. He’s asking for some of my last purchases. Jesus!

All to find out “there’s no record of this, sir. It’s a computer. If there’s no record on the website, we have no record. You must not have paid this bill. There’s no record of this transaction.”

Okay. Calm down. Breathe. It makes sense, the credit card company wasn’t paid. The bank didn’t lose my money. But I know I spent 10 minutes back in December paying that bill. And you have absolutely no record of my time online?

Something’s broken.

The USPS can lose your packages. The bank can forget to pay your bills. While we can all stand our ground and protest these places with the power of the Internet, who is looking out for us with regard to these loopholes?

Schroeder and Beethoven

The New York Times has a good article on the influence of Beethoven in the comic strips by Charles Schulz.

Top Bush Moments

According to David Letterman, these are the top 10 “moments” captured on film of George W. Bush.

Cookie Jar

Many kitchens across America have small ceramic vessels on countertops: garlic keeps, butter bells, and of course, the good, old fashioned cookie jar. A venerable stash of good treats, many hold store-bought cookies. Others hold cookies that are homemade. Still, others are a place to store dog treats for the family pet. My parents have a large cookie jar on their countertop, but unlike many, there’s no lid. The gaping hole on the top is large enough to accommodate a large, oversized fist. But in addition to not having a lid, it doesn’t hold cookies, or even anything to eat. It holds excuses.

The excuses are printed on large pieces of paper. They’re large enough, and so cleanly cut that you wouldn’t call them “scraps.” On each one, in a clean yet uninteresting typeface, is printed a unique excuse. They used to use one of those “Magic” 8-Balls for excuses, but you soon run out of excuses with one of those. That’s when the old cookie jar, beautiful really with a handcrafted ceramic glaze on the outside (and in, for that matter), was converted from serving snacks to holding a sundry number of… excuses.

The kitchen seems a logical place to keep such a jar, not only for the connection to its previous use as a cookie jar, but also for pragmatic reasons. Frequently, my parents need excuses while on the phone, and since many phone calls are answered in the kitchen, any number of excuses are at the ready.

At first, they used the excuses to maintain a lifestyle of limited sociability. If someone called my dad to golf, and he’d already cut him off his list of potential golfing partners, the jar was at the ready. He might stick in his hand as soon as he detected why his friend called. “Joe… what’s up… What? Tomorrow tee time? Ah gosh… [rumble, rumble], listen tomorrow’s no good for me… I have to take my wife to the dentist… yeah, they’re going to put her out… I’ll have to drive her there and back and all… yeah… sorry!”

So, once the excuse is used, it’s clipped onto a magnet and attached to the refrigerator. That way, everyone is aware of the “excuse” that was used. After all the excuses are used and posted on the refrigerator, well, they can be recycled. Because the jar holds so many excuses, the whole cache will last for some time, many times up to a year. There’s rarely any problem, then, of repeating the excuses. Because some of the people my parents consort with are so old, some excuses may only get used once before the person dies. Since others have forgetfulness, they never remember the excuses at all, no matter what. In fact, they may call a second time to go golfing, and because my parents are sharp, they can give the same excuse since it’s on display on the fridge. Once my parents used a fresh excuse for the same request, but that was okay, because Mrs. Johnson has Alzheimer’s and didn’t remember the first excuse pulled from the cookie jar.

The kitchen seems a logical place to keep such a jar, not only for the connection to its previous use as a cookie jar, but also for pragmatic reasons.

I have no doubt my parents have used these excuses for all kinds of sticky situations, from giving donations, to refusing party invitations, to canceling eye appointments. Yet, as their younger (not to mention astute) son, I became aware of this practice when the jar got used on me. Suspicion followed my request for a visit. “Why don’t you come up and visit for a spell?” I asked. There was a pause on the phone, the rustle of a piece of paper, then a plausible reason why they couldn’t visit. “Okay, perhaps another time,” I told them. My suspicion faded quickly, until the next time I tried coaxing them up north.

“Fancy a visit? It’s been some time, you know…” I hinted. Then my mother said she was walking into the kitchen. I said, “So?” but she paused for a time, saying “Hold on, I have to get something here in the kitchen for your father.” When she finally reached the jar, she found safety in a fresh excuse. “Oh, John, we can’t visit now. It’s too cold up there, up north… we’ll visit when it’s warmer.” Yeah. Warm like a freshly-opened package of Sausalito cookies.

Suspicions turned into confirmation when some of the excuses for not visiting turned into major illnesses. There are less illnesses in a city hospital. If it wasn’t mom’s knee, or the arthritis, it was dad’s teeth, a supposed delay of surgery, or a re-emergence of the shingles. When no sickness but death remained, it was the method of transportation. “We can’t drive!” Okay, “I will buy plane tickets. What day?” I wagered with them. “Oh, your father can’t fly on account that he’s afraid someone will scratch his car if it’s parked at the airport.” Hmm. I tried more and more to reason with these excuses, but the jar seemed to have an endless bounty of them. “Get my uncle to drive you to the airport, you can leave the car at home.” Suddenly, uncle was too ill himself to drive to the airport. Sometimes multiple excuses issued forth, on account that one of my parents must have had sticky fingers before my call. Multiple slips of paper were sticking together. Mom would just use them all.

“Well, yes, your uncle is sick, but his truck isn’t working, I don’t think… he can’t pay to repair it.” I suggested that my uncle drive my dad’s car. Now, he is protective of the thing, so she didn’t even need to waste an excuse on that one. “Well, your dad won’t let anyone else drive that car, you know that.” That I did. He makes my mother drive a 17 year-old car. I didn’t even get to ‘test-drive’ it on my last visit. After exhausting half a dozen excuses in one call, then giving my mother false confidence that she had me beat by extrapolating on the possible plight of my dad’s car in my uncle’s hands (and feet), I tried another angle. “Mom, I’ll send a limousine service to pick you both up!” This sudden surprise caught her off guard. First, she mumbled about “the current state of the economy,” which was an excuse she already had used. She mistakingly broke one of those rules with using these excuse papers. The re-use of a rule put her into a confused state. She ran out of steam, and simply reverted to the “emergency rule.” I haven’t seen it for sure, but I imagine they have this excuse taped to the actual jar, on the front of the jar’s fascia. It reads: “Say the signal of the cordless phone is breaking up, and you cannot hear the caller.” Yeah, she used that one. “Something’s wrong with your phone, son!” I hung up on her, knowing I had achieved a small victory.

I’ve tried everything to get a visit out of my parents. I’ve tried getting them to come alone. Together? We’ve tried every season known to mother nature. It’s either too hot, too rainy, too cold, or else the weather in their neighborhood might cause stress for the pet cat. “Since you want to drive, bring the cat!” “Oh no!,” they opine, “you’re allergic to the cat, we can’t do that.” Nevermind that the cat’s dander was of little concern to them when I paid them a visit.

I bought that one hook, line, and sinker.

This past summer, we thought another curve ball might upset the seemingly unstoppable power of the excuse jar. WIth surprise, we announced getting married. I mean, parents come to visit for major life-changing events, right? Baptisms? Funerals? Marriages? It seemed like it might work.

“Oh, I just don’t know about your father,” my mom went on. Then while I searched my mind for another angle, she suavely dipped her hand in the jar a second time. “Look, I’d love to come and all, but I don’t have time to get my passport renewed.” I bought that one hook, line, and sinker. I only found out later there was a 3-week turn-around time on passports. Foiled again by the bottomless cookie jar of excuses.

Next, we changed the dynamics here at home. One of us would be leaving for a period. “Why not visit when I’m here alone?” I asked. It was a new year, and that’s when it became firmly cemented in my mind that the old excuses had been all dumped back into the cookie jar. We were on repeats now. Unlike Mrs. Jones, my memory was fresh still with so many of the little printed inscriptions on those papers. This time around, we revisited dad’s pulled groin, the cold weather, and the high price of plane tickets. You could tell she was getting wise about that I was figuring things out. I kept my cool this time, only the excuses were read one after the other with more desperation in her voice.

I called another time, when I knew my mother liked to watch TV. My father picked up. While he too uses the excuse jar, he’s far less prone to go running into the kitchen to use it if it’s inconvenient. I caught him at an excellent time. I used his laziness against him. He reverted to a personal emergency excuse. “Why don’t you guys come for a visit?” He stalled with a long laugh, then said, “Ah, gotta check with your mom… do you think she’d go for it?”

Although less than 100 feet away, she couldn’t be bothered. This excuse is a classic. You defer the decision to another person. If you wait long enough to consult, you’ve forgotten about what they were avoiding and what you asked. The excuse jar is filled with variations on this classic excuse. “Party tomorrow night? I’ll have to check with my husband. He’s out right now.” “Donate $100? We’d love to, I’m sure. Let me have my wife call you back. She holds our checkbook.” Sorry fraternal order of police. You’ll never see that check. You’ve been served by that big ceramic jar of excuses.

So, my question dear reader, is where do these jars come from? I have no doubt that they are as ubiquitous in homes across America as the standard keepers of cookies. My parents aren’t likely clever enough to invent this little mechanism. Perhaps they are sold in varying styles by a catalog put out by the A.A.R.P.? Maybe it’s a prize for the debut cashing-in on your I.R.A. by the local bank? “Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Smith! We’re pleased to present you with the jumbo sized excuse jar. Because you are preferred members of this branch, we’ve stocked your authentic terra cotta jar with 50 complimentary excuses.” It sounds so plausible that sooner or later 20/20 will likely uncover the scheme for viewers on TV. It’s a shame the hosts of these “exposé” television newsmagazines are so old, however. They’ll likely want to keep the secrets behind the excuse jar industry under wraps.

When you think about it, revealing the truth behind all the creative excuses our parents might provide us would be a major setback. Imagine how you’d feel when you would learn that portions of your conversations were pre-scripted? That instead of snacking on wholesome oatmeal cookies, grandma and grandpa were gorging on lies and fabrications? I’m sad to say I have no proof of just how widespread this phenomenon is, but be warned. Should calls to your older relatives’ homes involve “going to the kitchen,” pauses, the sound of crinkling crackling paper, or photos depicting a beautiful, ceramic cookie jar on the kitchen counter surface, know that I expect you give credit where it is due. You read it here first!

Sedarises

This evening as I was driving back from Washington, I was listening to a podcast episode from the talk radio show, The Splendid Table. It is among my favorite things to listen to. Lynne Rosetto Kasper, the host, interviewed a lady named Amy Sedaris who had recently written a book. She was kooky. I wondered if I knew her.

She talked about cheeseballs, about making little Christmas gifts, and about some book she’d written. I wondered if she was related to David Sedaris, the man who wrote the book I’m currently reading from the library.

It turns out they’re brother and sister.

It also turns out she is the kooky lady I’ve seen on TV. Okay, all’s understood now.

Which leads me to proclaim that Mr. Sedaris’ writing in some respects, new to me (despite being recommended more than once), reminds me of some of my own. It might inspire me to try my hand. I miss that type of creativity, which ironically enough, is how this website got started in the late 1990s. By writing essays.

Washington

Today we visited two museums we’d never visited before in Washington, D.C.

The Building Museum and the National Portrait Gallery. I simply loved the opportunity to snap some photos.

Taking Pictures

Sometimes, I get “lost” looking at all the great photos one can find on Flickr. Unlike other sites for sharing photos of your kid’s birthday party with relatives, Flickr seems to have a real cadre of quality photographers behind it. This community is about sharing your art, commenting on finds, and learning. It sounds kind of hokey, but that’s what I get from what I see and read.

Today I took more time outdoors to try my hand with my new camera. It’s a little bit too much camera for my current abilities, I feel, but it’s something I think I can take far with time and patience. I like this shot the best of those taken today.

The three trees appear as one (a rather Christian theme), but all else seems bare, save for some stuff going on in the outer fringes. I guess you could Photoshop those trees out, if you wanted.

The perspective changed when I put the camera down closer to the ground. It did an excellent job at picking up the colors of the grass and leaves.

The temperature today was about 35 degrees, F. What you miss is the steep angle of the hill. This was taken today at Maymont Park. Beyond the trees lives the big house. To my back, the railroad tracks.