Last week we concluded play in our Abbott basketball league. My team, playing in the competitive division, came in a respectable 3rd, although I feel that we did not live up to our potential. There was plenty of blame to go around, including some for yours truly - ever since the marathon last October, I've engaged in activity that can very loosely be defined as "exercise" - and even that I've only managed to do once a week. Although the almost daily cleaning out my daughter's diaper pail should count - the little thing is a champion poop generator, and carrying that pail to and from my building's trash chute would leave anyone winded.
What disappointed me most about my play, however, was my inability to keep up with the younger whippersnappers on the court. I'd be guarding someone who would blow by me with ease, and I'd be left blaming my aging knees. Or I'd go up for a jump shot only to have my shot rejected into the bleachers. My coping mechanism focused on the fact that I was more than 10 years older than some of the competition, and that I was actually pretty physically fit for my age. In fact, were I to face my opponents when they were older - say we were both in our 60s - I'd kick their @$$. Wishful thinking, perhaps, but it helped justify why I kept tripping over myself.
Still, I need to figure out an exercise routine, and fast. And cleaning out my daughter's diaper pail does not count.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Stewart vs. Cramer
I wanted to wait a few days before putting pen to paper on the recently concluded Mad Money/The Daily Show Battle Royale. There are plenty of opinions floating around, and I wanted to add mine to the mix, but only after spending a few days digesting last Thursday’s events.
Basically, I think that the Cramer interview was one of Jon Stewart's best ever. Which is funny because Stewart has had dignitaries, celebrities, and luminaries on his show before, and has handled controversial topics galore. But this time he clearly chose to dispense with the gloves, and to aggressively pursue his guest at all cost.
I don’t know why Cramer chose his approach of almost complete subservience. I was expecting to see some of the vigor he displays on Mad Money or, at the very least, the aggressive recitation of a couple of talking points CNBC had to have provided him with. But in retrospect, it was probably smart on Cramer’s part to avoid from being confrontational. How would he have been able to remain aggressive in the face of video clips of him touting hedge fund strategies that were at best shady, if not borderline illegal? How would he have been able to remain aggressive when trying to defend the idolizing of CEOs by his network?
Throughout the interview, the passion in Stewart’s voice was obvious, and his language and delivery could not have been more potent. I also can’t say enough about the research and writing teams that support Stewart’s interview prep – they have got to be one of the best in the business.
Stewart’s performance was eerily reminiscent of his takedown of bow-tie wearing Tucker Carlson on Crossfire several years ago. Given the result of that confrontation (Crossfire canceled, Tucker Carlson subsequently condemned to bouncing around), and now this Cramer interview, the powers that be can no longer afford to underestimate TDS. Jon Stewart has become the unofficial outlet of frustrated masses that have no special interest group to represent them, no talking head to spin their points, and no lobbyist to pressure Congress. Don’t get me wrong – there is an undoubted leftward lean to the politics of TDS, and there are differences that I have with Stewart. But he invariably presents a reasoned, logical, and impassioned argument of the type that you just don’t see used anymore.
So what will be the likely outcome of this episode? I don’t think CNBC can tout “In Cramer We Trust” as the show’s tagline anymore. Doing so would be crass and disingenuous. Cramer’s ratings are likely to suffer – the spat with Stewart and the subsequent outcome has been covered by multiple media outlets, and has had to have reached his viewership.
Unfortunately, unless the network loses advertisers en masse, I don’t expect to see changes to the channel itself. But I’m positive GE executives were watching to see what would happen during the TDS interview, and are now contemplating making some modifications, however superficial. Is it too much to ask that CNBC reporters actually fulfill their responsibility to the public and do hard-core investigative reporting that ensures we don’t get blindsided with a financial catastrophe next time? Probably. The existing culture is too far ingrained to change overnight. But I do believe that there are good people working at CNBC, and I hope their voices are going to be heard a little more clearly now. The tomfoolery of “Fast Money”, the coddling of CEOs and the bombast of Mad Money has got to tone itself down, if not stop altogether. Because, at the end of the day, what is happening around us, as Stewart so clearly stated, is not a f*#$&^% joke.
Basically, I think that the Cramer interview was one of Jon Stewart's best ever. Which is funny because Stewart has had dignitaries, celebrities, and luminaries on his show before, and has handled controversial topics galore. But this time he clearly chose to dispense with the gloves, and to aggressively pursue his guest at all cost.
I don’t know why Cramer chose his approach of almost complete subservience. I was expecting to see some of the vigor he displays on Mad Money or, at the very least, the aggressive recitation of a couple of talking points CNBC had to have provided him with. But in retrospect, it was probably smart on Cramer’s part to avoid from being confrontational. How would he have been able to remain aggressive in the face of video clips of him touting hedge fund strategies that were at best shady, if not borderline illegal? How would he have been able to remain aggressive when trying to defend the idolizing of CEOs by his network?
Throughout the interview, the passion in Stewart’s voice was obvious, and his language and delivery could not have been more potent. I also can’t say enough about the research and writing teams that support Stewart’s interview prep – they have got to be one of the best in the business.
Stewart’s performance was eerily reminiscent of his takedown of bow-tie wearing Tucker Carlson on Crossfire several years ago. Given the result of that confrontation (Crossfire canceled, Tucker Carlson subsequently condemned to bouncing around), and now this Cramer interview, the powers that be can no longer afford to underestimate TDS. Jon Stewart has become the unofficial outlet of frustrated masses that have no special interest group to represent them, no talking head to spin their points, and no lobbyist to pressure Congress. Don’t get me wrong – there is an undoubted leftward lean to the politics of TDS, and there are differences that I have with Stewart. But he invariably presents a reasoned, logical, and impassioned argument of the type that you just don’t see used anymore.
So what will be the likely outcome of this episode? I don’t think CNBC can tout “In Cramer We Trust” as the show’s tagline anymore. Doing so would be crass and disingenuous. Cramer’s ratings are likely to suffer – the spat with Stewart and the subsequent outcome has been covered by multiple media outlets, and has had to have reached his viewership.
Unfortunately, unless the network loses advertisers en masse, I don’t expect to see changes to the channel itself. But I’m positive GE executives were watching to see what would happen during the TDS interview, and are now contemplating making some modifications, however superficial. Is it too much to ask that CNBC reporters actually fulfill their responsibility to the public and do hard-core investigative reporting that ensures we don’t get blindsided with a financial catastrophe next time? Probably. The existing culture is too far ingrained to change overnight. But I do believe that there are good people working at CNBC, and I hope their voices are going to be heard a little more clearly now. The tomfoolery of “Fast Money”, the coddling of CEOs and the bombast of Mad Money has got to tone itself down, if not stop altogether. Because, at the end of the day, what is happening around us, as Stewart so clearly stated, is not a f*#$&^% joke.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
The reason the economy is where it is today – me
But I showed up dutifully at the start of this two-day class anyway. The morning of the first day, I learned that we would be breaking up into teams of three to four individuals, and would be running a company for the remainder of the class. The company would be a manufacturing concern, where we would have to make decisions such as how much raw material to buy, how much to produce, what price to set for our goods, what loans to take, and how to manage our expenses. We would get to observe our company for the course of a “year” – at the end of each “month” we would see what happened in the market the instructors created, and have the opportunity to adjust each of the variables above. The emphasis throughout the course would be on managing the financials of the company by monitoring cash flow, the balance sheet, and the income statement, with the goal of learning what made a company financially sound. Pshaw! I thought (again). I got this.
Except that I didn’t. My team, egged on by yours truly, made a couple of bad decisions, caught a few unlucky breaks, and ended up as a marginal takeover target by the end of the game. We did so poorly that we barely had anything of value left at the end, but I took solace in the fact that we weren’t alone. Inevitably, those teams that had individuals with financial backgrounds performed poorly. Instead, the team that won consisted of one person from Abbott’s foodservices division (the people in charge of stocking Abbott’s employee cafeterias), someone from Abbott’s library, and someone from Abbott’s technology arm (the IT folks).
While I spent the game acting out my investment banker fantasy (“Guys, let’s borrow up to our eyeballs and get all the loans we can. This is called ‘leveraging’ in the financial world. What good is it to own a building when it doesn’t do anything for you? Better to sell it, then rent it back, and use the cash from the sale instead.”), and while a fellow financial wizard at a neighboring table urged his team to price their product absurdly low (“Let’s capture market share and crowd out the competition – those suckers won’t be able to compete at these low prices and will go out of business”), the winning team was employing a slightly different strategy. For them, it didn’t make sense to take out large loans, or sell their buildings and land. Instead they borrowed only what they could comfortably repay. Neither did they horse around with pricing too much – they set a decent price that earned them an honest profit, and they reinvested that profit back into the company.
Around halfway through the game it became clear that my team wouldn’t be able to make its debt payments. On the other side of the room it struck the other financial geniuses that they had priced their products so low that they were selling at a loss so bad that they weren’t even covering their expenses. Meanwhile, the librarian, foodservice manager, and tech lady kept chugging along. The humiliation was complete by the end of the game, when each team got to walk around the room and see how the other teams had played the simulation. “Why would you take a loan that you couldn’t repay?” someone would ask. “Why would you sell all your assets?” I had no answer for either question.
I left that two-day seminar happy that I had learned more about financial statements than I could have imagined. Abstract numbers on a sheet weren’t so abstract anymore, and the interconnectedness of the various statements that measured the health of a business became a little less arcane for me, the snooty MBA graduate. But as I packed my things and left class to go home that last day, a depressing thought came to me. I realized, in a flash of distressing brilliance, that it was because of idiots like me that we found ourselves in the economic mess we see now. Some overly clever bankers got together and thought they could game the system, except that the system bit back hard. But as soon as I had this epiphany, I also understood the way we could make sure that this would never happen again: when the dust settles on this economic scandal, and all guilty financial whiz-kids have been identified, they should be stripped naked one by one, taken out back, and slapped silly by librarians, foodservice managers, and tech ladies.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
How to write a consumer complaint
I've found my inspiration for any future customer complaint that I ever write. The letter below was written by a Virgin airlines passenger at the conclusion of his flight. You have to check the link to see the pictures that he refers to in his beautiful prose. Enjoy!
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/travel/travelnews/4344890/Virgin-the-worlds-best-passenger-complaint-letter.html
Dear Mr Branson
REF: Mumbai to Heathrow 7th December 2008
I love the Virgin brand, I really do which is why I continue to use it despite a series of unfortunate incidents over the last few years. This latest incident takes the biscuit.
Ironically, by the end of the flight I would have gladly paid over a thousand rupees for a single biscuit following the culinary journey of hell I was subjected to at thehands of your corporation.
Look at this Richard. Just look at it: [see image 1, above].
I imagine the same questions are racing through your brilliant mind as were racing through mine on that fateful day. What is this? Why have I been given it? What have I done to deserve this? And, which one is the starter, which one is the desert?
You don’t get to a position like yours Richard with anything less than a generous sprinkling of observational power so I KNOW you will have spotted the tomato next to the two yellow shafts of sponge on the left. Yes, it’s next to the sponge shaft without the green paste. That’s got to be the clue hasn’t it. No sane person would serve a desert with a tomato would they. Well answer me this Richard, what sort of animal would serve a desert with peas in: [see image 2, above].
I know it looks like a baaji but it’s in custard Richard, custard. It must be the pudding. Well you’ll be fascinated to hear that it wasn't custard. It was a sour gel with a clear oil on top. It’s only redeeming feature was that it managed to be so alien to my palette that it took away the taste of the curry emanating from our miscellaneous central cuboid of beige matter. Perhaps the meal on the left might be the desert after all.
Anyway, this is all irrelevant at the moment. I was raised strictly but neatly by my parents and if they knew I had started desert before the main course, a sponge shaft would be the least of my worries. So lets peel back the tin-foil on the main dish and see what’s on offer.
I’ll try and explain how this felt. Imagine being a twelve year old boy Richard. Now imagine it’s Christmas morning and you’re sat their with your final present to open. It’s a big one, and you know what it is. It’s that Goodmans stereo you picked out the catalogue and wrote to Santa about.
Only you open the present and it’s not in there. It’s your hamster Richard. It’s your hamster in the box and it’s not breathing. That’s how I felt when I peeled back the foil and saw this: [see image 3, above].
Now I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking it’s more of that Baaji custard. I admit I thought the same too, but no. It’s mustard Richard. MUSTARD. More mustard than any man could consume in a month. On the left we have a piece of broccoli and some peppers in a brown glue-like oil and on the right the chef had prepared some mashed potato. The potato masher had obviously broken and so it was decided the next best thing would be to pass the potatoes through the digestive tract of a bird.
Once it was regurgitated it was clearly then blended and mixed with a bit of mustard. Everybody likes a bit of mustard Richard.
By now I was actually starting to feel a little hypoglycaemic. I needed a sugar hit. Luckily there was a small cookie provided. It had caught my eye earlier due to it’s baffling presentation: [see image 4, above].
It appears to be in an evidence bag from the scene of a crime. A CRIME AGAINST BLOODY COOKING. Either that or some sort of back-street underground cookie, purchased off a gun-toting maniac high on his own supply of yeast. You certainly wouldn’t want to be caught carrying one of these through customs. Imagine biting into a piece of brass Richard. That would be softer on the teeth than the specimen above.
I was exhausted. All I wanted to do was relax but obviously I had to sit with that mess in front of me for half an hour. I swear the sponge shafts moved at one point.
Once cleared, I decided to relax with a bit of your world-famous onboard entertainment. I switched it on: [see image 5, above].
I apologise for the quality of the photo, it’s just it was incredibly hard to capture Boris Johnson’s face through the flickering white lines running up and down the screen. Perhaps it would be better on another channel: [see image 6, above].
Is that Ray Liotta? A question I found myself asking over and over again throughout the gruelling half-hour I attempted to watch the film like this. After that I switched off. I’d had enough. I was the hungriest I’d been in my adult life and I had a splitting headache from squinting at a crackling screen.
My only option was to simply stare at the seat in front and wait for either food, or sleep. Neither came for an incredibly long time. But when it did it surpassed my wildest expectations: [see image 7, above].
Yes! It’s another crime-scene cookie. Only this time you dunk it in the white stuff.
Richard…. What is that white stuff? It looked like it was going to be yoghurt. It finally dawned on me what it was after staring at it. It was a mixture between the Baaji custard and the Mustard sauce. It reminded me of my first week at university. I had overheard that you could make a drink by mixing vodka and refreshers. I lied to my new friends and told them I’d done it loads of times. When I attempted to make the drink in a big bowl it formed a cheese Richard, a cheese. That cheese looked a lot like your baaji-mustard.
So that was that Richard. I didn’t eat a bloody thing. My only question is: How can you live like this? I can’t imagine what dinner round your house is like, it must be like something out of a nature documentary.
As I said at the start I love your brand, I really do. It’s just a shame such a simple thing could bring it crashing to it’s knees and begging for sustenance.
Yours Sincererly
XXXX
Paul Charles, Virgin’s Director of Corporate Communications, confirmed that Sir Richard Branson had telephoned the author of the letter and had thanked him for his “constructive if tongue-in-cheek” email. Mr Charles said that Virgin was sorry the passenger had not liked the in-flight meals which he said was “award-winning food which is very popular on our Indian routes.”
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/travel/travelnews/4344890/Virgin-the-worlds-best-passenger-complaint-letter.html
Dear Mr Branson
REF: Mumbai to Heathrow 7th December 2008
I love the Virgin brand, I really do which is why I continue to use it despite a series of unfortunate incidents over the last few years. This latest incident takes the biscuit.
Ironically, by the end of the flight I would have gladly paid over a thousand rupees for a single biscuit following the culinary journey of hell I was subjected to at thehands of your corporation.
Look at this Richard. Just look at it: [see image 1, above].
I imagine the same questions are racing through your brilliant mind as were racing through mine on that fateful day. What is this? Why have I been given it? What have I done to deserve this? And, which one is the starter, which one is the desert?
You don’t get to a position like yours Richard with anything less than a generous sprinkling of observational power so I KNOW you will have spotted the tomato next to the two yellow shafts of sponge on the left. Yes, it’s next to the sponge shaft without the green paste. That’s got to be the clue hasn’t it. No sane person would serve a desert with a tomato would they. Well answer me this Richard, what sort of animal would serve a desert with peas in: [see image 2, above].
I know it looks like a baaji but it’s in custard Richard, custard. It must be the pudding. Well you’ll be fascinated to hear that it wasn't custard. It was a sour gel with a clear oil on top. It’s only redeeming feature was that it managed to be so alien to my palette that it took away the taste of the curry emanating from our miscellaneous central cuboid of beige matter. Perhaps the meal on the left might be the desert after all.
Anyway, this is all irrelevant at the moment. I was raised strictly but neatly by my parents and if they knew I had started desert before the main course, a sponge shaft would be the least of my worries. So lets peel back the tin-foil on the main dish and see what’s on offer.
I’ll try and explain how this felt. Imagine being a twelve year old boy Richard. Now imagine it’s Christmas morning and you’re sat their with your final present to open. It’s a big one, and you know what it is. It’s that Goodmans stereo you picked out the catalogue and wrote to Santa about.
Only you open the present and it’s not in there. It’s your hamster Richard. It’s your hamster in the box and it’s not breathing. That’s how I felt when I peeled back the foil and saw this: [see image 3, above].
Now I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking it’s more of that Baaji custard. I admit I thought the same too, but no. It’s mustard Richard. MUSTARD. More mustard than any man could consume in a month. On the left we have a piece of broccoli and some peppers in a brown glue-like oil and on the right the chef had prepared some mashed potato. The potato masher had obviously broken and so it was decided the next best thing would be to pass the potatoes through the digestive tract of a bird.
Once it was regurgitated it was clearly then blended and mixed with a bit of mustard. Everybody likes a bit of mustard Richard.
By now I was actually starting to feel a little hypoglycaemic. I needed a sugar hit. Luckily there was a small cookie provided. It had caught my eye earlier due to it’s baffling presentation: [see image 4, above].
It appears to be in an evidence bag from the scene of a crime. A CRIME AGAINST BLOODY COOKING. Either that or some sort of back-street underground cookie, purchased off a gun-toting maniac high on his own supply of yeast. You certainly wouldn’t want to be caught carrying one of these through customs. Imagine biting into a piece of brass Richard. That would be softer on the teeth than the specimen above.
I was exhausted. All I wanted to do was relax but obviously I had to sit with that mess in front of me for half an hour. I swear the sponge shafts moved at one point.
Once cleared, I decided to relax with a bit of your world-famous onboard entertainment. I switched it on: [see image 5, above].
I apologise for the quality of the photo, it’s just it was incredibly hard to capture Boris Johnson’s face through the flickering white lines running up and down the screen. Perhaps it would be better on another channel: [see image 6, above].
Is that Ray Liotta? A question I found myself asking over and over again throughout the gruelling half-hour I attempted to watch the film like this. After that I switched off. I’d had enough. I was the hungriest I’d been in my adult life and I had a splitting headache from squinting at a crackling screen.
My only option was to simply stare at the seat in front and wait for either food, or sleep. Neither came for an incredibly long time. But when it did it surpassed my wildest expectations: [see image 7, above].
Yes! It’s another crime-scene cookie. Only this time you dunk it in the white stuff.
Richard…. What is that white stuff? It looked like it was going to be yoghurt. It finally dawned on me what it was after staring at it. It was a mixture between the Baaji custard and the Mustard sauce. It reminded me of my first week at university. I had overheard that you could make a drink by mixing vodka and refreshers. I lied to my new friends and told them I’d done it loads of times. When I attempted to make the drink in a big bowl it formed a cheese Richard, a cheese. That cheese looked a lot like your baaji-mustard.
So that was that Richard. I didn’t eat a bloody thing. My only question is: How can you live like this? I can’t imagine what dinner round your house is like, it must be like something out of a nature documentary.
As I said at the start I love your brand, I really do. It’s just a shame such a simple thing could bring it crashing to it’s knees and begging for sustenance.
Yours Sincererly
XXXX
Paul Charles, Virgin’s Director of Corporate Communications, confirmed that Sir Richard Branson had telephoned the author of the letter and had thanked him for his “constructive if tongue-in-cheek” email. Mr Charles said that Virgin was sorry the passenger had not liked the in-flight meals which he said was “award-winning food which is very popular on our Indian routes.”
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Survival of the Fittest
It is cold in Chicago. Absurdly cold. Cold enough to make your eyeballs hurt. Cold enough to make your nose hairs freeze over. This last is particularly annoying anytime you walk outside, because as your nose hairs start to freeze, they also start pulling away from your nose lining, which is excruciatingly painful. Cold like this makes you feel alive … and stupid for continuing to live in this city.
Currently adding to all this discomfort is the change in Abbott shuttle management. There are dozens of employees who take the train every day to work (myself included). Abbott very graciously provides for shuttles that pick us up once we arrive, and which drive us to the office campus. However, due to a transition with the contractor who manages these shuttles, life for the Abbott commuter has become a mess.
At a basic level, the number of seats available on these shuttles has declined because of both fewer and smaller shuttles. Which means that inevitably some people have been getting left behind at the train station in the morning. In the cold. The absurd Chicago cold. To be fair, a backup shuttle is dispatched and picks up the remaining passengers within 20 minutes, but that is still an eternity in this weather.
The change that this has affected in human behavior is classic survival of the fittest. It started out slowly at first – people would walk briskly after getting off the train so that they would be first in line at the shuttles, therefore ensuring themselves a spot. That brisk walk became a healthy jog, and last week I saw a lady break out into an all out sprint (and subsequently slip and fall on the ice).
When people realized that they were not Olympic decathletes and would be unable to win a footrace as they tried to hurdle over parked cars to get to the shuttles, they adapted again. They started sitting in train cabs that stopped at just the right spot, thereby providing them a straight line to the waiting shuttle in the parking lot. They no longer had to pretend to be Usain Bolt and break any world records – by starting at a more optimal point, they would still beat out the sprinters. But eventually all the seats on the ideal train cab started filling up early in the journey, therefore reducing the effectiveness of this strategy – no one wanted to stand for an hour. So there was more adaptation.
Passengers began to sit wherever they wanted to on the train, but started leaving their seats before the Abbott stop to queue up in front of the train doors. At first this meant leaving your seat a few minutes before the stop, but as more people caught on, people began to leave their seats earlier and earlier – from five minutes, to ten minutes, to several stops before our destination. The result? Passengers that had nothing to do with our shuttle issues, and who needed to get off earlier actually started missing their stops - our crowding at the train doors had become so bad that other passengers were unable to fight their way to the doors to leave.
I still find this fascinating – a seemingly insignificant transition in shuttle management at a specific company is having ripple effects that are making life miserable for the entire ridership of our train line. Whatever, if things continue to get worse I know I'll be ok. I have a black belt in karate and know how to incapacitate an opponent, even if that opponent is a benign market research analyst.
Currently adding to all this discomfort is the change in Abbott shuttle management. There are dozens of employees who take the train every day to work (myself included). Abbott very graciously provides for shuttles that pick us up once we arrive, and which drive us to the office campus. However, due to a transition with the contractor who manages these shuttles, life for the Abbott commuter has become a mess.
At a basic level, the number of seats available on these shuttles has declined because of both fewer and smaller shuttles. Which means that inevitably some people have been getting left behind at the train station in the morning. In the cold. The absurd Chicago cold. To be fair, a backup shuttle is dispatched and picks up the remaining passengers within 20 minutes, but that is still an eternity in this weather.
The change that this has affected in human behavior is classic survival of the fittest. It started out slowly at first – people would walk briskly after getting off the train so that they would be first in line at the shuttles, therefore ensuring themselves a spot. That brisk walk became a healthy jog, and last week I saw a lady break out into an all out sprint (and subsequently slip and fall on the ice).
When people realized that they were not Olympic decathletes and would be unable to win a footrace as they tried to hurdle over parked cars to get to the shuttles, they adapted again. They started sitting in train cabs that stopped at just the right spot, thereby providing them a straight line to the waiting shuttle in the parking lot. They no longer had to pretend to be Usain Bolt and break any world records – by starting at a more optimal point, they would still beat out the sprinters. But eventually all the seats on the ideal train cab started filling up early in the journey, therefore reducing the effectiveness of this strategy – no one wanted to stand for an hour. So there was more adaptation.
Passengers began to sit wherever they wanted to on the train, but started leaving their seats before the Abbott stop to queue up in front of the train doors. At first this meant leaving your seat a few minutes before the stop, but as more people caught on, people began to leave their seats earlier and earlier – from five minutes, to ten minutes, to several stops before our destination. The result? Passengers that had nothing to do with our shuttle issues, and who needed to get off earlier actually started missing their stops - our crowding at the train doors had become so bad that other passengers were unable to fight their way to the doors to leave.
I still find this fascinating – a seemingly insignificant transition in shuttle management at a specific company is having ripple effects that are making life miserable for the entire ridership of our train line. Whatever, if things continue to get worse I know I'll be ok. I have a black belt in karate and know how to incapacitate an opponent, even if that opponent is a benign market research analyst.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Only in LA
Saeeda, Nuha and I were in LA for the holidays – even though I have no affinity for Hollywood-land, I’d trade Chicago’s arctic chill for LA’s more moderate climate any day. Saeeda’s family lives here, which always gives us a place to escape to when Chicago weather makes you question your sanity in choosing that city as a home. Every time in LA however, I am confronted with something that is unique to this area, and which strengthens my desire to continue living in Chicago (Saeeda will eventually make me move to LA – I just know it).
This time around, the unique experience came during a post-Christmas trip to one of the swankiest malls in the area – the Costa Mesa mall in Orange County (“the OC” of television fame). I’d visited this mall with Saeeda before, but the current state of the economy had me curious. Would we continue to see hustle and bustle at a mall that boasted high-end designer stores for all ages? Would stores and food courts still be crowded? The answer, as it became abundantly clear while spending 30 minutes looking for a parking spot, was yes – there were crowds galore, seemingly thumbing their noses at the idea of a recession.
[As an aside, trying to find a parking spot in an LA mall is a little like going on safari in the South African savannah. The person riding shotgun acts as a tracker, sniffing out signs of people leaving the mall, then making sure that the driver stays locked on this prey as it tries to locate its own vehicle. The driver must prowl slowly, making sure not to spook the prey by revving the engine too much, but always matching the prey’s speed. It is also the driver’s responsibility to conduct outflanking maneuvers to effectively block other circling predators from staking a claim on the hunted. The thrill of finally pulling into a spot cannot be much different than sinking one’s fangs into fresh kill]
As Saeeda and I finally walked towards the mall entrance, I was struck by a beautiful site. In front of us was a serene waterfall in a large plaza flanked by dark walls of granite. The cascading water collected gently into an infinity pool that lay bounded by simple benches shaded by planted trees. The collecting water then made its journey to a single water channel that dipped and turned its way out of sight, leaving only its gentle murmuring behind. The sense of peace was palpable, as was made obvious by the number of people sitting around the reflecting pool, silently contemplating life’s meaning.
“What’s this memorial for Saeeda?” I asked. Such a monument made perfect sense for a community poignantly trying to remember fallen heroes. I could not however, think of the sad tragedy that had to have occurred in Costa Mesa that would require such a monument.
“It’s not a memorial,” replied Saeeda as we walked into the mall. “It’s for shoppers when they get tired.”
Only in LA.
This time around, the unique experience came during a post-Christmas trip to one of the swankiest malls in the area – the Costa Mesa mall in Orange County (“the OC” of television fame). I’d visited this mall with Saeeda before, but the current state of the economy had me curious. Would we continue to see hustle and bustle at a mall that boasted high-end designer stores for all ages? Would stores and food courts still be crowded? The answer, as it became abundantly clear while spending 30 minutes looking for a parking spot, was yes – there were crowds galore, seemingly thumbing their noses at the idea of a recession.
[As an aside, trying to find a parking spot in an LA mall is a little like going on safari in the South African savannah. The person riding shotgun acts as a tracker, sniffing out signs of people leaving the mall, then making sure that the driver stays locked on this prey as it tries to locate its own vehicle. The driver must prowl slowly, making sure not to spook the prey by revving the engine too much, but always matching the prey’s speed. It is also the driver’s responsibility to conduct outflanking maneuvers to effectively block other circling predators from staking a claim on the hunted. The thrill of finally pulling into a spot cannot be much different than sinking one’s fangs into fresh kill]
As Saeeda and I finally walked towards the mall entrance, I was struck by a beautiful site. In front of us was a serene waterfall in a large plaza flanked by dark walls of granite. The cascading water collected gently into an infinity pool that lay bounded by simple benches shaded by planted trees. The collecting water then made its journey to a single water channel that dipped and turned its way out of sight, leaving only its gentle murmuring behind. The sense of peace was palpable, as was made obvious by the number of people sitting around the reflecting pool, silently contemplating life’s meaning.
“What’s this memorial for Saeeda?” I asked. Such a monument made perfect sense for a community poignantly trying to remember fallen heroes. I could not however, think of the sad tragedy that had to have occurred in Costa Mesa that would require such a monument.
“It’s not a memorial,” replied Saeeda as we walked into the mall. “It’s for shoppers when they get tired.”
Only in LA.
Monday, December 15, 2008
The Stalwart Father
Nuha’s doctor’s appointments are always a source of excitement. As anxious first-time parents we always want to know how much weight our child has gained, and whether she is over or underweight for her age group. Of particular interest to me is how much taller she has gotten, and what percentile she fits into as compared to her peer group. If she is to have a successful career as a college basketball player at a top school (I’m thinking Lady Vols at Tennessee, or the Tar Heels at UNC, although nothing would be more satisfying than to see her set records at my alma mater, UVA), she’s going to need some height.
But the most eventful part of the doctor’s appointment is always the point when she has to be administered her shots. This week, she was supposed to get multiple shots, for everything from the flu to the diptheria, tetanus, and pertussis vaccines. Saeeda and I spent time prepping her – playing with her to soothe her nerves, giving her some milk to settle her, and generally holding her to encourage her to relax. When the nurse showed up with the ridiculously long needles all ready, I did what any stalwart, strong-willed father would do – I handed the baby to Saeeda and hid in a corner.
Luckily for me, the nurse was too far along her preparation process to wait for Saeeda and I to fight out which one of us would hold Nuha down while looking into her large, pleading eyes as the shots were administered. Saeeda was closer, and I was hiding behind one of the office cabinets, so it would have to be Saeeda.
The first shot into Nuha’s thigh wasn’t fun. That’s when Nuha went from “la la la, the world is a great place right now, I wonder when I’m up for my next feeding” to “WHOA, mother$%^&*# what the hell was THAT?!” The nurse didn’t waste any time, discarding the spent needle and picking up the next shot in one swift move. This next one went into Nuha’s other thigh. That’s when Nuha realized things were seriously wrong with her world, and that her mom was not doing anything about. Cue the trembling lower lip, rapid expansion of her eyes, and the flow of dishearteningly large tears.
Saeeda’s face crumbled as our daughter pleaded with her mother to make the pain stop. And just when we hoped things would get better, the nurse picked up the third needle and administered it back into the first leg. That’s when Nuha's cries turned to the whimpers of a wounded animal, and I sensed Saeeda was going to lose it. Time for action!
As the nurse left the room, I moved in from behind the cabinet and scooped Nuha into my arms. “It’s ok babe, daddy will take care of you,” I whispered. Nuha looked at me and I could clearlyt read the accusation in her eyes – “You're supposed to take care of me! Why did you let me suffer so much pain?” I had no answer for her, so I simply turned Nuha to face her mother. “I’m sorry, sweetie,” I said. “Mommy is bad, very bad. Daddy will take care of you though.”
I got a cold, murderous look from Saeeda, but I didn’t care. I was just being the stalwart father, always there for my baby daughter.
But the most eventful part of the doctor’s appointment is always the point when she has to be administered her shots. This week, she was supposed to get multiple shots, for everything from the flu to the diptheria, tetanus, and pertussis vaccines. Saeeda and I spent time prepping her – playing with her to soothe her nerves, giving her some milk to settle her, and generally holding her to encourage her to relax. When the nurse showed up with the ridiculously long needles all ready, I did what any stalwart, strong-willed father would do – I handed the baby to Saeeda and hid in a corner.
Luckily for me, the nurse was too far along her preparation process to wait for Saeeda and I to fight out which one of us would hold Nuha down while looking into her large, pleading eyes as the shots were administered. Saeeda was closer, and I was hiding behind one of the office cabinets, so it would have to be Saeeda.
The first shot into Nuha’s thigh wasn’t fun. That’s when Nuha went from “la la la, the world is a great place right now, I wonder when I’m up for my next feeding” to “WHOA, mother$%^&*# what the hell was THAT?!” The nurse didn’t waste any time, discarding the spent needle and picking up the next shot in one swift move. This next one went into Nuha’s other thigh. That’s when Nuha realized things were seriously wrong with her world, and that her mom was not doing anything about. Cue the trembling lower lip, rapid expansion of her eyes, and the flow of dishearteningly large tears.
Saeeda’s face crumbled as our daughter pleaded with her mother to make the pain stop. And just when we hoped things would get better, the nurse picked up the third needle and administered it back into the first leg. That’s when Nuha's cries turned to the whimpers of a wounded animal, and I sensed Saeeda was going to lose it. Time for action!
As the nurse left the room, I moved in from behind the cabinet and scooped Nuha into my arms. “It’s ok babe, daddy will take care of you,” I whispered. Nuha looked at me and I could clearlyt read the accusation in her eyes – “You're supposed to take care of me! Why did you let me suffer so much pain?” I had no answer for her, so I simply turned Nuha to face her mother. “I’m sorry, sweetie,” I said. “Mommy is bad, very bad. Daddy will take care of you though.”
I got a cold, murderous look from Saeeda, but I didn’t care. I was just being the stalwart father, always there for my baby daughter.
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