Nothing to Read Here – Page 4

All Greek to Him

Jan5

Posted by P-Dawg in Uncategorized | 1 Comment

Good morning. As my 2-year anniversary at work gets closer (March 9th, for those of you scoring at home), I was reminded of a funny experience that happened on my very first day. So why not share?

First allow me to set the scene a little. This was a brand new gig and I didn’t know a soul at the place yet (aside from those who I briefly met in my lone interview). I arrived at 10am as instructed and met up with the HR Director to fill out paperwork, get a tour, etc. After the tour, he asked if he could take me out to lunch in a couple of hours, and I gladly obliged since I wanted to hear more about the company, its culture, my role, etc.

When the time came, he strolled by my desk and asked what I felt like. “Anything’s fine,” I said (and meant), and he said he felt like going to the Greek restaurant that was just a block or two away. I told him that sounded great, and off we went. When we got there, we chatted a little while I half-looked at the menu. I was debating between the gyro sandwich and the gyro plate, but had pretty much decided on the former since I thought having sides of rice and a salad would make for too large a meal (plus it was a couple of dollars more and I was over-analyzing my behavior).

The server approached, and I magnanimously gestured that he should go first. “Yes,” he began, “I’d like the gyro plate please.” Except he said it with a J sound and a long I, like j-eye-ro. Shit. That put me in a predicament. While they discussed his sides and what he wanted to drink, I was quickly going through my two options:

Pronounce it correctly as YEE-ro. This would have the subtext of, “You said it wrong, Mr. Head of HR at my New Job on Day One.” But I’d be accurate, which I care a lot about, but at what cost? (See: “over-analyzing my behavior” above.)
Copy his incorrect pronunciation. This would avoid any awkwardness with pointing out his error, but then the server would think that I didn’t know the right way to say it. I can’t explain why that mattered to me, but it did.

Neither felt like a good choice, and my time was running out. I quickly thought of a third option: What if I said, “I’d like the sandwich please…is it j-eye-ro or…YEE-ro…or…” and let her point out the right way (as the expert)? That didn’t feel right either, and as she turned to me, I knew I needed to decide right away and had a palpable moment of panic. And then – boom! – glorious option number 4 popped into my head and I went with it. “I’ll, uh, have the same thing please,” I said while pointing to the gyro plate on the menu. I tried conveying with my eyes that I knew he said it wrong but didn’t want to point it out, and she absolutely picked up on none of that.

So I opted for my second choice of food over first day awkwardness, and I survived it just fine. Even with a little too much rice.

Tags: gyro, new job

The Don’t Playlist

Dec28

Posted by P-Dawg in Uncategorized | 4 Comments

Good morning, everyone! I have a problem. It’s not even close to a “big” problem in any sense at all, but it’s still something that affects my life, and I have the keyboard and you don’t so there.

I really enjoy music, and one of my greatest joys in life has been watching my kids learn, like, and ask for music that I’ve shared with them. Seriously, hearing my daughter ask me to put on Weezer’s “Blue Album” (or “al-blum” as she says it) because they like all ten songs on it warms my heart. They’re old enough now that we rock out together, discuss lyrics, etc., and it’s awesome.

But…sometimes the artists I like make it hard for me to share their music. I get it, I really do – they’re not making music for 6 year olds, so there’s no reason for them to think about which songs would be off limits for my kids. But when Weezer’s second al-blum starts with a song called “Tired of Sex” and the fist-pumping “Why Bother” says, “But it’s just sexual attraction/not something real, so I’d rather keep wackin’,” those songs go on my Don’t Playlist. And then the fun singalong “El Scorcho” starts off with “God damn” as the first two words, “Across the Sea” references someone touching themselves, and “Butterfly” says “bitch” in it. So yeah, I can skip around and maybe cough at strategic times, but there’s enough going on with that al-blum that I just skip it all together. Why bother, indeed.

(For the record, the cough method or slightly changing a word here and there works pretty well. “Dicks” becomes “chicks” in a song by They Might Be Giants, and “tits” becomes “hips” in “Norgaard” by The Vaccines without any problem.)

I have a similar problem with a group I really like, because they rock my fucking face off (in a good way). They’re called (ahem) The Front Bottoms. Now, you might be wondering what a front “bottom” is, and that’s good, because it’s inexplicit enough to slide by and just sound funny. (Good thing I’m not a fan of the band Pussy Riot). The Front Bottoms are punky, rocky, and just downright awesome. They swear and have inappropriate lyrics in most of their songs, and that’s part of the appeal for me as a listener because it’s punk rock, after all. There are a few songs that are clean throughout that my kids really like, so I play them fairly often (“Flying Model Rockets,” “Summer Shandy,” and “Laugh Til I Cry” if you’re interested). I know enough to stop the album before the band starts singing about getting high or before the song “Help” comes on, with it’s catchy refrain of, “This is what I want, motherfucker, make it happen for me.” So it’s more of a song-by-song basis, and that’s great; I love being able to share a band I like with the kids.

The problem is when songs are sooooo close to being ok for the kids. “Plastic Flowers” is a really good song, with a fun singalong part at the end that I know my kids would love. But right before that part, lead singer Brian Sella says “Ok, everyone shut the fuck up for a minute.” Annnnnd, onto the Don’t Playlist. Damn. That was a good one. Same thing with a song they just released called “Joanie.” Great song, he just happens to throw in a cool but unnecessary “fuckin'” in the middle of a line. Again – I’m not at all against swearing in songs, and I actually love singing along with both of the parts of the songs I mentioned in this paragraph. It’s just a little disappointing when I realize that one or two syllables will keep the songs off limits (at least for a couple more years, right?).

The kids will hear, know, and use “fuck” eventually (and often if they’re like their parents…or Grandma), but I’ll let that happen the way it naturally should: from friends at school I’ll think are a bad influence. And then, my friends, I’ll open up a whole new world of music for them and we can collectively have our faces rocked the fuck off.

Tags: front bottoms, fuck, music, weezer

Out of the loop

Dec26

Posted by P-Dawg in Uncategorized | 2 Comments

Hello, and happy Boxing Day 2016, everyone. It’s been way, way too long but I’m kinda making a pre-New Year’s Resolution to write more. I’ve been prioritizing steps on my Fitbit over the mental exercise of writing I suppose, and I’d like to find a better balance with that. So here I go – could be the only post or the first in a new string of somewhat-regular ones. Who knows?

Those who know me know that I have a horrible – absolutely abysmal – sense of direction. I really don’t know how to get anywhere from anywhere. My friend Greg once asked me a very good question about this: “You have such a good memory for other things; why can’t you remember directions?” I have no idea why it’s any different, but I guess it is different in my head.

Either way, the invention of GPS has forever changed my life for the better. Much, much better. Gone are the times of writing down directions or even printing out step-by-step ones from Google Maps. I’d get so stressed out trying to follow them, wondering how long 0.8 miles is supposed to take, not knowing if I missed something, etc. Having live directions – first from a standalone Garmin (which I affectionately named HoBot 5000 for reasons I’ve since forgotten) and now on my phone – has given me a sense of comfort much greater than most people could imagine.

That said, it’s not perfect. Many of us know the plight of having Google Maps or Waze tell us to turn left on a major street without a stoplight, for example. But there’s one oddity that I haven’t heard other people talk about that amuses and confuses me. (Amfuses me?) I’ll be driving somewhere on the path the GPS gods chose for me, and it’ll show a couple of other options. Most often it’s something telling me that heading toward the freeway would add 3 minutes to the drive or staying on a street instead of turning where the original plan said to will save 2 minutes. But every once in a while, I see the amfusing thing: it basically says by way of highlighted route option, “If you turn on this random side street and go in a loop for no reason whatsoever, it’ll add 15 minutes to your drive.” Have you seen this? It’ll present some option that makes absolutely zero sense and then suggest that it’s a bad idea. Of course it’s a bad idea! It’s almost always a loop that would spit me back out in the same exact place, except just later and for no reason. “If you make a u-turn and head to Magic Mountain, go on a few rides, grab some t-shirts for the kids, and stop at the restroom on the way back to the car, that would add 167 minutes to your drive.”

I’m sure it’ll stop doing that in future versions, but it always catches my eye and makes me wonder what causes it to offer that alternate route. Is it particularly beautiful and I should slow down and enjoy a little nature on the way? Does some enemy of Google live on that street and the machine is trying to annoy them by sending cars past the house? I don’t know, but I’m just glad it presents it as an option and not the actual way to go. If it were the latter, I’d absolutely trust it, follow the directions to a T, arrive at my destination later than expected, and promptly forget every turn that got me there.

Tags: directions, gps, loop

The play’s the thing

Nov15

Posted by P-Dawg in Uncategorized | 2 Comments

A couple of weeks ago, my kids’ classes had a field trip to watch a Berenstain Bears play. And while I could probably go on for a few thousand words about the play itself, I’m just going to take a deep breath instead and try my best to forget it. No, fuck that – a couple quick complaints before I get to the point of this post.

First, they didn’t look like fucking bears! The one thing I prepared my kids for was that the people on stage were going to be dressed as bears. Nope, just fake bear ears and some fur on their shoes – that’s it. So when they walked out on stage, the very first emotion that my (and many other) kids experienced was good old disappointment. Way to go, assholes. (At least I got to make a joke about them having the right to “bear arms” to my lovely wife, who rightfully shook her head at me.) The second thing I’ll say about it should tell you all you need to know about the quality of the performance. At one point of the play during a shoehorned-in storyline about eating healthy food, Mama Bear says to Papa Bear, “You’ve got so much fluff on your tummy that you’re gonna bust your pants!” There were a couple of low chuckles in the packed theater. Then she launched into a song that – if memory serves – consisted almost entirely of repeating, “You’ve got so much fluff on your tummy that you’re gonna bust your pants.” Thankfully it ended at some point. But wait, there’s more! For the curtain call, guess what they went back to? Yep, everyone’s favorite song about barely bear-clad people having fluff on their tummies. So in their minds, this was their best work and it deserved a reprise. Whew, I feel a little better now. Here’s what I planned on writing about:

So there we are, hundreds and hundreds of small children and parents, filing into a theater. It was so clearly obvious that this was for a children’s play that I went the other way and thought, “What’s the least likely thing that this group would be here for?” Why would I think about that? Because I was preparing myself to make a joke to the next usher I saw, and because I’m Peter. Hi. My first thought was Shakespeare’s Titus Andronicus. Not just because it’s a very bloody and violent play, but because it has this famous stage direction: “Enter…Lavinia, her hands cut off, and her tongue cut out, and ravished.” I loved the idea of pretending that I thought our group was there to see that play, but it required a certain level of knowledge on the joke recipient side that I wasn’t banking on. And “Andronicus” isn’t easy to say.

We were almost to the door and I saw one final usher on our path, so I had to make my decision quickly. Something came to mind and I went with it: “So this is the line for Equus, right?” I got the worst possible response to an attempt at humor: “Excuse me?” Because nothing is funnier than repeating an obscure joke that already had about about a 30% chance of working! I repeated myself and got a half-smiling, half-confused look. My lovely wife chimed in with, “He’s just making a joke.” She nodded, and we were off to our seats.

I still think that choosing the full-frontal, horse-blinding play by Peter Shaffer was a good call, but I realize my main flaw: I foolishly stuck to plays just because I was at a theater. I could’ve chosen any number of events, from concerts (i.e. Insane Clown Posse) to movies (i.e. “Caligula”). Regardless, whatever I chose in jest most likely would’ve still been better than hearing a song (twice!) about the superfluous amount of god damn motherfucking fluff on their non-ursine tummies. I’m ok.

Tags: equus, fluff, titus

Numbers

Nov6

Posted by P-Dawg in Uncategorized | 1 Comment

So here’s the deal: I still have thoughts – sometimes even multiple ones a day – but I fell out of the habit of turning them into blog posts. I’d like to correct that, but I make no promises. At this very moment though, I feel like I should be able to start cranking these out again more frequently than a couple of times a year. Sound good?

Last week, I was grabbing an iced coffee from the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf across the street from my office. On my way out, I saw an acquaintance who works in the same area sitting with someone, and we exchanged pleasant smiles and waves. The next day, she called me on my work phone. “It was so funny that I saw you there yesterday,” she began. “I was sitting with (insert name), and he just left his position as (title) at (company) and asked if I knew of anyone who would be a good fit for it. I looked up, and you were standing right there!” I thanked her for that and asked to hear more about the company and the position. She gave me a little info, and it didn’t sound like a good fit based on the location or the actual job duties, but I said, “Ya know, it never hurts to talk to people, so sure, I’d be interested in learning more.”

She said that it would probably be better (or more impactful) if it came from her recommending me instead of me seeking it out myself, so I said I’d email her my resume. Then she asked, “Ok, so what’s your salary – what’s your best number?” I immediately had two thoughts: first, that’s kind of forward of her to ask, but I guess she wants to see if it even makes sense to make the introduction. And second, that was an interesting way to ask that particular question. But I went for it and said something like, “Well, I’m currently making X but expect to be at around Y in the coming weeks, plus an annual bonus. I say ‘coming weeks’ but it should certainly be no later than the end of the calendar year. That said, I view flexibility, location, and benefits packages all as forms of compensation, so that number could fluctuate a little. That’s why I’m interested to learn more about what they’re offering, what the day-to-day responsibilities are, etc.” I may have rambled on for longer, but I don’t recall.

What I do recall, however, is her response: “(chuckle) Uh, I, uh, asked for your cell phone number.” Oh. I played her original question back in my head and found my mistake. She had actually asked, “What’s your cell – er, uh – what’s your best number?” “Cell – er uh” sounds an awful lot like “salary” when talking about job duties and responsibilities, especially if you’re a moron. So I responded the only way I could: “Well, I guess I’m feeling pretty open with you. My CELL PHONE NUMBER is…” She chuckled again, and we said we’d be in touch.

I was telling this story to a friend at work, and she said, “Why didn’t you ask her to repeat it before answering?” “Because I thought I heard her just fine! You don’t ask people to repeat things when you already know what they asked!” I replied. She understood. “But why didn’t she cut you off and save you from your whole salary speech?” She had me there. “I guess,” I said, “she just wanted to sit back and see how far I’d go.” Well, she certainly learned her lesson: when it comes to erroneously running with misinformation based on hearing something incorrectly, I’m practically Flo Jo.

Tags: best number, jobs, salary

A crying shame

Mar16

Posted by P-Dawg in Uncategorized | 2 Comments

I know, I know. It’s been way too long and you thought I was never coming back. I wasn’t sure myself, since I’ve had a bunch of ideas for posts and then did…nothing with them. This blog’s name was eerily accurate for far too long, and I’m here to change that (for today at least).

As I’m sure all of you have done at one point or another in your lives, I was in the shower and started thinking about Lesley Gore’s hit songs. It’s only natural. Specifically, “It’s My Party” and the hit sequel, “Judy’s Turn to Cry.” In case you somehow haven’t committed these songs to memory, here’s the gist from Wikipedia:

(“It’s My Party”) “The song lyrically portrays the discomfiture of a teenage girl at her birthday party when her boyfriend Johnny disappears only to surface in the company of Judy, another girl, who is “wearing his ring” to indicate she’s replaced the birthday girl as his love interest.”

(“Judy’s Turn to Cry”) “In this song, the teenage girl narrator gets her revenge on Judy. In the lyrics the narrator explicitly finds “foolish” how much she cried when she saw Johnny and Judy together, and seems determined to start anew. But after she kisses another boy at another party, Johnny returns to her.”

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard these songs in my life, and yet something just struck for the very first time while thinking about them in the shower: Johnny got one hell of a free pass. Let’s think about this for a minute. A high school couple is dating, and the girlfriend throws herself a big party for her birthday. She loses track of her boyfriend, and then finds that he’s secretly gone off with someone else…on her fucking birthday. “Oh, I’m sure there’s more to the story; maybe they’re just talking or something,” one might say, especially since it’s harder to be a bigger douchebag than that. But King Douche Johnny finds a way by coming back to his girlfriend’s birthday party and dancing with the new girl in front of everyone. He even gave her his ring (though I have to wonder why the narrator wasn’t wearing it at the beginning of the song), so he’s not shy about making an overt “It’s over” statement. So our heroine is rightfully upset, and at least in this song, it seems to be about the whole f’d up situation.

But things change in the sequel, and not for the better in my opinion. King Douche Johnny and his new flame are hanging out. Our narrator kisses “some other guy” to get Johnny’s attention, and then she practically squeals in delight as Johnny punches the guy and returns to her. Wait, what? She’s taking him back? Yes, and enthusiastically so while giving a giant middle finger to Judy. I’ll try to highlight my problems in convenient bullet points:

Why in the world would she want Johnny back after he so carelessly and publicly threw their relationship away? How can she ever trust him again after he left her like that and then turned on Judy so quickly too?
Here’s something no one’s probably ever said: Poor Judy. Seriously, we don’t know what lines Johnny told her at the birthday party. “Listen, she and I have been having serious problems for months and it’s practically over. I said I’d come to her party but then we’re through. And to tell you the truth, Judy, you’re a big reason for our breakup because you’ve been all I can think about for a long time now.” Not so evil now, right? And after she buys his lines and starts giving him a little sugar, he’s off punching some dude and getting back together with his ex while Judy gets pointed and laughed at. Keep your chin up, Judy; those assholes deserve each other.
And you know what else? Poor “Some Other Guy.” The poor love pawn probably went from, “Oh good, she’s ready to move on and finally noticing me after sitting together in class for two years” to “Ow, my fucking nose is bleeding!” in the span of five seconds. Wrong place and wrong time, buddy. Hope that kiss was worth it.

In my perfect scenario, that party ended with Judy caring for Some Other Guy’s injuries and commiserating over some wine coolers. They call the other two assholes some names (like “assholes”), make each other laugh, talk about the way people deserve to be treated, and make plans to eat lunch together the next week at school. A friendship quickly blossoms, and that friendship grows into love. Years later, when they run into Johnny working at the local Pep Boys while getting new wiper blades for their Volvo station wagon, he makes it seem like they were all best buds back in high school. Judy asks how the songs’ narrator is doing, and gets the answer she was quietly hoping for: “I don’t know and I don’t care.”

Tags: assholes, judy, some other guy

Mistaken identities

Aug3

Posted by P-Dawg in Uncategorized | 3 Comments

I had two amusing experiences at work within the past couple of weeks, so I figured I may as well combine them for a post instead of pretending I’ll do two separate ones. Deal?

First off, there’s a woman at work who I’ll call Sally Jean. It’s important that her fake name be a two-parter, because every time she meets someone new, she very intensely tells him or her that she has two names and you must call her by both. “I was named after two aunts,” she says in her rehearsed explanation, “and I don’t want either one to be left out.” She’s friendly, but aside from hearing her “two aunts” story a few times, we’d had very limited interactions. Well, a couple of weeks ago, that changed. I was walking toward the elevator and she and I saw each other, smiled, and said hi. “Can I ask you a question?” she asked. “Of course,” I said, figuring that she’d just asked me one that second and nothing bad had happened. “What exactly do you do here?” she asked with genuine curiosity. For the next five minutes, we chatted. I would mention one of my job functions, she’d ask a follow-up question, and so on. I could tell that she was waiting for some missing piece in my description to make a light go off, but she never seemed to get there. After, she said, “Thanks, that was really helpful. Because in a meeting yesterday, someone said that if we really want to succeed, we need to get more people on our team like Peter (insert last name that isn’t mine here). Did I pronounce that right?” “Oh, that’s not me – that’s a different Peter,” I said. She went from praising to confused to embarrassed to damage control in about half a second. She said something about how it was great to hear about what I do regardless, but it was clear that her inner voice was saying, “Well that was a colossal waste of time then!” I concur, I concur. Seems a little odd that someone who cares so much about having two names would ignore the very important second name of someone else, but that’s ok. I was tempted to just say, “Bye Sally” when I walked away, but I somehow managed to use her complete name. Must’ve been all the conditioning.

The other story I wanted to tell happened just a day or two later. A lot of my days are spent in meetings, so sometimes I really enjoy spending part of a lunch hour either sitting outside or walking around the park next to my office while listening to music or a podcast. On that day in particular, I eventually settled into a seat at an outdoor table with a great podcast playing in my ears. It was NPR’s “All Songs Considered” podcast, with an episode devoted completely to music from the 90s. I spent all of my high school and college years in that decade, so the music was beyond nostalgic for me. Every time they played or even discussed a song I knew, I recalled where I was and with whom at the time in more specific detail than I expected. It was fantastic.

One of the things I liked was that they would not only talk about the songs and artists they liked, but they occasionally slipped in snippets of ones they didn’t. The “unliked” ones produced the same – or even stronger – flashbacks. Near the end of the podcast, one host played a second of “Every Morning” by Sugar Ray when the others weren’t expecting it. “Oh man, we haven’t even talked about Smash Mouth yet!” a host said in response. “That wasn’t Smash Mouth,” I said aloud, chastising the person who couldn’t hear me. It was at that exact moment that I realized I wasn’t alone. A woman sitting just a few feet away from me looked over confusedly before turning back to her food. I didn’t say anything or offer any kind of explanation; I just took it and went back to my listening.

I can’t help but wonder how she might explain that scene to a friend or loved one that evening: “I was just sitting there eating some food, and there was this dashingly handsome man right next to me listening to music. After several minutes of silence, he suddenly spoke out of nowhere, and it sounded like – I swear to god – ‘That wasn’t Smash Mouth.”‘ He seemed a little perturbed about it too. Then he was quiet again and didn’t say another word before getting up and leaving. What the fuck?”

What the fuck indeed, lady. If people leading a music podcast don’t know the difference between two groups from the 90s with inexplicably long stints in the public consciousness due to crappy yet catchy songs, then they don’t deserve to be my shepherds through the fields of nostalgia. Maybe that other Peter is up for the job; I’ve heard good things about him.

Tags: 90s, music, podcast

Horse sense

Jul11

Posted by P-Dawg in Uncategorized | 2 Comments

While my lovely wife was out of town this past Sunday, I was taking care of the whole nighttime routine for our 3 year old twins. After their bath, we went to the couch for some milk, some pajama putting-on, and an episode of “Mickey Mouse Clubhouse” in Spanish. We got situated and I turned on the tv. The picture appeared, and before I opened up the list of saved programs to select Mickey y sus amigos, my son said, “That is baseball.” It wasn’t though. It was the channel that baseball had been on earlier in the afternoon when my parents were over and we watched the 9^th inning of the Dodger game. “No, that’s not baseball, buddy,” I told him, “It’s horseracing.” “Horsies!” my daughter said excitedly.

I then proceeded to explain what they were watching and what was going to happen. I told them all about “the big metal thing called a gate” and how the horses would all run really fast and we’d see which was the fastest. I explained about the numbers on the horses and that they all had names. “Which one do you think is going to win?” I asked them. “The one with the number 2 is going to win,” said my son. “Number 4 is going to win!” said my daughter. “I think number 1 is going to win,” I said. “No,” my son replied, “number 1 is not going to win. Only number 2 is going to win.” There was a degree of certainty in the way he said it that made me pause. “What if he’s right?” I thought to myself. At that point, had I been a cartoon character, you would’ve seen flashing dollar signs where my eyeballs normally are.

Here’s the thing: I think both of my kids are quite smart, but in very different ways. My daughter seems to really understand humor, and she makes up songs on the fly that actually rhyme. My son, on the other hand, seems to have more of an engineer/scientist type of smarts, and he’s been known to open and close a drawer for 15 minutes just to take in how all of the mechanisms work. “What did he see in the number 2 horse?” I wondered. “Was the horse calmer while walking toward the gate? Less calm? Or was it just a gut thing telling him that’s the one?” The horses started filing into their appointed spots. “Maybe they will all win,” my daughter said. “Oh, they can’t all win, sweetie,” I told her. I was glad too, because that would get in the way of our fortune-making.

I sat back, wondering if this was going to be one of those moments I’d prepared my whole life for. The countless hours shooting baskets at my parents’ house with my tongue in different positions in my mouth just in case one of them made me shoot 100%. Fellow blogger MC Squared used to make fun of me that I would’ve been unhappy with finding something that only made me successful 99% of the time. “I’m looking for true patterns,” I’d tell him, “and 99% won’t cut it.” When the tongue positions didn’t work, I’d try different songs in my head. It’s ridiculous, I realize this, but what if MC Breed’s “Ain’t No Future in Yo Frontin” somehow made me an infallible shooter? My world and my knowledge of the universe would never be the same. I can hear my lovely wife shaking her head from here (must be loud to hear a head shaking), saying the same thing as when I think I’m affecting the outcome of a Lakers game by the way I’m sitting: “It doesn’t work that way.” But what if it did and we just didn’t know it yet because it felt foolish to randomly look for patterns?

In hindsight, I think it’s almost sad that I was looking for mythical patterns instead of thinking I might have superior intellect that allowed me to pick up on things mere mortals couldn’t. Maybe that’s what was happening with my son. He didn’t need MC Breed, he just needed his eyes, his gut, and an algorithm most people couldn’t understand but it happened organically in his cute little head. Remaining pretty calm, I leaned forward and said, “Here they go!” The horses took off, and our six eyes were glued to the screen. I scanned the pack, searching for horse number 2, but he was hard to locate. A couple of horses started to distance themselves, and before long, the screen only showed those in contention; neither wore a number 1, 2, or 4. The 6 horse won handily (hoofily?), with all three of our picks finishing out of the money.

The triumphant jockey raised up in a celebratory fashion, prompting my son to say, “He is standing on his horse. That is not safe.” I explained that it was ok, and I gave them both a kiss before leaning back into the couch. “The next race is in 3 minutes,” I told them. They were excited and 3 minutes seemed like an unbearably long time for them to wait. We sat there for the next half hour, my arms around both of them, watching the horsies run really fast, and totally fine with missing every prediction. (Even when I crossed my right ankle over my left one.)

Tags: horseracing, patterns, prediction

The tracks of my tears

May25

Posted by P-Dawg in Uncategorized | 6 Comments

I only have a few real “issues” in life, and I think I’m quite open about them. For example, when someone asks me when they should leave to get to the airport at a certain time, I tell them, “You don’t want to ask me. I leave way too early because I’m afraid I’ll be late and then sit around for hours. Oh, and I don’t know how to get anywhere.” I figure it’s best to be upfront about these things so people can take those factors into account. Well, sometimes openness and planning just aren’t enough.

A couple of weeks ago, a handful of people from my department and I were going to visit another of our company’s sites in Orange County. According to Google Maps, the ride should take 1 hr 19 min without traffic. Of course there’s no such thing as “without traffic,” so my first inclination is to leave probably around 3 hours ahead of time. We didn’t have to be there until 11am though, so traffic should be much lighter than at other times.

A few days beforehand, two co-workers came up to me, who I’ll call Mary and Sue. Mary asked, “Are you going to this thing on Thursday?” I said I was. “You should carpool with us,” she replied. True, they both also live in The Valley, and that would allow us to be in the carpool lane and save time…but then it’s not on my schedule and I’m dependent on others when it comes to very important things like time. Furthermore, Sue is always late. So I hemmed and hawed a bit before reluctantly agreeing to go with them. I only said yes because there was a firm plan in place: I’d get to Sue’s house at 8:30, we’d arrive at the agreed upon meeting place with Mary at 9, and go from there. Sue didn’t want to drive that distance and seemed really worried about it (though it’s not like we were going cross-country or anything), so Mary said she had no problem driving. I was ok with this plan because I knew I would get to Sue’s house before 8:30 and apply enough pressure to get her out the door with enough time. I could totally do that, so I agreed.

Well, my friends, things have a way of changing on your old friend, P-Dawg. The next day (Tuesday), Sue walks up to me with a printed out receipt of some kind. “Look, we can take the train,” she said. “What?” I asked. “We can pick it up in Chatsworth at 8:30 and get there at 10:53. Then it’s only a five minute cab ride to the place. I already bought my ticket, and I checked – it’s all reimbursable.” Now if you know me, there are several things that immediately make me start to freak out from what she said. First, it’s a last-minute change of plans, when I’d already settled on doing something. Second, she’s proposing something I haven’t done in a place I haven’t been and therefore need to accurately find. And third, her plan would get us there – in theory – right on time instead of my comfort zone of way too early. “Does Mary want to do this?” I asked. “I haven’t seen her yet, but she can pick up the train near her the stop before Chatsworth and it will work out.” “Uh…I don’t know about this. I think I might just drive.” “Don’t be silly – it’s easy!” she said. “Yeah,” I said, “I don’t know.”

We talked to Mary later that day, and to any outsider, I would’ve looked foolish to pass up a nice, relaxing train ride in favor of sitting in traffic alone. I was about to reluctantly agree when Sue said, “It says to get to the station 15 minutes early.” “Ok, I’m out,” I said. “Why?” they both asked. “Well, I’m going to drop my kids off at school around 8, the station’s about 20 minutes from there, I don’t know where it is, where to park, or where to go and I’d be much more comfortable on my own terms.” They looked at me like I was an alien. Mary said, “Take your kids five minutes early. And we can upgrade to Business Class so it’s more comfortable and we can get a four-seater together.” Sue added, “It’s easy! I’ve been there many times, and parking is simple. Plus I’ll be there already so you’ll see me and I can show you exactly where to go. It’s really easy. And I already made the cab reservation to pick us up and bring us there so we’re all set.” I weighed everything and reluctantly agreed. “Just so you guys understand,” I said, “If this were a couple of days from now instead of tomorrow, I’d be doing a test run to make sure I knew exactly where to go. That’s who you’re dealing with.” Sue laughed and said once again, “It’s easy!”

The next morning, I was rushing a bit to make sure I left with the kids when I wanted to. Pleasantly, things went off without a hitch and I was able to leave their school at a comfortable time. “Get me to the Chatsworth Train Station,” I told Siri, and she pulled it up on the maps program and pointed me in the right direction. This is me, though, so I also had a printed copy of the directions in hand. Traffic to the station was mild, so I was almost there at around 8:10. “Turn left,” my phone told me. I did, and found that there was nothing but empty dirt lots and menacing guard dogs there. I was, quite literally, on the wrong side of the tracks. Slightly nervous, I turned around, swore at my phone, and started back the right way (as the printed directions had instructed). Mary sent a group text to the two of us saying, “I have a 4 seater table for us on the top deck…see u soon.” When I was waiting to turn into the right place, I texted Sue said, “Almost there. See you in a min.” I pulled into the first parking lot and it was completely full. “Fuck!” I yelled. I had to go all the way back to the street to continue on to Lot B. I was turning in there when my phone buzzed at 8:16. “On my way,” she said. “On her way?! What happened to her waving to me and showing me where to go?” I wondered somewhat frantically. Mary wrote again, “Btw the business class car is on the back of the train on your right.” I found a far away spot in Lot B and hurriedly packed my stuff up – it was 8:21 and I wasn’t feeling super comfortable. “Ok,” I said to myself with my ticket in hand, “Top deck, near the back. Forget Sue, I’m getting on.”

There was a train waiting there, and others from the lot were rushing its way. “Oh good,” I thought, “I’ll have a couple of minutes to find Mary and get situated before we leave.” Being who I am though, I wanted to double-check to make sure I had the right place. I stepped onto the train and looked for someone to ask where the stairs to Business Class was. The car was relatively empty, so I was walking toward the next car when a disembodied voice said, “Now departing, doors are closing.” I have no video evidence of this, but I think my eyes became the size of dinner plates when I heard that. I turned and sprinted to the door as it closed, screaming, “No no no!” loudly. (Here’s the audio file of the event.) There was a “Open Door” button by the door that I started pressing furiously while continuing my string of “No” chanting, but nothing was happening. I glanced up and saw something to break the glass and considered it for a second before realizing that it was probably too drastic a step. An older woman was sitting nearby and had witnessed the whole thing. “Wrong train?” she asked. Somehow – I know not how – I refrained from punching her in the face.

Here’s what was going through my head (not counting all the Fucks): “I don’t know where this is going or even what direction. There’s no chance I can get back here in time for the right train. What if it takes me somewhere and there’s no return trip for hours and I can’t even get back to my car? If I do get to my car, will I have time to drive to the place still? FUCKING SUE!”

I texted Mary and Sue: “On the wrong fucking train. Fuck. It started. I’m screwed.” I found a security guide and explained my predicament while Mary wrote back with an understandable, “What?” The guy told me that the next stop was Northridge and was looking up to see if my right train would meet up with it somewhere. I wrote back, “I’m serious. Have to get off at Northridge. I’m fucked. Can I get our train from there? Can you please see if it stops there somehow?” A minute later, I wrote again: “A guy here said this one stops in Van Nuys in 8 min and ours might meet there.” Then again, “I’m suck a fuckup. You guys will never let me forget this I’m sure. And rightfully so.” Mary asked the question I might have in the same situation: “Are u fucking with me?” At this point, the life-saving security guy assured me that the right train would stop in Van Nuys a few minutes after my wrong one stopped there, so I started to calm down a little. “No,” I wrote back, “Gonna get off in Van Nuys and meet you there. See? I told you I was a moron.” After a couple more back and forths confirming the new plan, Mary asked a very important question, “Sue where are you??” A minute later: “Ok well the train is leaving and no Sue. Great.” “Fantastic,” I said. “Sue, you can drive to Van Nuys in time!” Nothing. I asked Mary to let me know exactly when her train was pulling up to Van Nuys so I only got on the correct one this time. When Mary was only a few minutes away from the Van Nuys station, we still hadn’t heard anything from Sue. Mary said she’d stick her head out to find me and walk me to the right place. “Sweet. I’m the idiot in the blue and white striped shirt,” I replied. “It’s an Amtrak. Blue train,” she said. “Ok, and what’s a train?” I answered. That got an “Lol” out of her.

She found me and I got on the train. It took about an hour for me to get to a normal state of calm, even though everything worked out. “I think I lost a year of my life from stress this morning,” I told her, and I meant it. Sue finally called Mary. She had missed the train but was able to take the Metro Link that came right after it and would meet up with us at Union Station where our train was going to be parked for 15 minutes before the ride to Orange County. Somehow that worked out too. When she finally boarded, I said in my best impression of her voice, “It’s easy! I’ll be there! I’ll show you where to go! It’s easy!” (I repeated that every so often for the following week, and she laughed each time. Glad she thinks it was funny.)

Naturally, our cab driver was an idiot and the 5 minute drive took 15. The whole ride, I had people already at the site texting me asking where we were and saying that everyone was waiting for us. I would rather smack my thumb with a hammer than receive texts like that. Even thinking about being late is bad enough, but multiple people pointing out that I’m holding them up when it’s out of my control? That doesn’t sit well at all with me. I convinced Sue to move up the time that the cab would arrive to take us back to the station. I said very clearly, “We are not missing that train. I will leave without you.” She laughed. I didn’t. We finally got there (to mock applause), and I told my boss that things hadn’t gone exactly as planned but that I’d fill her in later. To this day, all she has to do is picture me frantically pushing the “Open Door” button and screaming my string of Nos and she cackles maniacally. You see, she knows me, and she knows how much more crazed I must have been in that situation than a normal person. Yes, I’m open with my issues.

To recap: I freaked out about timing, ended up being too early, and got on the train that left one before the right one (with Mary already on it). Sue missed the right one but got on the one after it. Our Chatsworth meeting place ended up turning into a Van Nuys and a Union Station meeting place, and I lost a year of my life. All because Sue didn’t want to drive and I foolishly went along with a plan that seemed to almost make sense. If there’s a next time, I don’t think anyone will have a problem with me saying, “Ya know, I’m just gonna go by myself.” The good news is that we made our return trip with plenty of time and without incident. Better yet, Business Class came with a free and 100% necessary glass of wine.

Tags: no no no, train, van nuys

No comprendo

May5

Posted by P-Dawg in Uncategorized | No Comments

Well looky here – just a scant two months between posts this time. I think that’s a good sign. Today I’d like to talk about a little thing called the SAP option on our remote. This has now been around for a while, and I’m so used to seeing programs put a little SAP icon at the top of the show that I don’t even notice it anymore. Up until less than a year ago, though, I’d never pushed the button or tried to make whatever I’m watching turn into Spanish.

Our kids spent their first two years hearing Spanish about as much as English, thanks to their nanny who was at our house five days a week and (per our request) speaking almost exclusively in her native tongue. Once the kids started school and she was no longer coming over regularly, we wanted them to keep their comprehension levels up. They actually knew a good amount of Spanish by then, counting just as high as in English, and opting to say some Spanish words over their English counterparts (like estrella and más). My lovely wife started looking into what it would cost to add a Spanish-language kids’ network to our cable, but I decided to try out the SAP button first.

Lo and behold, the episodes of “Mickey Mouse Clubhouse” we had on our DVR magically turned into Spanish with just a few clicks of the remote. In seconds, we could hear a high pitched voice saying, “Ha ha! Hola, Pluto!” The kids watched as if it were no different than the English version, and we were pleased with this no-extra-cost way of keeping Spanish in their lives.

There are only two downsides for me. The first is about my disappearing (or almost completely disappeared) understanding of spoken Spanish. Back when it was one of my majors in college, I was getting the vast majority of what native speakers were saying, though I always had to strain a little since it was so damn fast. A short time later, and I found I was getting a good amount – maybe even most – of what was being said, which still made me feel good about my language skills. But now…well, there are entire sentences that go by uncomprehended, and that bothers me. Part of it is the speed, another part is the vocabulary (some I lost and some I never knew), and yet another part is simply because of Donald Fucking Duck. I have trouble enough understanding one word that guy says in English, but in Spanish? Forget it – I’m batting about .100 when he opens his bill para hablar.

The second downside is about what happens when I or someone else forgets to change it back from SAP. “Uh, it stays in Spanish?” you might be asking. Yeah, that would make total sense, but noooooo. Here’s what kills me about it: many programs do absolutely nothing differently when SAP is on; they remain in their normal English and lead me into a false sense of security. But then I turn on the Lakers and hear…some unidentifiable Asian language. I’m pretty sure that it isn’t Japanese, but that’s all I got: play-by-play in a language that is neither English nor Spanish, usually after watching something in English but forgetting that the “turn it into Spanish button” was pushed.

But wait, there’s more! Let’s say I go to my list of recorded shows and start watching an episode of “Shark Tank.” I fast forward through the beginning and start watching as the first person enters “the tank.” If I forget that SAP is on, guess what I hear. I don’t know what your guess was, but no. I hear this: “A woman in a burgundy dress walks down the corridor.” If it’s an episode of “The Office,” I hear: “Dwight walks over to Jim’s desk and kneels down next to him.” Yes, for some reason, the “turn it into Spanish button” doubles – in just some cases, mind you – as a “tell blind people what they’re not seeing button.”

Here’s the one glaring problem with me being confused about this: SAP isn’t actually a “turn it into Spanish button,” as I’ve just come to learn. Growing up in Southern California, I’m conditioned to think of Spanish as the automatic second language. I’ve heard the option said in Spanish (ese ah pey) almost as much as English, in fact, and the letters of SAP are close enough to the beginning of “Spanish” that I never thought twice about it. However, the always-right Wikipedia says that it actually stands for “Second Audio Program,” while acknowledging that some people think the S is for “Spanish.” So I guess it makes sense that different programs would have different secondary audio feeds, but…I still don’t understand why they’re not all Spanish. Look, I want blind people to enjoy “The Office” (though I doubt anyone actually enjoys that show anymore), but aren’t there more Spanish speakers out there that NBC should be going after? I guess it turns into a numbers game, and hiring Spanish voice talent is much more expensive than one person describing the sights. Fine, I’ll accept that, even if I think it’s short-sighted (pardon the pun). But the Lakers…really? I guarantee there are Spanish announcers doing the game on some radio station, so why not pipe that in instead of a probably-not-Japanese Asian language? I don’t get it.

And now to poke a hole in my own hole-poking: I just looked again at the SAP option on my TV, and actually quite clear. I have two options to choose from: English and Español. And yes, the latter is the one with Asian play-by-play and Blindspeak. Oh well, at least it has the desired effect on our kids’ show…incluyendo eso pinche pato.

Tags: blindspeak, mickey mouse, sap