The Northward Contrail

They're not mansions

After the last few days of non-stop hilarity, perhaps our souls could all use a cleansing.  Let this awesome commercial for a mobile home liquidator be likened unto a pre-moistened towelette for your soul. 

Please don't take a picture

If Tuesday was a barrel of giggles, yesterday was a laugh riot.

I'll spare you the gory details, but let's say that at one memorable point, I was reminded that no good deed goes unpunished, and in the process I was subjected to things that surprised and disappointed me.  The more the matter went on, the more trivial the point of contention seemed.  So I gave in.  As a practical matter, it was probably the best way to solve the problem.  But I came out of it feeling manipulated.  Even worse, I felt I was rewarding a form of behavior I loathe. 

Back in the day, I'd have never dared do this kind of thing to someone.  Now, there's little that surprises me.  Back in my undergraduate days, I'd wonder why some professors seemed mean and impatient with some folks.  Now, I understand.  Anyone who thinks the average professor's life is like what you see in the movies, like The Paper Chase or Quiz Show, is sadly mistaken.  There are days when I feel I'm really teaching high school, if not junior high school.  (And "respect your elders"?  Ha!)

Does it frustrate me?  Absolutely.  I came to this from a professional background, where you find out in a hurry that if you miss deadlines or show up late or whatever you can imagine, you're toast.  If you're a 20-year-old mouthing off to your program director or to your editor, you're history.  It's a hard world out there, and you have to follow orders, do your work, keep your trivial gripes to yourself, and stand out if you want to get ahead.  That's what I try to prepare my students for.  But often, it seems, I'm made to feel I shouldn't be a teacher so much as a cruise director.  My job often seems like it's in "customer service."  I try to make the best of it, and work within the boundaries I have.  But, sometimes, it's awful hard.  I try to be fair and humane, and to realize that life happens.  But, despite your best efforts, you still get snakebit.

I spent the rest of the day with the gray cloud hanging over me, playing through the hurt.  My next class didn't go so swell, and I came close to not making it through.  I got through the rest of the day, but spent a very quiet evening still feeling like I'd had the crap kicked out of me.  I spent most of yesterday wishing somebody had given me a hug.  It wouldn't have been much, but it would have been something to make the feeling come back. 

But this is a new day.  There's a show that has to go on.  And the week's coming to a close.  I hope the next one will be much better. 

:: The curse of what you ask for  It's funny that I talk about somebody having a complaint, for I'm just coming off having resolved a situation in my own life.  But the funny part?  Not only did I put my request in a polite manner, but having gotten what I wanted in return, I feel a little guilty about it.

A couple weeks ago we went on a trip and spent a couple nights at a hotel.  I'd booked this stay through a special offer tied in with my credit card.  Among other things, it was to have included free breakfast for the two of us and a set of coupons toward a future stay.  It meant a higher rate than another rate I could have gotten, but I figured that by the time you figured in breakfast and so forth, it would about even out. 

So we go to the hotel and spend the weekend.  None of the promised benefits materialize.  And part of it's on me.  I don't press the question when we check in, nor do I press it during our stay.  Part of it's because we're in the company of a friend who came to be with us, and I don't want to cause a scene.  And part of it is, I just flat out dread confrontation.  Plus, I like to go into any situation with as much evidence as I can.  I didn't have the full paper trail I wanted to have (nor could I access the Interweb to re-check my reservation, for it was one of those pay-for-everything places).  Nor did it help that the front desk help seemed...well, slightly brittle.  I didn't get good vibes about my chances dealing with them.

When we came back, I kind of stewed about it a bit.  It had been a good weekend, but I didn't get what I thought I would.  Should I investigate, or should I just let it go since part of it was on me?  I couldn't decide.  After a few days, I figured I should at least get an explanation, if for no other reason than to satisfy my curiosity, and sent a message through the web inquiring about it.  I didn't expect anything in return.  If anything, I expected some kind of explanation involving the hotel not taking part, or some kind of business about terms and conditions, or something like that.  I'm accustomed to being on the wrong end of these things, since experience has taught me that the other party will usually find a way out.

A few nights ago I was contacted by the hotel manager.  He was very nice about the whole thing, apologized to me about it, and all that.  He promised not only to forward the coupons and give me a bit of a rebate on the stay, but told me he'd put my name on a special list.  Apparently, the next time we go down there, he wants to give us the full treatment, a special rate and an upgrade.  (Shades of Don Draper being wooed by Connie Hilton.)

Part of me felt some vindication after all this.  But the episode also activated the weird guilt I feel when I complain about something and get something in return.  I don't know where it comes from, but when I get something out of something like this, nine times out of ten I feel bad, as if I've created a problem for someone.  It's really silly for me to feel that way, especially since it usually happens in a business context.  If it comes out of someone being nasty to me (as happened once at a Target store), or if it comes from someone just not acting like they care (as happened in the Atlanta airport on a rather memorable trip back home from Anchorage several years ago), or from someone just doing something stupid or unsafe, then I don't feel that bad about raising a stink.  But if it's a milder issue, and I get something out of it, I kind of feel guilty. 

I shouldn't feel badly about what happened.  It's the job of that manager to see that problems are taken care of, and in a way, I'm to blame for my own situation.  On the other hand, I didn't get what I paid for, and they needed to know about it. 

Or maybe all this -- both with work, and with this customer service deal -- is just the universe telling me it's time to take another trip.

Ouch

It's probably a good thing you weren't around me yesterday.  The longer the day went on, the more the lack of sleep ate into me.  By about 10 am, I was really starting to get weird.  This wasn't helped any by a situation I got drawn into with one of my classes, a situation that ended with our project's outside client unexpectedly showing up in my office wanting a meeting.  It was a meeting I really didn't want to have, but I had to have it, so I got it out of the way and worked out a solution to our little impasse.  (That's my role in life, to be U Thant.  Or, at least it seems like it sometimes.)

By that point, what remaining self-control I had was really starting to ebb.  Normally, I have pretty good editing equipment.  Oh, there are plenty of nasty things I think on a frequent basis, but I'm fairly good at holding them in.  Yesterday, the editing equipment was really starting to go.  I was alternately entertaining and frightening myself. 

By noon, I was home.  Even if I'd had further obligations yesterday, I probably would have/should have made it a half-day anyhow, because I was in no shape to do much of anything, and the quality of the work I was trying to get done was really starting to go.  The only word to describe my mindset at that point is just plain ol' "nasty."  So I decided it was time to quit for the day.

Immediately upon coming home, I took a shower, as if I could get the morning's ickiness off me.  I had some lunch.  And then I went into the spare bedroom and sacked out for a couple of hours or so.  It all did me a world of good.  I wasn't completely over it, but it was still as if I'd taken some medicine for what ailed me.  It made a difference.  Aside from a couple instances of free-form ranting later in the evening (to which hubby, bless him, listened patiently), I was much better.

Now I'm going to try again today.  Thankfully, a couple of tasks that had bothered me got completed yesterday before I really got too punchy to continue, and enough work was done on another one to make this morning's chores considerably less bothersome.

Caffeine and you: Partners in freedom

I'm in the office much too early this morning.  A bunch of things happened. For one, I was up before 2:30 this morning, thanks to a dream that weirded me out.  That was bad enough, but it caused a cascade effect in my brain, and the more I was lying there in the dark, the more the weird thoughts cascaded.  Plus, the clock was bearing down on me, and the more I knew that wake-up time was coming, the harder it was for me to sleep.  And there were some things related to work that were chewing on me, too.  The "shut up, brain" command wasn't working, so I finally gave up, ate a too-early breakfast and came in early.  Now I'm sitting here pouring caffeine down my throat, battling that scuzzy, bleary feeling that comes from not having been able to sleep.

(Note: This is one source of friction between me and my students.  More often than not, my students, in a similar situation, would blow off the day's classes.  Plus, they'd come up with some kind of story full of more holes than a block of Swiss cheese.  That grinds my gears, for as a professional, I know I have a responsibility to be here, no matter how little sleep I've had, no excuses short of being physically ill.  I don't want to be here, but it's my duty.)

At least today is scheduled to be a short day.  I hope I haven't thrown my luck off in so saying.

You have chosen "regicide"

Another found piece from the Life archive is this article about the fall from glory of RMS Queen Elizabeth.  It's sometimes forgotten that the Elizabeth was to have become a museum ship in Port Everglades, similar to what became of running mate RMS Queen Mary in Long Beach.  But, as it turned out, there were flies in the ointment.  

Here's another account of the Elizabeth's ignoble reign in exile. Truly, it was no way to treat a queen.  And, sadly, here's an account of her sudden, agonizing demise. 

The power of a song

Music has always been powerful to me.  I'm sure I'm not alone.  There are certain songs you hear, and they bring back powerful memories.  For instance, you can be in the grocery store and a certain song comes over the in-store music system, and suddenly you're not inspecting the leeks and radishes any longer.  Nope, you're where you were when you heard it for the first time, or you're where you were when you it and fell in love with your mate, or something like that. 

In our dreams, we always have this romantic vision of falling in love to some certain special song or another.  For instance, you may have dreams of taking your first slow dance with your beloved to something by Frank Sinatra (well, that was always my fantasy, anyway).  More often, though, we don't get to dictate the songs that go with a given memory.  Sometimes, the songs that go with them are the last songs you'd pick. 

I am perhaps the last person in the world who would choose to listen to Matchbox 20.  It's not that I have anything against them.  Rather, it's that their music does not match the person I am.  To me, their music is bland, too radio-friendly, and way too overplayed, and the band wore out its welcome with me in a huge hurry.  ("3 A.M." was absolutely beat to death on the radio, and things weren't helped a few years later when that Rob Thomas/Santana track got played to death.)  Ordinarily, I'd change the station, put in a CD, or just turn the radio off. 

But, so help me, any time I hear "If You're Gone" on the radio, it brings back this huge flood of memories.  It happens that song was being played to death about the time I moved off on my own, went looking for and found my first real-world job, and all that.  I have such memories of those days every time I hear that song, those radio-friendly riffs and cushiony trumpets...so help me, I hear it and it's the year 2000 all over again, with all its wonder and uncertainty. 

The same goes for "Unwell," a couple or three years later: the memories of settling in at this new job, wondering if I was going to make it here, all the fascinations and heartbreaks of back then, all contained in three minutes and 48 seconds of auditory mediocrity.  I'm not a fan by any stretch, but, darn it, I hear these songs and the memories make me listen.  If not buy the stupid tracks off iTunes.  I really despise them, but at the same time, completely against my will, I love them.  I hear those songs, and I know how awful I think they are, but I keep listening because of the memories.

Grrr.

Too early

The last few weeks, I've been waking up earlier and earlier, and coming to the office earlier and earlier.  It's hard to tell you why.  It's not like coming in early will let me go home earlier than I normally do, and it's not like it'll necessarily let me beat the traffic.  (That's because I end up getting stuck in a different set of commuters, only with the added fun of bright headlights blasting into my rear-view mirror.)  Plus, it's not like I come in early to catch up on any work; most of the time, I make sure most all of my outstanding tasks are completed before I leave at the end of the day.

The only reason I can suggest is that it lets me get accustomed to the day ahead a little easier.  It lets me, in a way, go ahead and get it over with.  I can come in, have some caffeine, use up some bandwidth, and be alone for a bit.  By the time I have to go to work, I'm a little more attuned.  By then, I'm accustomed to the idea of being here, and since I'm an incredible grouch in the morning, the time to myself lets me file down some of the rough edges before I have to go interact with others. 

Do I enjoy being up so early and getting in so early?  Not necessarily, and that's especially true on the days when I have to stay late for meetings (particularly since meetings in this business tend to last forever).  But does it work?  For right now, yes. 

Marinating in the zeitgeist

A couple nights ago, I spent the afternoon and evening watching a pair of very interesting documentaries I'd set our DVR to record while we were away.  They re-visit a well-traveled moment in our country's history, and I'd not expected much from them at first.  I recorded them because, well, I can always erase them if they're hokey or axe-grinding.  Instead, I was transfixed. 

To set the premise up, these two films are constructed from archival footage.  The first two-hour block tells a story most all of us know.  Some of it is a little familiar to anyone who's seen a lot of documentaries about the subject (the usual Uncle Walter stuff, the usual Jay Watson stuff, etc.), but much of it was new to me.  More intriguing was that some of it was raw tape or outtakes, with some of those giving details I'd never seen before.  There was no narration; the footage told the story, with context provided by no more on-screen text than necessary.  There was occasional background music, but it too was minimal and provided just the right atmosphere.  It reminded me a lot of Robert Stone's documentaries. 

The second two-hour block took the story from that horrible weekend to, more or less, the present day.  What will happen to the event is previewed after the surprise event of the 24th; you start getting a taste of how tawdry the story will get as the on-camera guests who are brought into the studio to provide background information about the latest villain are stand-up comics and strippers from his club.  And, from there it goes.  It's a two-hour, 45-year ride through trials, theories, pop-culture references, controversies, you name it...all told through archival footage from the times.  Some of it is poignant, some of it is bizarre, and some of it is just weird (i.e., videotape of a 1971 visit by then-President Nixon; he flies into the very same airport on the very same airplane, and there are hollow, eerie echoes of a certain arrival eight years before). 

It's sad and a little creepy to watch, but it's fascinating, and it's fascinatingly told.  There were moments I couldn't bear to look at the screen (you can't accurately capture the zeitgeist represented in certain bits of footage without leaving intact the compulsion by some parties to show certain disturbing images, in some cases repeatedly -- for instance, the moment a young Geraldo Rivera showed a certain amateur movie for the first time on network television is disturbing, but it's essential to telling the story of the story), but I couldn't turn it off.  It was an incredible bit of filmmaking, and it did a good job (to me, anyway) of giving the sense of how the event turned from tragedy to an ongoing cultural fascination and a sort of industry, to the point we've been at since where you can't mention the event without someone coming to you with a pet theory and talking your ears off about it.  (It reminds me of why it is the words "Yeah, I've been wanting to talk to you about that" strike dread into the hearts of folks.  It normally means you can kiss the next 20 minutes, at least, goodbye.) 

Given the History Channel's tendency to re-air programming, these two documentaries will be shown a few more times.  If you get a chance, it's well worth the time to watch them.  I've seen so much of this stuff, but I was so surprised by how gripping those four hours were.

Oops

Someone pointed out to me the other day that my comments section on each post has been closed. There's a reason for that. TypePad recently changed its interface, and with it the way you can permit comments on posts. Sure enough, I overlooked it. I'll try to do better, I promise.

(DISCLAIMER: This, of course, assumes anything I write about would be worth posting a comment on. Don't break your arm patting yourself on the back, Nerdette.)

A grand weekend out

We escaped for a long weekend to Atlanta and the annual airliner-related swap meet at the Delta museum.  It's always a fun getaway: we're able to meet up with friends we haven't seen in months, we're able to find interesting relics and castoffs, and most of all it's a low-key weekend that provides a welcome change of pace.

The hotel of choice is the Renaissance adjacent to the Atlanta airport, and you can request a room with a view of the field.  That's always fun because you can watch airplanes to your heart's content, and since the rooms overlook the overnight storage ramp, you get to take long close-up views of big airplanes.  Bring your field glasses and you can have even more fun.  In my case, I love to look at registrations to see if an airplane is one I've flown on.  (This weekend, I got to see several of those.  Oh, the memories.  For instance, there was a 767 parked right outside Saturday night.  This particular airplane, I rode on during the first leg of the trip to take me to the interview for my current job. It was a brand-new airplane then.  Now, oh, does it look like it has some miles on it.)

The swap meet was its usual fun, and we were able to catch up with some great folks and score some unexpected bargains.  Delta was once again having a big blow-out of surplus items.  The most intriguing was crockery for in-flight service.  You could, for instance, pick up a box of 36 very nice cereal bowls for $5.  If I'd brought the car (instead of us bringing the truck), I'd have loaded up on this stuff, and we'd never need dishes again.  Of course, you could also buy a set of coach-class 767 seats for $25.  (I was tempted, but...naaah.)

After the show, five of us loaded up and went to a nearby Mexican restaurant.  It was a fun, raucous lunch, and we spent an hour or so telling Lies and Sea Stories about our various airplane-related adventures.  Once again, the actual event and the trinkets you pick up, are all incidental; the reason why we go to these things is the people.

Being around all this stuff, and being around all these airplanes, inevitably makes me a little sentimental for the days when I traveled more.  But, as I wrote about Friday, it's time wasted, for it's pining for a time and a set of circumstances that can no longer exist.  Better to look ahead for the dawns yet to come.