The Northward Contrail

Too few to mention

Yesterday I met up with an old friend and had lunch.  It's scary how long we've known each other.  We became friends in seventh grade, and except for a few gaps here and there we've known one another a good 25 years or so.  It was one of those friendships that happened because we were both part of the "freaks and geeks" group: we were on the quiz bowl team, we both loved science and history, we had the ability to astonish and amuse one another with obscure cultural references, and so forth.  With a few gaps here and there, we've stayed in contact through the years.  He started a career, got married and has a family; I did my graduate school thing, settled into academia, got married and all that. 

I forget how the topic came around, but we were discussing how long we've known each other, and some of the characters we knew back when, and that it's coming up on two decades since we graduated high school.  And we both had the same reaction: although the realization sort of makes you realize that time flies, neither of us really had any kind of emotion about it.  It just is. 

Back in the day I wondered what it would be like.  I remember the night of my mother's 20-year reunion, which my parents went to (and weren't impressed).  Back then, 20 years seemed like an impossibly long time, and the thought of approaching 40 sounded like your life was about to end.  But now it's our turn, my friend and I, and neither of us can really get that bothered by it. 

We talked about it a bit, and it's interesting how similar our reactions were: though we have fun talking about the old days and some of the crazy things we did and some of the gags we pulled, we can't get swept up in nostalgia.  As I said to him, I can't really pine for those old days.  Why should I?  I'm settled, I have a good job that's very rewarding most of the time, I have someone who loves me, I have friends and family who love me, and sometimes I get to go on some incredible adventures.  I am happy and reasonably content.  I can't even get upset about approaching 40, because I'm finding that age and experience bring their own gifts.  With each year I find a little more wisdom than I had before, and that I'm a little better at figuring out what's trivial and what's really worth fighting for.  I've found that all the years when things didn't go my way were really an education no amount of money can buy.

Are there things I'd do differently if I had the chance?  Perhaps, but most of them are tiny things.  If I did too much differently, I wouldn't have the life I have now, and it's a life that is very blessed.  I've thought about that many times, but it was interesting to hear my friend echo much the same sentiment.

Busy again

Places to go and people to see today, but it's all good.  So while I see to all that, here's George Jones.

Smokey gets his wish

A couple days ago there was a fire in Daytona Beach, and the last remaining section of an automotive landmark became history.  It was all that was left of Smokey Yunick's garage, and it went up in a rather spectacular blaze.

Smokey's garage was one of those places you had to seek out, especially as Daytona Beach grew up.  A few years ago, we were in town on one of our semi-regular visits and we drove up Beach Street to find it.  Smokey had been gone a couple years by that point, and we knew the garage's days were numbered anyway.  But we found it.  It was surrounded by a tall chain-link fence and stacks of old tires dotted the perimeter at intervals.  The buildings were quiet and empty.  Partly out of respect, but mainly to avoid trespassing, we didn't dare approach the fence; instead, we sat in the shopping center parking lot next door and shot a few photos. 

There's doubtless some folks who wished Smokey's garage could have remained as a museum and showcase.  But Smokey wasn't among them, and for several reasons.  He knew the land was valuable and could provide for his family after he was gone.  He didn't want to get into the museum business (according to some accounts, he'd noted the struggles Don Garlits had gone through keeping his museum afloat).  And by the 1990s, the place was getting run down, and keeping the accumulated stuff inside intact was becoming a lot of work.  In his very entertaining (and highly recommended, available here) memoir, Smokey wrote, "My goal is get rid of the stuff, get up on the roof with 20 gallons of gas, spread it around and light it.  The garage is 55 years old and it's getting in really poor shape.  We had two hurricanes in '99 and the roof looks like a chicken with most of its feathers off."

Once upon a time, I'd have been in the "preserve it" category.  But over the years, I've seen what happens to a lot of preserved structures: they lose their context with each passing generation, and become touristed-up, or get seized upon by those who want to use them as symbols for this or that, or they become pawns in larger battles, or someone buys them as expensive "look what I got!" trinkets.  Or they're not maintained properly, and either start looking utterly ridiculous because of improper restoration/conservation, or they're neglected and eventually fall apart. 

Don't get me wrong, for I am firmly in favor of preserving significant artifacts and structures.  But so little of what I see is done the right way, and so much of what has to be done to make them pay for themselves gets tawdry.  And the more of it you do, the less you preserve of what you're preserving, and the more context you lose over time.  Every once in a while I wonder if the stuff that gets demolished doesn't get the better deal, because at least they don't have to maintain their dignity and context in a world that's hell-bent on destroying that dignity and context in favor of the tawdry and the quick buck.

That's part of why, when they started tearing down Smokey's a few years ago, I couldn't get too terribly sad about it.  Because, that way, it stayed what it was until the very end.  And, more than that, it wasn't my call.  It's what Smokey wanted.  He made no secret that he wanted the property sold and the garage torn down.  No shrines.  His family wanted his wish carried out, and was prepared to fight for it.  And now it's over, and the family is relieved, justifiably so. 

Smokey, I don't know if you were serious when you wrote what you did ten years ago, but it's funny how it came to pass, exactly the way you wanted.  Here's to you, you magnificent ol' cuss.

Get it over with, already

This week brings the end of classes, and it got off to an appropriately screwy start yesterday, considering how screwy the year has been.  I'll spare you the details, but in the 45 minutes between getting out of a meeting and having to leave for another, a strange series of events involving a phone call and a last-moment request for a tour of our department by a potential student just got really weird, like an especially strange sitcom subplot.  (Then things got weird again at the faculty meeting.  But that's not so unusual.  It's a faculty meeting, after all.)

If I can get through a chore or two this week, it'll all be okay.  But the events of yesterday did little, other than reminding me how happy I will be to put this rotten, sordid academic year behind me, and how welcome the next three months will be.  That respite cannot start soon enough.

For now, though, I have to get through today's little task.  And then I can come home and take care of a fairly significant chore at the house that's remained undone too long.  (Funny how some things can actually make you eager to do things like cut the lawn, no?  But that's how I feel this morning.)

Tick...or maybe not

I came in the office this morning and noticed my wall clock had died over the weekend.  Well, maybe not completely, but the second hand can't do anything but just sort of bounce a little bit.  The time is stuck at 47 minutes after 8, and probably has been through all the long weekend. Time for a new battery.  That is somehow emblematic of the entire year (unable to move forward) and how I feel right now (in need of a new battery). 

It's going to be a super-long day, and the demands have already started.  So I'll see you tomorrow.

A day of rest

They've given us today off.  I'm treating it as the gift it is, and am using this day to remember how it feels to be a human being and have emotions and all that good stuff.  Since Monday is going to be one of those days that lasts forever, today's quiet will be welcome.  (And it's raining out, which seems appropriate, like it's warshin' away all my worries.)  See you Monday.

It's always something

This day seemed like it was going to start okay.  My classes are pretty much done, so I was going to take my time getting to town this morning.  I thought maybe I could get some things done, then go out for a run and then come by the office, do my stuff, and then be done for the day. 

Well, not so fast.

I had to ship something overseas, and I used my trusty Click-and-Ship account to print the postage, customs forms, and all that good stuff.  I did that last night and the package was all ready to go this morning.  It automatically sent a notification to the recipient when I bought the postage.  Problem was, though, the buyer didn't put his preferred shipping address in his PayPal notification.  He wrote back this morning asking if I could change the address.  I told him I could, since the package hadn't gone yet.  So I went online, made up the new label, printed it out, and then tried to get a refund for the one I wasn't going to use.  System told me it wasn't a real label, even though I was putting in the exact information they wanted.  Grrr.

Then as I was packing up a few more things, I discovered that when I printed the new label for the guy overseas, I didn't put the "mailed from" ZIP code as the post office near work from which I ship things, but instead put my home ZIP code.  Which would necessitate a side trip on the way to work this morning to go by that post office, or I'd have to go through it all again and print (and pay for) yet another label.  I decided to take the side trip instead.

By this time it's too late to squeeze in a run before work, and it's raining out.  So I took my shower and got ready to go.  Took the side trip, got the thing mailed and a money order cashed.  Then stopped to buy gasoline, but the favored station in that part of the world had plastic bags over all its pumps.  Had to go across the road to the now-packed smaller gas station.  Then side trip through another small town to cash a check, which took forever.  Finally get to favored post office, drop off all my other packages. 

Then I get to work.  It's quiet when I come in, but that's deceptive.  When the e-mail finally downloads from the server, it's a torrent of demands, requests, crises and other global brouhaha.  The stakes are really high this time of year and the seniors (or about-to-be seniors) are getting very nervous, and everything's a full-blown crisis.  Which means I have students who are demanding answers about this or that right now, but the answers they seek are not answers I can give them; they involve other offices on this campus.  Meanwhile, some of the higher-ups are wanting me to follow up on advisees of mine who haven't registered (I've been trying to contact them -- like Kay Howard, there's a quiet pride I have in my clearance rate -- but have heard nothing back, and I can't tell you what I don't know).  Then there's something else involving the local newspaper, which prints our student paper, and I have to follow up on that after work.  And a student wanting a meeting one day next week.  (Oh, and all the meetings I had to plan for next week have been increased by one.)

I keep trying to remind myself that it's all about to be over, and that in a couple weeks it'll be so quiet and so nice.  But right now, why is it the little bottle of caffeine next to me, the one with "Coke Zero" on it, is telling me that maybe I should take it easy?

The invitation

It showed up in my work e-mail yesterday.  The subject line addressed me by name and, after the comma, said "Let me know if you can participate."  I didn't recognize the sender's name, but since I get these kinds of protocol-challenged e-mails from time to time asking for my help with this project or that, I wondered if it was someone at work needing something.  So I clicked on it and started to read.

What was inside was a spiel about some big advisory panel of experts that communicates via teleconference, and they wanted me to participate because of my "key role and experience."  In public relations, no less.  That should have tipped me off that this was an e-mail blast from some group that uses media directories and databases.  Because my training isn't in PR.  As I tell people sometimes, my background has more to do with making PR people squirm. 

But, hey.  I was starting to get the hunch it was another one of these "prestigious invitations" that has do to with your willingness to pay a large sum of money in exchange for being listed in a book or being a part of a "prestigious group" -- basically, a call to ego via the pocketbook.  So I clicked on the link in the e-mail and explored the website.  Sure enough, the privilege of taking part in this prestigious group of top experts was more than $700 a year.

It didn't take me long to close that browser window.  And to put the "prestigious invitation" into the electronic circular file.  No, thanks.

Bringin' home the goodies

Yesterday at the post office I did my fair share of giving (a number of flat-rate envelopes to send off; in my mind, whoever came up with Click & Ship needs to win a Nobel Prize, if for no other reason than the supercolossal amount of time it saves me.  Believe me, few things make me happier than being able to hand a bunch of envelopes to the postal clerk all ready to go, or put them in a collection box before work, with no muss nor fuss).  But there were pink cards in my mailbox, too, meaning packages awaiting.

One was a nifty box full of model goodness, including some really choice aftermarket doodads that are difficult to come by these days.  But the other had a real treat therein: my copy of this.  Including the bonus disc.  Oh, what a treat this is going to be when I have the time to watch it.  (While I'm talking about Nobel Prizes, can we also give one to the Shout! Factory people, too, for making so many cool rarities available on DVD and CD?  They're about like the media company I would want to run.)

Blergh

It's a weird morning.  Actually, the "weird" began yesterday afternoon, as I was working on a few things.  Then this morning it ramped up, as I found out some things had fallen apart at work over the weekend.  So, while I sweep everything up, here's the great Marty Robbins.