LGBT for Obama

I'm supporting Obama because I'm tired of living in a world of fear that transcends my sexuality. If we can't have basic respect for each other in our community, how can we build a world of loving respect around the world? I have hope that Obama will bring about the change I can believe in.

Twittering

Another Social Network

        So there is another social network out there: Gays.com. The creator e-mailed me and asked me to check it out. Said it was a social networking sight for gays who just want to be gays. None of this hook-up, man meat stuff.
        It’s in beta right now, so I went to check it out. It’s sort of confusing to get in, though. You have to be “invited,” which means you fill out a form indicating your gayness, and then in a few days they get back to you with the invitation.
        So I was filling out my profile. Social information, you know. Like favorite movie (Airport ’77), or favorite food (Yummy). Then it asked my height and weight. Asked if I had body hair and how much.
        Since when does body hair have to do with gays just hanging out, being gays? I suspect it will quickly degenerate to being another hook up site. It will be fun to watch it’s fate. Will it be like Airport ’77?

Best Gay Bars in America

        Logo Online has released a feature, “The Best Gay Bars in America.” And listed number one is Mary’s, our old stomping ground in Atlanta.
        Now a word of caution, by best, they don’t mean shiniest with polished service and sleek, contemporary finishes. Rather, they tap into their heart for the kitschy, dive-y, and messy bars that are diverse, appealing to young and old, gay, lesbian, trans, and beyond. The sort of places that flirt in the wee-hours with memories that on some mornings are best forgotten.
        Also on the list is another of my favorites, Swinging Richards. So what do you think constitutes a “Best Gay Bar”?

Dog Gone Good Time

Jesse on the Brink has been blogging his experience at IML. He’s got a great sense of humor, and this story about a run-in with security is a hoot. Or I should say, a woof.

My Gayest Look, Ever

        My childhood friend Jeff Whitty is after Jay Leno again. Two years ago, he called Mr. Leno on his inappropriate and homophobic jokes. He wrote an open letter to Mr. Leno. CNN caught wind of it, and produced a story about it. Mr. Leno called Jeff to chat about it. Jeff gave him the benefit of the doubt.
        Until last week when Mr. Leno was at it again, asking Ryan Phillippe to look into the camera and give viewers his gayest look. Jeff is on the rampage now, and is co-creator in this new site, which features the gayest look of several gay men and lesbian women. Jeff, thanks for staying mad. Here’s my gayest look, ever.

Vantage Point Counter Point

        I realize Little Merry Sunshine didn’t care much for Vantage Point, and I have to admit her review swayed us and we seriously thought about skipping the movie. But, mid-Sunday afternoon, we found ourselves in the mood for a movie. Something we could check into and be entertained by the visual stimulation. We didn’t want to have to think too much, as in Funny Games. And we didn’t want to be rolling our eyes at sappy self-realization motivated by the innocent wisdom of a 5-year-old, as in Definitely, Maybe. So when we arrived at the box office and Vantage Point was just starting, we decided to give it a try.
        Unlike Merry Sunshine, we enjoyed it.
        Vantage Point employs an interesting technique, showing the same scene, but from the different perspectives of the key characters. As we go through each character’s version, the viewer obtains new pieces of the puzzle, until you have a cohesive story line. It’s not as much work as it sounds, as the director has been careful to provide cues to help you figure out where you are at throughout.
        There are some perspectives that I was left wanting a bit more of, though. When Dennis Quaid, the lead Secret Service Agent storms into the television control room, he has a phone conversation revealing inside information. Sigourney Weaver, who plays the stunning news producer who directs the live broadcast passes the information on to her live reporter. We never see the consequences of that action. We learn later the information is incorrect, but it would have certainly gone out on the airwaves. So does it lead to more confusion? Or does the press piece together a different story than what was being fed to them. Sigourney is too great of an actor to have just a minor role. We should have seen more of her, and that sassy new hairdo she was sporting.
        More important than plot, the portrayal of terrorists as ruthlessly arresting studs and studettes, had me sympathizing for their noble, yet misguided principles. The stunning beauty and romance of a sweating stud in a Spanish plaza more than makes up for the logic wormholes that plague the plot throughout. To go with the story, one really has to suspend any sense of reality, space and time -- when the viewer sees the wormhole, they just have to jump through it with the dark-featured, handsome, glistening terrorist. As long as the viewer can do that, then you’ll enjoy the trip Vantage Point has to offer.

Year of Necessity

        While traveling last week (I had a three-stop tour of the Midwest - Denver, Minneapolis, and St. Louis), I read a column in USA Today. Craig something. I can’t remember his last name, and I can’t find the article on-line. I guess USA Today expects all of American to spend a night in a hotel to get their substantial reports on the softer side of the news (I read two articles with a behind-the-scenes look on serving the president: one on the challenges of protecting the President in the Middle East -- they never let down the inner circle; and another on providing meals on Air Force One -- air force captains run to the grocery store and sometimes practice their dishes at home).
        But this one article by Craig something actually had a point. He was revealing his new years resolution: only buy necessities. He spoke of how he spent twelve months doing this a few years back, and in the end, he was no worse for the ware. He emerged from a pile of credit card debt, found himself in a positive cash flow situation, and had amassed savings.
        Less than a year away from having the car paid off, and just under $5,000 on Tony’s student loans, the potential outcome from adopting a similar practice is a very appealing proposition.
        So we’ve declared this the Year of Necessity. We’re only going to buy the groceries we need, the clothes we need. The essentials necessary for us to get through life. And, if it’s a material possession necessary, we’re on a zero growth policy. If we need a new shirt, then that means an old shirt must go.
        Now the exception to this will be music, books, art -- the elements of life that feed the soul. But even in that regard, we expect the thought process will spill over into other areas. And it already has. We could have gone to a movie this past weekend, but why when we had six from Blockbuster sitting on the coffee table?
        We’ve only had this practice in place for a few weeks, and its already producing better feng shui. This past weekend, we started pulling books of our selves. Books we purchased on impulse, but have never cracked the spine. Books given to us, but just have never appealed. I’m giving a book ten pages. Tony disagrees, suggesting it might take longer for the book to get going. I say they author should have been a better writer. Ruthless, I know. So, if after ten pages, I find myself yawning, it goes into the charity pile. Once I read a book, it goes into the chairty pile -- unless I was so inspired to pick up a pen or pencil and underline a beautifully crafted sentence, or a word that paints such a vivid picture, it makes me salivate. Those books get to stay. Everything else goes.

        When Tony turned 40, he declared he wanted to start traveling internationally. I’m fine with that, but have decided my midlife crisis is going to manifest itself a little differently: in a boat. They say the best boat is your best friend’s boat. We’ve failed miserably in that department, so I suggested to Tony that we be the Best Friends with the Boat. We don’t have to pay for cheer camps or college educations, and who cares if we have to work five more years -- why not get a boat while we still look good on a boat.
        This past weekend, we headed to the Chicago Boat Show. It’s the second year we’ve attended the Boat Show, and it’s been a year now that we’ve been reading Motor Boating Magazine. We’ve narrowed down the type of boat we want, we’re learning about financing, storage, and safe boating practices, and now, suddenly, a boat is beginning to appear on the horizon.
        Particularly in the Year of Necessity. Twelve months from now, we’ll have the cash flow to take on such an expense, and a new way of recreating and exploring the world.
        Today, every Starbucks in one Starbucks away from summer sunning in the middle of Lake Michigan.
        I’ll be sure to update you on how we progress.

Video Blog

        One of the gaybies has started a video blog on YouTube. He put together this great tribute to World AIDS Day, which the PRIDE kids did a great job of making it a campus recognition, and not just a gay issue. Watching the World AIDS Day video, I discovered his other video entries. The one about the embarrassing bathroom incident had me rolling on the floor, mostly because of his uncensored discomfort around female troubles. Hysterical.

Know Your Hate

        A recent article in The Stentor, the College’s student newspaper, highlighted the story of a PRIDE poster hanging in the cafeteria that was defaced with Bible verses. The verses tagged on the poster were Luke 13:3 and Romans 6:23.
        So the PRIDE kids got together and talked about it. They looked up the Bible verses to see what they said, and then determined the tagging represented such blatant ignorance, they decided to just leave the poster hanging as is.
        The story ends with the quote from one of the gay kids, “The Bible verses that the vandals referenced aren’t even the traditional gay-bashing Bible verses. Those are in Leviticus.”

Missing Lately

        Okay, I know I’ve been missing lately, but I have the most valid lame excuse you could imagine--I’ve been short on memory. Hard drive memory, that is.
        Everything was pretty cool with the hard drives of all the computers in my life running about 80% capacity. The bulk of the space taken up by photos and music. Then, Apple recognized that people’s files are getting larger with all this digital media they are pushing out to consumers. So they expanded the disk space of all .Mac accounts.
        So what? .Mac is a remote server, isn’t it?
        Well, yes and no. I have my account set up to “mirror” my remote server on my hard drive -- I save a file to partitioned space on my computer, then the computer syncs it with the remote server in the background. When I start up my computer, it looks at the remote server to see if any files have been changed and automatically updates appropriately. It makes it super convenient to work on a file both on my laptop and my desktop, allows me to access the file from any computer with internet access, and provides an automatic back-up with the file existing in three locations.
        So when Apple increased the size of their .Mac accounts, it increased the size of the iDisk partition on my computers, which consumed the balance of the hard drive space, giving me warnings ever three or four minutes that my startup disk is getting full -- virtually grinding everything to a halt.
        So I’ve been transferring gigabytes of information from one place to another, installing new Lacie drives, and after an untimely yet ironically convenient monitor fritzing out, I had to replace my desktop iMac, and have thus solved the memory issue for the foreseeable future.
        So, this is just to say that I’m back in the swing of things. And, by way of this post, confessing that I’m really a technical geek at heart.

Neal Diamond Watch

        Neal Diamond’s hit song “Sweet Caroline” has been in the news a lot lately. In today’s Wall Street Journal, I found an article on page A10 about Presidential Contender Mitt Romney’s five sons hitting the campaign trail on his behalf. This paragraph jumped out at me:

Josh, a 32-year-old Salt Lake City real-estate developer, gives an abbreviated version of his father’s stump speech when he campaigns, peppered with tales from his childhood. The curve-balls come during the question-and-answers sessions. When he attended a gather of Hispanic and Asian Republicans in Ls Vegas, Josh couldn’t answer a question about the number of minorities on the campaign staff. One of the hosts asked that next time he come better prepared. (He was able to win the crowd back with a karaoke rendition of “Sweet Caroline.”)

        Oh, the power of Neal Diamond and “Sweet Caroline” -- “So good! So good! So good! Bum. Bum. Bum.”

Cast a Spell of Quiet

        With the exception of routine station announcements, the dull roar of the cars rolling along the tracks, or the conductor requesting tickets, it was unusually quiet on the train Monday morning. So much so, you could hear the turning pages of a book. Everyone on the train who was not reading the morning’s news, was reading Harry Potter.
        That is with one exception: me. I was gripped by Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood. His metaphors hold my mind hostage, the story compelling me to the next passage.
        Harry Potter just never cast a spell on me. It was just before the fourth book of the series came out that I picked up the first book. Book critics were celebrating the series as one acknowledging young readers mature as they read, and the characters and plot developed as a child reading developed. Combined with a midnight release (Star Wars, maybe, but a children’s book?), I found these realities intriguing enough to sit on the porch one sunny afternoon with a tall glass of sweetened iced tea and crack open the spin of book one.
        Three glasses of tea and fifty pages later, I was as high as a kite – the sugar having a profound effect – and bored to no end. I closed the book and set it down. I saw no difference between Harry Potter and James and the Giant Peach. I felt I had read this before – an orphaned child goes to live with an under-appreciative family and gets lost in a world of fantasy. While it had been updated to meet the flashy expectations of today’s over-programmed children, it just wasn’t enough to hold my attention.
        I went along that year with Tony and friends to the midnight release party. Having read the first three, Tony bought the fourth book. (He usually eats lunch with a book, while I eat lunch with a conversation, and thus reads more books than I do.) We’ve gone to the movies. One movie, we saw twice – once when it was released, and again when it played on an IMAX screen – again, tagging along with friends. I found the movie so uninteresting the second time around, I left the theatre, and when I returned, I laid down on the floor, taking a nap.
        And now I witness the craze all over again. This time around, the madness comes with a bit of melancholy. It’s the last one. Although, who lives and who dies, I don’t really much care. But an entire family of four in a small, unsuspecting Kansas Town—they were killed in the middle of the night. And that story is true.

Remembering Tammy Faye

        The last time we went to church, Tammy Faye was preaching. I felt funny snapping photos in a church, so I turned the flash off. I’m glad I took the camera now.

Oh, What a Night

        “No body works harder for our country than our veterans. Well, except for the clergy. Nobody works harder,” Jack Miuccio said to the crowd before dedicating Elvis’ “American Trilogy” to our troops. Jack was performing on the Larry Maggio Stage at this weekend’s Festa Pasta Vino festival in Little Italy. He apologized to the crowd, indicating that Johnny Maggio, who had been scheduled to perform, had a festival emergency at the last minute, and had to preform at another street festival.
        He followed “American Trilogy” with Frank’s “Fly Me to the Moon,” which echoed in competition with “Fly Me to the Moon” being sung by Gigolo Johnny on the Main Stage at the other end of the block. Gigolo Johnny was not as svelte as one might expect their gigolos. He transitioned to “My Girl,” leaping off the stage. The hot, sweaty, spongy Gigolo Johnny cooed into the faces of women. As he returned to the stage, he saw a toddler girl. He leaned into her face.
        “My girl,” he sang out.
        A collective “ah” escaped the crowd as cameras flashed.
        “Talkin’ ‘bout my girl.”
        Gigolo Johnny picked her up. She cringed in the way you’d imaging a toddler would when embraced by an overheated washed-up lounge act.
        “I’ve got so much honey the bees envy me.”
        Cameras flashed as he paraded around the crowd with a stolen toddler.
        “I’ve got a sweeter song that the birds and the trees.”
        The child’s mother clutched her breast, thrilled her daughter was the center of the show. The toddler looked as if she might scream. Or thrown up.
        “Well I guess you’d say, what can make me feel this way?”
        The crowd sang out, “My girl! Talkin’ ‘bout my girl!”
        When he set the girl down, she ran to her mother, latching on to her leg. The crowd leapt to its feet in thunderous ovation.
        There were two empty seats in the front row, so we sat across the aisle from the woman who gave her child up to a sweaty lounge singer.
        Soon Bobby Valli, brother to Frank Valli of the Four Season, took the stage. He performed a forty minute tribute to his brother, stealing all their hits. The versions were flat, and his sidekick of thirty-six years wasn’t helping much either. Missing three teeth on the bottom of his mouth and four on the top, he added a breezy sound to Bobby’s tone deaf voice.
        In between songs, Bobby would turn his back to the crowd, taking a swig from his water bottle, only it wasn’t water. With the brown tint, it could have been Lipton tea, but his glazed-over look gave the impression it might be something a little stronger.
        Bobby sang a song he dedicated to his mother. His dead mother, and all the other mothers who were in the crowd. He hung his head as the final notes of the song twittered out, and he turned his back to take another swig. When he faced the crowd, he was weeping.
        Bobby wiped his eyes, and then proclaimed he was neither pro-war or against the war.
        “We live in the greatest country in the world,” he said. “So I wrote this song and I hope you like it. It’s called, ‘America, A Home for You and Me.’ I might be going to Iraq to produce the music video.”
        The crowd applauded.
        “In the land of milk and honey,” he began to sing. Bobby’s swigs of his magic tea were now happening between verses. After the song, he did one more tribute to his brother, Frank.
        “I wish I had his money,” he said, forgetting talent.
        As he sang his brother’s songs, entire lines dropped out. He just waved the microphone to the crowd. The older set filled them in.
        The rest of us ate cannoli.

A Different Type of Dirty Bomb

        The Pentagon confirmed last week that in the mid-90s, they had considered developing a “gay bomb.” The Air Force’s Wright Laboratory in Dayton, Ohio (of course, Ohio), had proposed developing an aphrodisiac so strong, it would incapacitate the enemy troops by making them more interested in making love with each other, not war.
        The implication that an army of men could turn gay under the power of a pheromone or some other chemical alteration was enough to set off gay community leaders, who called the idea offensive and ridiculous. Offensive because the idea suggests gay men and lesbian women are incapable of serving the military to help it meet its objectives. Ridiculous because there is so much research that shows orientation is genetic and something that cannot be changed.
        The irony of it all -- the Pentagon, of all organizations, working to promote homosexuality. And in Ohio! We, ourselves, find the prospect, well, exciting. To think of a hyper-hetero organization, dressed up in their military fatigues -- what if the bomb accidentally misfired and infected our own troops? Just imagine the primal carnage. Our nation's disputes would suddenly be fought around the table at dinner parties. The weapons of mass destruction would be sharp wit. Oh, the travesty. Sign us up.

Reading at Printers Row Book Fair

        I will be joining the New Town Writers Group when they read at the Printers Row Book Fair. Contributors to the group's print journal, Off the Rocks and Swell e-zine will be featured.

        Sunday, June 10
        1:45 p.m.
        The G. Brooks Poetry Stage

        I'm going to use poetic license to read from the poetry stage as I will not be reading poetry, but will read from a story that is sure to entertain. Or at least I hope it will entertain.
        You can also visit me in the New Town Writers' Booth, which will be #225. So clear your calendars and be there.
        The Printers Row Book Fair has 200 author programs, 150 booksellers and exhibitors, and I know you'll be going for the Chicago Tribune Kids Alley filled with family activities and entertainment. The festival is located at Dearborn & Polk in Chicago's South Loop.

The Venti Conflict

        The entire barista force stood behind the pastry display. There was an unusually blank stare on each of their faces as I approached the counter. The timing was such that I entered Starbucks moments before the seven o’clock trains arrived, thus I was the only customer to be served by the morning team of seven.
        The black girl’s mouth hung open like an ear hole receiving my instruction.
        “I would like…”
        “…a large hot green tea, two bags of Zen?” Her words met mine.
        She said it. She said my order, “a large hot green tea, two bags of Zen.”
        After months of sporadically visiting the store and refusing to speak Starbuckese, I had won. I was not speaking their language, but they were speaking mine. It dampened their caffeinated morning spirits, so I mixed the mood up a bit.
        “I’d also like an apple fritter, please.”
        “Oh,” the look of surprise. “Okay.”
        I moved to the pretty boy cashier.
        “Let’s see, that was a…” awkward pause, “…two-bag tea.” He skirted the size issue completely.
        “Yes, and an apple fritter,” I added.
        “One apple fritter.”
        Victory coursed through my veins. I had accepted the fact long ago that I’d be looked at like an idiot any time I order in a Starbucks. Looked at like I don’t know how to order properly. Looked at like I’m some naive amateur, or even worse, a person with such awkward social skills, I can’t assimilate.
        I’ve become okay with that, because I think the secret language of Starbucks is just plain stupid. I think it represents a snobbery that separates the haves from the have-nots in our country. The blue from the red. And coffee, or tea, shouldn’t do that in a society. It should bring us together, and tear down those walls of ideology that divide us.
        What is, after all, wrong with just a plain “large?” Five letters, one economical syllable we all understand. “Large” is easily larger than “medium,” and nothing is larger than “large,” except for “extra-large.” And probably “gargantuan,” too, but we generally don’t have gargantuan-sized cups in our world. “Venti” is two syllables, and does anyone know what a “venti” is? And what does “venti” relate to? “Venti” is not even in the English dictionary.
        I reveled in the social tension, and because I was the only customer, it was amplified among the staff. I can only imagine the conflict that would follow once I left the store. The ongoing contradiction between meeting the costumer’s needs (“But he spoke English”) and conforming to a system designed for efficiency (“We don’t use that ‘large’ word here.”)
The pretty cashier tried to negotiate a peace accord, honing in on my earphones.
“What are you listening to?”
I should have said, “Self esteem tapes that help me accept conformity.” But I didn’t.
“East Village Opera Company.” I tossed my head, turning on the flirt.
“Oh, what opera?”
“It’s not one particular opera. They take opera and make it pop rock, ” I said, proving I can be hip and trendy, even if I don’t speak Starbuckese.
“Ooo, that sounds interesting. I’m going to write that down.” He picked up a pen and wrote on the back of a receipt.
“One large two-bag tea.” The barista handed me my tea.
“East Village Opera is interesting. It’s got a very venti sound.” I turned and walked out the store.

Chicagoist Debut

        Chicagoist, one of my favorite sites about all things Chicago, has just published my first post, which is about IML. I’m writing posts throughout the weekend, in hopes of being a regular weekend contributor. Hoo-ray!
        UPDATE: 5/28
        I’ve had several other posts published. Check them out...
        Compassion Flows on Lake Shore Drive -- a report on Bike the Drive.
        Give Us Some Summer Lovin’ -- Sing-Along Grease at the Music Box.
        Folks the Cicada Pins are... our find of the day at the Chicago Antique Market.

Coin of Terror

        I *LOVE* this article about a suspicious coin in Canada that consumed the intelligence community! "Filled with something man-made that looked like nano-technology," and "it did not appear to have a power source." I think the most beautiful part is that the coin was discovered in the cup holder of a rental car!
        As the Canadian official pointed out, to implement such technology would be absurd as the coin would transfer hands or be tossed into a coin dish somewhere. Applying simple logic, it seems, would dispel any curiosity. The embarrassing thing about this story is how desperately paranoid this makes the United States.

VideoSLAM!

        We attended a VideoSlam! this past Saturday evening. It was hosted by an artsy-fartsy friend. Folks brought art videos (a graphic animation that as supposed to serve as a painting that morphs), converted 8 mm home moves from the 70s, work for a cable pilot program, and a variety of other types of video programs. It was a diverse crowd of beautiful artists.
        About 1 a.m., they all looked at each other and our host said, "So is that a wrap? Any other submissions?"
        The crowd falls silent.
        "Someone has to have something else," a woman who brought her childhood home movies now edited into music videos, said. "Tim, you don't have anything else?"
        "Well," I said, "there is this one but it's very different than anything else we've seen tonight. It's got a bit of a random plot to it, and it's of the disaster movie genre."
        "You mean, like Irwin Allen?" this guy from the back asks.
        "Yes! Irwin Allen was the inspiration."
        "What's it about?"
        "A cabin that slides down a mountain."
        The crowd sort of shrugs their shoulders, as if they have nothing better to do. I hand the disk over to the master of ceremonies. There is much silence and concentration, and random bursts of laughter.
        I filmed the movie with a dozen of my friends when we had a “May-Day! May-Day! May Day” weekend in the mountains. That is, we watched all the popular 1970s disaster movies over the course of the first weekend in May. In between the movies, we shot scenes for our own disaster movie, “Cabin A-Slidin’ Down the Mountain.” Unfortunately, I don’t have enough disc space to process this for the web, otherwise I would link it here now.
        In one scene, the flaming party host says, "Hello, opossums!" At this point, a guy in the back says, "So, are these actual gay guys?"

        At the end, one person turns to me and says, "So how did you get all your friends to do that?" I was a bit confused by the question -- I mean, I was sitting in a room full of people who claim to be artists. And I'm just a lowly marketing person. Of course, that probably means I'm more skilled at manipulating people's behaviors.
        Mind you, the host produced with a friend this video (which he stars in) when he went home to his parents over the holidays. Bring it on, Track Suit Tranny:

Where Have All the Servers Gone?

        Did a quick jaunt out to Oregon this past weekend. My mother is involved with some old lady sorority, and she was being inducted as the state council president, and she wanted us there. We got into Portland on Friday, and we were able to spend the afternoon and evening with several of my high school friends. Some, it had been a few years since I last saw them, and others eighteen years. It was great to see them, and there was much laughter all around.
        We recalled when I convinced Roger to park parallel, rather than perpendicular on Saturday morning before swim practice. And as we stood by the front door to the pool, listening to people complain that Roger had taken not just the prime spot, but the first three prime spots, Eric drove his beat-up Datsun he though was a Porsche into the parking lot with much wreckless abandon, jumping the curb, and hitting the back of Roger’s pick-up. The impact set off a series of chain-reaction events that unfolded like a dramatic slow-motion movie sequence as Roger’s car rolled started to roll three spots over, and then crunched the side of Gail’s green car as it came to a rest.
        “Booger!” Gail yelled the car’s name as she clasped her hands over her mouth in shock just a shiver before bursting into a fit of tears as if mourning the death of a loved one.
        We recalled Paula trying to steal soda from the vending machine, while staying at a Hilton for a swim meet, by trying to shake it on its side. Only the machine was significantly heavier than she anticipate, and if not for the window for which she was able to squeeze her neck into once the machine came to rest on the opposite wall, she would have been crushed.
        And we recalled the weekend we spent at the beach when a friend’s mother made a huge turkey dinner. When it came time to mash the mashed potatoes, she lacked the proper kitchen implement, found the kitty litter scoop, washed it under the faucet and said, “Oh, just use this. This will work.”
        It's odd how funny things back then are side-splitting funny now.
        Saturday, we got up and drove to Llama Rama Vista, the llama ranch where my parents live, and picked up my Dad and a car load of booze, before heading off to Newport on the Oregon Coast. I love driving through Oregon; and hour in any particular direction, and you're in a completely different environment. We had hoped to see some sights when we arrived in Newport, but the old lady sorority girls had a different plan... I was to participate in the induction ceremony, which required my presence at the rehearsal, so we only had time for a quick walk on the beach.
        The ceremony and its coordinating banquet were long and drawn-out, and only made worse by the fact that it was prom weekend in Newport, Rather than show up for work, all the servers (high school kids) just quit, leaving hardly any servers in the hotel. You know it's a mess when the administrative assistant is clearing tables. We had hoped to head out on the town Saturday night, but by the time things were done, it was 11 p.m. and I was exhausted.
        Sunday we drove north along the coast to Tillamook, and then cut across the coast range through Beaverton and Portland and then on to Llama Rama Vista. My parents took us out to a nice dinner that is in a log cabin that sits on a cliff overlooking the Clackamas River. It was amazingly beautiful.

The New Delta Airlines

        “Thank you for trying to reach us. Get comfortable because you’re going to have to wait a long, long time if you want to book a ticket to fly on us,” is what the recording should have said. Instead, it said, “Welcome to the new Delta Airlines.”
        Delta emerged from bankruptcy earlier this week with great fanfare. To celebrate, they are repainting their jets (the forth time in ten years) and unveiling a new logo. I looked forward to the promise of something new as I booked my ticket for this year’s Saints & Sinner’s conference in New Orleans. My excitement for new logos and paint jobs quickly diminished when the Web site failed to complete my transaction. It instructed me to call a Delta Airlines representative within four hours, otherwise I risked loosing my reservation.
        For thirty minutes, I held the line suffering through inconsistent volume levels while listening to a stream bad music interspersed with upbeat announcements about a whole new travel experience awaiting me. Thinking there must be a problem with the phone line (if there was going to be a significant wait, a recording would have told me, right?), I picked up our second line and dialed Delta.
        I went through the same prompts, arriving at the same hold music. I set the two handsets on speaker and placed them on the desk. I caught up on my blog reading. I caught up on the day’s news. I watched an 80s F.B.I. instructional video on conducting a strip search (“If the victim is uncircumcised, ask him to roll back his foreskin.”) I looked at pictures of the new Delta logo, and the new jet paint scheme. I learned about Seattle’s new Strip Club Ordinance, and read Dan Savage’s suggestion that all new strip clubs be confined to barges, like riverboat gambling.
        “Well-come to Del-da, Mies-der Sdate. How may I assisd you?” I scrambled to pick up the phone. The timer indicated fifty minutes. Ten minutes short of an hour that I had been holding. I took it off speaker and placed the receiver to my ear.
        I heard music.
        “Hell-oh?” The other phone squawked. “Hell-oh, Mies-der Sdate?”
        The voice was coming from the phone that had only been holding for twenty minutes. I picked it up and took it off speaker and began speaking with the guy. I explained that I had been waiting for fifty minutes to complete a transaction their Web site couldn’t do. I suggested that I shouldn’t have to work this hard to be a Delta customer, and that I could have booked the ticket on another airline several times over. Had I not been cashing in frequent flier miles, I would have booked on another airline. One that might have had non-stop service to New Orleans.
        “I am so sore-ee, sir. I will connect you.”
        With that, I was listening to bad music again.
        I fired off an e-mail to Delta, explaining the horrible customer service nightmare that was unfolding. “Hello, is anyone at the New Delta? Please, can you pick up the phone? Or are you busy painting your jets. I really would like to fly Delta, but you’re not answering.” I thought about setting the Web cam to record, conveniently producing a new reality television pilot—The Eternal Hold.
        Another twenty-five minutes passed. One hour and fifteen minutes after originally dialing the first line. A voice answered. A voice even harder to understand than the first. She promised she could help. I suggested with the hold time all fees should be waived. She said that wasn’t possible. “Why should we wave de fees just because you wait?”
        “Why should I have to work this hard to be your customer?”
        “I am sore-ee sir.”
        She walked me through the Web site like I was a toddler.
        “I have waited for an hour and fifteen minutes just so I could have someone tell me to log in again and hit a ‘process ticket’ button?”
        “I am sore-ee sir.”
        She then suggested that she would complete the transaction, and since I was having so much trouble with the Web, she would gladly waive the ten-dollar booking fee, and request the 1000 frequent flier bonus miles for me, even though I didn’t complete the transaction myself. And when I wanted to complain, she guided me through the website, showing me where I could send an e-mail.
        Oh, the humanity.
        What the new Delta doesn’t seem to understand is that I’m the customer, and that I should not have to work so hard to be their customer. That if they cannot answer their phones in a timely fashion, they should warn people, and extend the four hour time period within which a person can book a reservation so that one can go to bed and try again another night. That the person who answers the phone should be able to assist me, rather than serve as a receptionist. That the person should be able to speak clearly, and contain a knowledge more vast than just the Web site.
        As a former advertising man, I always got ticked off at my clients when they got hung up on a logo and a tag line.
        “A brand is not a logo,” I would say to them. “Your brand is the product you offer your customer.”
        I’m afraid Delta’s new look is just that: a new look. There is the promise of a new travel experience where the implied encounter is ease, comfort, and convenience, the promise is coming up short with call centers outsourced to India and a Web site that times out. I feel badly for the thousands of Delta employees who still work for an organization that fails to recognize the burden of being a customer should not be placed on the customer.
        Although maybe I’ve completely misunderstood, and the new logo and look represents a new era for Delta. An era where we can come to expect consistently horrible service.

Mystery of the Cart Caper

        It was taped to the luggage cart, printed on copy paper in at least 64-point Times New Roman, “Please return the cart to the location where you got it from, you inconsiderate bastard.”
        That’s the second sign that has been taped to the cart left in the general area of the elevator in the middle of the hall on our floor. The first sign accused, “you must think you’re better than the rest of your neighbors since you don’t feel you have to return the cart.”
        There is at least one person on our floor who habitually leaves the luggage cart by the elevator, rather than returning it to the garage, where all our neighbors can use it when they come home to bring their groceries or other items to their unit in one trip. I can understand the signs, which reek of frustration. It’s hard to swallow when your neighbors are blatantly thoughtless and inconsiderate. Especially when there is no real way to confront the person, unless caught red-handed.
        In a condo environment, where there are some twenty units on the same floor, one could knock on doors for weeks and still not find the offender.
        The whole cart caper is a frustration that can make my blood boil if I let it get to me.<