Monthly Archives: August 2008

15 days and counting

We haven’t had DSL service for 15 days now. Verizon has been out to our apartment twice, and we have spent hours (literally) on the phone with their tech support people. Still no DSL. They say they almost have the problem solved now, and all it will take is one last visit to our apartment by one of their techs. But I am not holding my breath.

What was the line on that old television comedy show?… “We’re the phone company. We don’t have to care.”

Until Verizon finally effects a repair, I am using the free wifi at our local coffee shop, and posting to this blog when I can. But don’t be surprised if I skip a day now and then.

Khakis as a regional marker

When I was out visiting my sister in Indiana, we got to talking about regional differences in the United States. One of my sister’s friends looked down at the trousers I was wearing — somewhat threadbare khakis with a coffee stain or grease stain here and there.

This woman, who is from California, smiled when she saw my khakis. “You Easterners with your khakis. You always wear khakis. It’s cute.”

I did not tell her about the pair of vintage Levi 501s that I bought when we lived in Oakland. I just smiled and said, “Of course we wear khakis. They’re very practical.” Which is true:– even with coffee and grease stains, khakis can look fairly respectable.

On the long drive back to New England, at a rest area near Albany, I saw a man wearing khaki pants and a neat tan shirt and a baseball cap, and I knew I was getting close to home:– there is a certain class of New England working man — cabinetmakers, high-end landscapers, sculptors even — for whom that is a kind of uniform. Then there are the upper middle class New Englanders who wear crisply-pressed khakis pants with boat shoes and woven leather belts, which is another way to wear khaki pants. And there are the guys like me, ministers and teachers and people in the non-profit world, who wear khakis and button-down Oxford shirts with ties to the office. But it is true that I did not see anyone wearing khakis when I was in Indiana.

Rest area story

I’m back on the New York State Thruway, sitting in the rest area that’s nearest Buffalo. This is one of those rest areas where they put the fast food joints and the toilets in a big complex in the median between the eastbound and westbound roads, so you cross a pedestrian bridge to get from the parking area to the toilets. A few days ago, I was sitting just a few tables away from where I am now. This place is pretty depressing — vaguely dirty, crowded, ugly, two lonely picnic tables on this little grassy area next to a huge parking area — a sad contrast to the lovely rest areas in Ohio and Indiana.

When I was last here, I finished my lousy coffee and greasy French fries, closed up my laptop, and walked back to my car. I got in the car, rolled down the window, and was about to start up the engine when a man walked up.

“Did you lock your car?” he said. He was about my age, accompanied by two kids who were about ten or twelve.

“I think so,” I said.

“Because there was this gang of kids stealing stuff from cars,” he said.

I looked at the seat beside me. Everything was just as I had left it. “It looks like everything is here,” I said.

“They stole a purse out of our car,” he said. “Guess they went from car to car trying doors. A bunch of other people got hit, too. Someone saw them taking off in a black Mercedes.”

“Wow,” I said. “Business must be good if they can afford a Mercedes.”

“Yeah,” he said. “All we have is an old minivan.”

“All I got is this old Toyota,” I said. “Geez, rest areas can be pretty rough places, but you don’t expect something like that.”

“Well, we called the state troopers. And here they come,” he said, looking down the ramp from the interstate, where a brown state trooper’s car was pulling in to the rest area.

“I’m really sorry this happened to you,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said, starting to walk away. “Thanks…” His kids followed him, silent, just following their dad.

Canadian reading list

John Mutford of Yellowknife, NWT, has developed a really good reading list for Canadian literature for the Canadian Book Challenge he promoted on his blog “The Book Mine Set.” Alas, the challenge is now over, but it’s still a good reading list if you want an introduction to Canadian lit. Yes, I have quibbles (what, no Frederick Philip Grove? — Haliburton but no Raddall?), but on the other hand he gets bonus points for including poetry, non-fiction, young adult books, and children’s books on his list.

Via.

Obligatory Olympics post

No, Mr. Crankypants will not be watching the Olympics on television.

Mr. Crankypants is not interested in watching hour after hour of “human interest” crap. Especially when it is inarticulate and boring “human interest” crap:– “So, how did you feel when you won that medal?” “Ah, I felt, ah, well I felt, you know, pretty good, I guess, but it still hasn’t sunk in, ah, you know….”

Furthermore, the only Olympic sport that Mr. Crankypants might have some mild interest in — badminton — will not be shown on American television. If American badminton players Howard Bach and Bob Malaythong win a medal in badminton (as now seems quite possible), you might see video footage of them receiving their medals and being interviewed about how they feel. But you won’t see a full badminton match televised because television executives think it is a “sissy sport.” Sissy, my #$$ — put them on the receiving end of a 200 mph smash and they will quickly learn they are wrong.

And look at the stupid sports that are now included in the Olympics. You can get an Olympic medal in beach vollyeball, for pity’s sake, even though that isn’t a sport at all except in the minds of the marketers who sell beer and vacations. But you cannot get an Olympic medal in real sports like Ultimate frisbee (which is like a full-court press in basketball for a full hour on a field the size of a soccer field), or Freestyle frisbee (which is like gymnastics except much more difficult, and far more interesting to watch).

Then, too, Mr. Crankypants no longer watches much of anything on television. If he were to watch Olympics coverage at all, he wants to see every event streamed live online, with video archives available after the event is over. If the American television networks would allow that, then they could devote all their broadcast hours to the “human interest” stories, which is what gives them the highest ratings, so everyone would be happy.

No, Mr. Crankypants will not be watching the Olympics on television. There is nothing there that he wants to watch. Pfeh.

Exclusive interview

Today, I was granted an official interview with Owen, the dog who has recently declared himself a third-party presidential candidate. We spoke in his back yard during a game of fetch — Owen said he would answer one question for every toss of the tennis ball. Here’s a full transcript of our interview:

Owen, what’s your energy policy?

I have lots of energy! Throw the ball!

What will you do about Iraq, if you are elected?

I’ll give everybody lots of treats! And I’ll bring the troops home!

What do you think of Paris Hilton?

Sorry, but any human who keep their dog in a purse is not to be trusted.

Would you like to comment on the other two candidates?

I like them! Let’s go for a walk!

Owen ended the interview at this point, so that Jean, his campaign manager, could drive him to the woods to go for a walk. I was allowed to accompany them on the walk (it was very difficult keeping up with the candidate, who is in excellent physical condition and ran the whole time), but I agreed that I would not print any of our unofficial conversation. I can say, however, that recently Owen has learned how to swim and he’s quite good at it.

State fair

Today, my sister Jean took me to the Indiana State Fair in Indianapolis. We spent about six hours at the fair. On the drive home again, Jean asked, “What was your favorite part?”

“The chickens,” I said. “I walked down this one aisle of chickens, and one of them went roh-ah-roh-ah-roh, and then another one responded, and then another one, and another one. And then they stopped for a minute, until another one of them started in crowing. What was your favorite part?”

“The Percherons,” Jean immediately responded. We had gone into the draft horse barn to visit the Percherons early in the day, and stayed long enough to see some of the draft horse competitions later in the evening. “But,” added Jean, “I also liked the Shetland sheep. They were so cute, and all fuzzy, with the little feet, just like a cartoon sheep.”

“And we got good Fair junk,” I added.

“Like what?” asked Jean. “What did you get at the fair? I didn’t see you buy anything.”

I reminded her that we had both gotten free Indiana University tote bags at the IU booth;– and that when we stopped at the deep-fried vegetables stand, my large soda had come in a 24 ounce plastic cup emblazoned with the “Dr. Vegetable Deep Fried Veggies” logo on the side.

“Oh, that,” she said. She was just jealous because her 24 ounce plastic cup is boring and merely states “Fresh Squeezed — Ice Cold LEMONADE” on the side.

It was a very satisfying day at the fair.

Percherons at the State Fair

Jean watching one of the excellent horsewomen
at the Ladies Percheron Cart competition at the Indiana State Fair.