My Four Favorite Holiday Songs.. What are yours? (Please post link to song and reasons why it's a favorite)

(List typed up a few years ago but timely each year)

I was listening today to the Pogues classic "Fairy Tale of New York" and decided it was definitely one of my five favorite holiday-related songs ever.

In no particular order:

1) – Pogues and Kirsty MacColl - "Fairy Tale of New York" – There are three things that make this song great: 1) The contrasting, overlapping voices as if to demonstrate lyrically and musically their chracters dysfunctional relationship: 2) The late great Kirsty McCall is always a delight; 3) The dark language and deep lyrics provide a good contrast to the usual happy banter of holiday songs and strike closer to home than most of those suggesting everyone is happy during the holidays.

2) The Waitresses –"Christmas Wrapping" – Where I grew up in Southern California KROQ played this song to death every Christmas season but I never got sick of it and actually looked forward to it. The same can't be said for most Christmas songs, many of which are cringe-worthy. I could also relate to being a single – but always looking for a partner - during the holidays.

3) Band Aid – "Do They Know It's Christmas?" Unlike We Are The World, this song actually has a beat and lyrics that are not insipid. Ok, so the idea beyond the song and the gesture – famine relief – was somewhat simplistic and failed to wipe out the famine (probably an impossibility). Bob Geldof, former leader of the Boomtown Rats, was one of my musical heroes for this effort. This song is also a staple on rock stations during the holiday seasons but one I don't mind hearing multiple times.

The story of the song is well explained at Wikipedia The project eventually led to Live Aid, of which there is a great oral history here.

4) David Bowie and Bing Crosby – Little Drummer Boy – Contrary to the thinking of many people I grew up with, just because something (be it music or technical gadgets) is newer doesn't make it better. Take this song, for example. It's a classic and has been song many times by many different artists. But this duet is great both as cultural symbolism (a passing of the baton from one generation to another with Crosby dying a month after the tv special in which they sang it), as a fun story (Bowie was said to have hated the song but said he did it because his mom liked Crosby) was and, best of all, this stands up a great cover all on its own.

I'm sure I've forgotten a few so if I left out ones you think should be included leave me a note and I'll consider it.

The Month Of Books With Unreliable Narrators (Warning: Spoilers)

(warning: herein spoilers of a sort) I read and enjoyed Girl on A Train today I consumed the whole thing in 24 hours. Which is saying something since I'm usually reading four books at once so this means I set the others aside for a day.:)

Without intending it this last month has become the month of Books With Unreliable Narrators.

 

It began with a book club book selection called A Sense Of An Ending by Julian Barnes. I won't say a lot about how it has an unreliable narrator beyond that because I hate spoilers except to say it's one of those books which, when you finish it, you need to read again to fully understand it. Which can be cool or frustrating... and depends if you really want to read it again. 

 Meanwhile, another book club picked Who Killed Roger Ackroyd, which is famous/infamous for being the first detective novel with an unreliable narrator, which some hated, calling it a "trick" by this lady you may have heard of called Agatha Christie. 

Unfortunately I knew more about this and was waiting for this "trick" which made the book a bit less surprising but it was still a fun twist. That brings us to Girl On A Train complete with its favorable comparisons to Gone Girl. While I tried to avoid the hype I knew going in that there was going to be unreliable narrator. 

 Sometimes I wish I could read book in an age without the Internet so I wouldnt have ideas of what to expect. But I do. This doesn't mean I predicted all the plot twists, some were great surprises in fact, but it meant I knew I couldn't trust what I was reading which made reading it at times, well, frustrating knowing part of whatever you are reading will turn out to be true.

 All of the books were enjoyable but in addition to sharing the fact had unreliable narrators they also had something else in common, something I heard from those who just couldn't get into Gone Girl or A Girl On a Train, namely none of the main characters are appealing.

With the exception of Hercule Poirot in the Ackroyd book I can't say I really liked any of the main characters in any of these books. Of course this then can spark the debate about the appeal of anti-heros and while I've enjoyed some anti-hero books let's just say I see both sides of this debate but I think, for a while, I'll try some books with characters I can trust and like for a while.

Like, say, Lisabeth in the latest Girl Who book (The Girl in The Spiders Web)... wait, don't tell me, I haven't read that one yet. Happy reading, folks.

Ink and toothpaste

Ink and toothpaste, two words you rarely hear together. Both had interesting effects in the last three days.

Monday night while playing backgammon I kept noticing my fingers were dark. First I thought I'd was newspaper ink but seemed like as soon as I washed my hands they d turn dark again. It was the oddest thing. I put it out of my head until it started happening again Tuesday and I googled "my fingers are turning blue and black" and saw what I feared namely that it's a system of blood circulation problems.

But it was cold at work and they were not using the heater and sure enough cold fingers could mean discolored fingers. So I opted for frostbite rather than blood circulation and was soon wearing a hat and jacket indoors. I know if I dwell on the uncertain and unexplained I can get anxious so I do I can do well, compartmentalize.

That night I resumed an annual tradition of getting from the library more dvds than I had time to watch so I had a plethora of options. The librarian noted my fingers in the flash and asked if I work around ink and I said no. She said her mom is a nurse and she's worried this meant insufficient circulation and flow to my fingers. I was now worrying and vowing if I wash my hands and they turn dark again I'm going to have consider medical attention.

I go home and wash my hands and this time hooray they stay white and I'm happy but confused. I check my steps and note that I took off my new blue jeans and put on sweats and the problem stopped. I looked suspiciously at my jeans, one of two pair which I bought on sale at the gap.... and haven't washed them yet. I know some say to wash new jeans because they may shrink but I surmised, staring at the jeans, now I wonder if the new jeans still had ink or c color on them. And today I'm not wearing jeans and my fingers have been fine and I feel silly.

I felt less silly when my teenage charge told me what he and his brother used to stop a lense from popping out of his frames... toothpaste! They are proud of themselves for finding an alternative to tape or glue and asked me not to tell their mom. I said ok on one condition.

The condition? They let me watch next time he washes his glasses.

Never a dull day
‪#‎teenagerlogic‬

Trotting On Thanksgiving

I participated in my first Turkey Trot, an event put on annually by local sandwich show ThunderCloud Subs with all money going to Caritas, which drew more than 20,000 runners. Wow.
I decided on a whim last night to participate and briefly considered doing the run but it's 5 miles (not a 5k) and since I haven't been training I thought that might be too much... and my decision was made when it stated in the event FAQ that its an event for runners not those doing what i'd do namely walk some and run some.

Instead I did the one mile walk though I ran about half of it.

I think I have the racing fever now. I'd always wondered why my dad did so many races and triathalons. Maybe i'm starting to understand.

My goal is to run the 5 mile next year and in between make good on a vow to run a 5K one of these days (now sooner rather than later)

I am thankful for my health so I can do these things.

The rain began soon before the events.

I made some key mistakes - since it's been colder in Austin I wore sweats... which had a faulty draw string. And I made the rookie move of having my wallet with me. So there were times when I was running with my wallet in one hand so it wouldnt weigh down the sweats and there were times when I'd be running while holding up my sweats with one hand.
Working in the schools we'd have to watch for those with drooping pants and tell them to pull them up or put on zip ties to keep them up. Now suddenly I was one of those guys... but trying to run.

Next year - im wearing shorts and will keep the wallet in the car.

Life From the Perspective of A Thanksgiving Carving Knife

(I wrote this in 2010 as part of one of my writing challenges, in which I challenge people how to write from different perspectives. I also wrote from the perspective of a Christmas Tree. This current month I’m challenging people to write from the perspective of Christmas Decorations. Details here. )

I thought for this one, "what would it be like to be a carving knife."

Happy Thanksgiving, for those who celebrate it, and have a good day, for those who don't.

I used to lead all types of writing exercises online. One of them involved writing from the perspective of part of a thanksgiving meal.

Seemed appropriate to share one of those POV exercises this morning and one tonight. For those who have not read my fiction prepare for bad puns, jokes, silliness and satire. So, you know, my goal is to spark smiles and laughs and an occasional "You are something else!"

Life From the Perspective of A Thanksgiving Carving Knife

Life as a carving knife is a tough life especially when you're a knife who is witty and punny and so in this sentence alone has already thought about three jokes (1 "life may be tough but if the meat is tough I can still cut because i'm a carving knife" -hey,I didn't say they were GOOD jokes, and, trust me, you dont want to hear the other two

The hardest part about Cutty's job was that he spent most of his existence in a drawer. He'd heard talk of people coming out of the closet and he wasn't clear what that was all about but he sure wanted to come out of this drawer. It wasn't just that he was not a fan of confined places and didnt like the dark and was just glad he was not as claustrophobic as his uncle earl but that he liked an audience. The silverwear in the drawer with him, well, they were worn out by his tired jokes (see, right there he would have punned off the wear-wore comment) and him thinking he was just so much funnier than he was.

He lived for those few days when he was able to go to work and do some carving and get some use. And when they washed him boy did that feel good. But most of the time he just lay there trying to figure out what day it was and how long it would be until he was put to use. What he didnt know was the other objects in the drawer were also looking forward to that day but mostly because they can finally get some peace and quiet for a few hours.

Tuesday

Cutty refused to tell me about one aspect of his life but an anonymous source whose name rhymes with poothtick agreed to talk to this reporter on the condition we scrambled his name.

From the outside the carving knife - born Charles the Cutter the 3rd but shortened over time to Cutty - looks tough, strong and without worry. But what Poothtick told this correspondent for Weakly World News was that inside that sharp utensil was one conflicted individual.

Cutty had two major issues he was struggling through during his weekly therapy sessions. (Ideally, the therapy would be daily but it's hard for toothpick, er, poothtick, to arrive with such frequency since he had to travel into the silverwear drawer by hitchhiking on the back of the other utensils.)

Cutty, you see, had performance envy issues. He was jealous of how often the other utensils were used - some were used daily, some weekly but he was only used on Thanksgiving and Christmas. It could be worse, he knew, he'd heard horrific tales of families who didnt even make their own holiday meals thus ensuring that poor carving knife was never used. Oy! It was enough to make one truly question the reason for ones own existence.

In his case he tried to tell himself that it's not how often he's used but the quality of the job. I'll let him you tomorrow about that. But still he hated to see the others used so often. When the drawer was opened he practically shouted, "Put me in? Let me out! Is it November?" but no, they were just grabbing spoons for cereal.

The therapist told him to meditate and he did. He would try to focus on the things he can control and not fret about those he could not. He had memorized the Serenity Prayer. But still Cutty had his doubts and worries.

Oh, how he would wish some days that he was born a fork or spoon - then he could be used regularly. But he was not born that way and we're not even going to go here into those who believe one can choose what type of silverwear one is.

So that was one of his main issues in silverwear therapy (s.t. for short). His therapist wants him to join group therapy to admit these things to his colleagues who are also in the drawer but he's not ready to take that big step yet. It's a recurring New Year's Resolution he makes but doesn't follow through on.

His other issue is the enormous performance anxiety. Sure, as he'll tell you, he does a hell of a job, but during the days leading up to Thanksgiving and Christmas boy does he worry. He's lucky if he gets 18 hours of sleep a day on those days and nights (everyone knows a piece of silverwear functions best when he/she gets 20 hours of sleep.

He's tried all kinds of mental preparation - closing his eyes and walking (whatever that is, he's not totally sure) through the cutting procedure, saying "I am one with the meat i am cutting," etc but nothing so far had stopped the worries

Wednesday

Thursday, is the big day. As if he hadn't been agonizing or worrying about that day for weeks, there was the annual pep talk held by Coach. (Coach is a pair of salad tongs which, due to his size and dexterity, bosses around the others.) He held the usual ceremony complete with inspirational speeches and reminders of everyone to "take their places, cut what needs to be cut, spoon what needs to be spooned... mistakes will not be tolerated." It was also left unsaid what would happen if someone messed up but it's well known that one spoon which did a sub-par job was "accidently" dropped behind the dishwasher and never seen again.

Coach also walked them through the schedule. The good - or bad - news (it's all on your perspective, was the schedule had been pretty much the same year after year: The person tasked with making the meal would start pulling out the silverwear at about 10 a.m., some would be layed out on the table as early as noon, others not until 2. The big important moments - the moment of truth for Cutty - happened about 3:15 pm.

Cutty had been trying breathing exercises all day as well as some meditation but he just couldn't focus well enough. It wasn't just that he thought the therapy ideas were silly and wouldnt help him but also that there was too much noise in the drawer. For some of the newer silverwear - they didn't call them virgin preferring the more innocent term first timers - were nervous and chatty and talkative. As usual the spoons were pretty quiet - they literally fit snugly together - but the forks and knifes were full of chaffing, gossiping and chatting.

Complicating matters was the matter of a rumor heard: That the family was seriously considering having someone else make the food. If that were too happen they would all be skipped this year and if that happened again for Christmas maybe the home occupants would reassess if they needed a carving knife. Could he be tossed aside like yesterday's newspapers? It was the kind of rumor he wished he had not heard but it was not one more thing to worry about.

Yes, Cutty was nervous and worried.

Thursday

After all his worrying Cutty fell asleep at about 11 pm and woke at about 8 a.m. when he was picked up and placed on the dining table. This was earlier than usual which caused him to have what would be heart palpitations if he had a heart. He sweat a bit which appears to look like condensation. He counted the place settings and noticed there was one miss and he realized someone in the family must have died. He sighed. But over at the kids table there was a new setting so someone must have been born. Ah, the circle of life, Cutty said, one dies and one is born. While contemplating this he fell asleep again.

When he came to he saw the mammoth turkey near him. Wow, that was quite a piece of meal. He began psyching himself up - "Who's the baddest cutter around? I am! Who rocks? I do! Who's the sharpest knife on the block! I am, yeah, i'm bad," etc.

Then it was showtime - everyone sat down and he saw the new face of the new baby and figured out who had passed - and then the mother of the house picked him up. She smelled nice - she must have switched perfume.

She held him over the turkey and while she thought she was doing the work HE was convinced he was the one who did the magic. Cut, slice, cut, jab, cut, slice - they say it's like riding a bike, whatever a bike was - but it's true that it all came naturally after the first slice or two.

Everyone was served. He didn't drop or spill or cut anything that wasn't meant to be cut. She received all the usual compliments for her good cutting and slicing and he was ok with that - they didn't know, he'd long since realized, that they didn't know he could hear them.

He smiled. He'd done good. He looked over at the salad tongs and coach nodded that nod that said "you done good." He began to relax, he watched them all eat happily and knew that now he can look forward to the other part he loved of the holidays - getting washed up. When that stream of water hit him just right it was quite a thrill.

He watched them some more and then did what they always did after the meal - fell asleep.

Good News: I Know A Trick For Typing Faster

(Typed this in 2007. I have fond memories of that typing class and writing this. Guess this is a class that no longer exists.)

Have a seat now while Uncle Scott tell you a story about a day - yes, children, such a day existed - before ipods and iphones and bluetooth and other such things people stuck in their ears.

Once upon a time, back around 1989 or 1990 as I was in my final two years of college, I took a required typing class. 
I forget if it was required because I entered college as a computer programmer or because I left it a newspaper reporter. 

Either way back then I was running the college newspaper and had been writing my quirky columns and pieces like this (look out for Gumby!) and this (How to Sleep Until Noon) for years so my typing speed was already in the 45 words per minute range.

I mention this because I had noticed, by the time class started, some direct correlations between listening to music and typing speed, namely the faster the music the faster the typing.

This was also, and this too is foreshadowing, around the time I was listening to lots of punk music.

So enough preface, lets get to the meat of the story or, for you vegetarians, the salad
of the story? Anyway...

So there were about 30 of us and the teacher was typically boring and wanted us to
type various things and we'd be timed and did I mention that it was like time stopped
and the 90 minute class seemed like 5 hours?

It was in the second or third week when I made a request: Can I listen to my walkman (this was
when they were just tapes, not yet cds) while I typed and he waved his hand to indicate
sure, whatever.

He had no idea what he had just begun....
(cue ominous music)

So I listened to my music -  fast punk and rock. - and the faster the music the higher I scored on the music tests.

Others in class noticed this and soon they too were wearing headphones and typing faster.

On the one hand the instructor seemed pleased: His students were making great strides in
improving their typing speed. If they were to go on to data entry jobs at, say, a hospital they
would do great. 


There was just one problem: Whenever he had something to say he would have to wait,
patiently at first then less patient over time, for the students to take off their headphones
so we could hear what he was trying to tell us.

At one point, if memory serves, he was talking about banning the headphones from his 
classroom. But we talked him into letting us use the headphones and music for the final, reminding
him it might look bad, not to mention reflect poorly on all of us, if our typing speeds
suddenly dropped.

So he relented and we typed our butts off.

I was reminded of all of this at my current data entry job which, unlike my last few data
entry jobs, lets employees listen to music while they work. This means for happier employees,
and not just because it gives folks like myself the chance - as I mentioned in this Monday
piece - to listen to new music while working. If I'm feeling sleepy I can put on some fast
music but if I need to concentrate or block out distracting talkers sitting nearby I can put
on something more like a relaxing white noise type of thing.

Thus I decided it was time to share the good news of my typing tip. I hope it helps you.

note: the author of this piece is not responsible for any problems you have as a result of using
any of the information in this piece.

Reflecting On My Dad and Journalism

Related:  Journalism Stereotypes Need to Be Updated

Journalism 100 years ago versus today

I miss my dad

I did not think about it too much until I was watching my Dad dying, but I bet my fascination with newspapers came from him. Or, as I once put it in a column I wrote, “I have ink in my veins due to my father.”


Why is this a big deal to me?

I entered the writing field, became a liberal (a pacifist even), and protested against societal norms in my own way because I wanted to rebel against my conservative, engineer father. He wanted me to be a computer scientist. He wanted me to see why President Reagan was right and I was wrong. I wouldn’t give in to his rhetorical pushes. It wasn’t stubbornness; I just felt sure I was right and he was wrong. And he disagreed.

This scenario repeated itself for years. He would bring home the libertarian Orange County Register, the conservative Wall Street Journal, and the more liberal Los Angeles Times. He’d get home from work about seven and be asleep by nine. But during that time, we’d both pore through the newspapers.

If he saw an article or column that reflected some point he wanted to make, or reinforced his argument, he’d rip it out and hand it to me. And I’d do the same to him. Many was the day when I would wake to find a stack of dog-eared newspapers on the kitchen counter waiting to be read by me so I could learn the error of my ways – about Reagan, the Star Wars initiative, etc. At night we would debate the issues over whatever food he picked up on the way home. God, I miss those conversations.

 Now when I pick up a newspaper each day or see a stack of unread newspapers, I think of him.


Maybe I didn’t become a Republican or enter the sciences. I worked in a profession he may not have shown respect for (many was the time he rallied against reporters for oversimplifying issues), but one he appreciated.

The first day I saw him in the hospital after he got cancer, I brought a newspaper with me. I think it was the Los Angeles Times. I wasn’t sure how easy it would be to talk to him and figured we could always discuss the articles. I quickly set the newspaper aside when I saw how dire the situation was.


The cancer had advanced, and an experimental procedure had backfired. He tried hard that morning to talk. Maybe too hard. I worry he pushed himself too much to talk to me and to others when he should have been resting. He asked about the newspaper and I read a little bit to him, but he would fall asleep mid-sentence and wake with a jerk 15 minutes later. He was polite about it: “What was that you were saying? Please repeat.” But we gave up eventually.

The next morning, a new edition of the L.A. Times was lying on a table by his bed. At one point I asked if he wanted to read it and he said he couldn’t focus on it enough. I offered to read it to him but he said that wouldn’t do because he couldn’t concentrate. The papers piled up for the next two days, like so many unaddressed issues and emotions. I just stopped setting them by his bed.


I joined him for dinner in his hospital room. During the meal he suggested we watch the local television news, something totally unheard of in our past relationship. He hated local television news, even more than I do. But again, because of his health and the drugs, he kept falling asleep. Finally I turned it off. And it was the last time we watched television together.


I flashed back to the times we would watch television programs together. He would hold the L.A. Times in front of him as if he was reading it, but if there was something entertaining to him on the TV, he wouldn’t let on he was viewing it. After about five minutes, one could conclude that the Peanuts cartoon in front of him was either pretty damn fascinating or else he was indeed watching the wacky show.


Who knows what he was thinking and feeling during his last few days when he couldn’t speak because he was intubated and medicated, but I made a point of reading the newspapers just like old times, as if somehow that would help. Like him, though, I had trouble concentrating. He asked for the newspapers to be left by his side whenever I would go away for a break but they were untouched when I’d return. The last time I left a newspaper was the last time we discussed the articles.
Within a week he was dead and I flew from California back to Maryland, where I returned to work.

At some point I realized I could no longer rebel against him since he was no longer there, and I found myself emulating the parts of his personality that I admired. In the months after his death, I would find myself interviewing someone and hear a reference to engineers and I’d think of him. I’ll read an article or an editorial and think, “Dad would get a kick out of this.”

And then I remember he’s gone and feel like someone kicked me in the stomach. And for a minute, my world seems to slow down and I get mad at others for moving at a regular pace as if things haven’t changed so much for me. Then I resume working, knowing that he’s up there looking down on his reporter son, cranking out more stories that, one day, we can discuss and debate. I owe him that, I think.



So here, Dad, is one more to set aside for future discussion.