The Process of Disbelief

If you can't take the heat, get out of the  way.

It was one of those days.  I overslept.  I missed my train.  I stood on the platform and hoped for summer while the leaves forgot green.  I forgot my breakfast bar.  I travelled to Euston to catch a different train and was scolded for having the wrong ticket.  I paid the difference (same destination, no?) and rushed upstream, past the elbows and man-bags, to make my new train. 

People were everywhere and, on one of those days, they all seemed to point their annoying DNA right at me.  I felt bad.  It wasn’t their fault they were so annoying.  I was annoyed by everyone.  I probably annoyed a few, too, though and that eased my conscious just a bit.  I climbed down the stairs towards the crowded tunnel that would lead me to my platform.  The stairs came alive as I walked against the grain.  I am no modern man, I thought.  Souls tapped alternate steps like a tramped collection of muted claps.  Gloves and scarves were out, or in, and I was happy I forgot mine.  It was hot down there, probably 80-85.  How is it possible to walk uphill down stairs?

TAPed Out



They even locked the bloody mini-bar!



My story starts something like Lord of the Flies, but my plane did not dive into the sea and instead we diverted 30 minutes south to a resort town to refuel (so close, yet so Faro). So maybe it is more like that terrible movie with Matthew McConaughey and Camera Diaz (have fun on that goose hunt). Anyhow, by the time we retook-off and landed where we were supposed to be, I missed my connection and with it went a great business opportunity. These things happen, said my boss's boss. I know, but I am sorry, I replied.

I am really sorry since I am now stuck in travelers purgatory (the airport hotel) and wait at the mercy of an inept airline. Maybe they are smarter than I am giving them credit for, though, and they are slowly and systematically giving me a drawn out case of whip lash from all the head shaking I've done the past 36 hours?  Portuguese torture? Probably not. TAP Airlines is as a whole no worse than the rest, but bloody hell they are collectively no smarter the broken water heater back home. I'd gladly take a frigid shower just to lose the idiocracy I am now surrounded by. A badge doesn't make you smart and a broken water heater doesn't make your shower not your own. But I am here, not where I am supposed to be or at home.

A Fare For Fools

It is the night rate.

There wasn’t much of a line at that hour. The Policia even opened the door for me.

“Let me give you a map, here, we are here at the airport and your hotel is there,” said the enthusiastic cabbie in Lisbon as he drew huge mutli-layered circles with his blue pen. At one point, the pen poked through the map where the hump between the seats failed to double as a table. I hate that, when the pen goes through the map. It is a phenomenon how often that happens. “Now sit back and enjoy the ride, no traffic now.” He had a bald spot on the back of his head, but dark curly curtains draped over his ears.

Now we were talking! Enthusiasm and visibility (okay, dare I say transparency?) on an unknown route was welcomed after the delayed late night trip from London. We chatted about football, my previous trip to his favorite place in the world, and exactly where my office was in the Industrial Zone. Clearly, I had no idea what I was talking about, but it passed the time. It was pleasant, until we pulled up to the three-star hotel.

C Our Age

Spoonful of Courage helps my typos go down.

It’s funny how tiny pebbles, each about the weight of an Advil, can be combined and manipulated with other ingredients to create an impenetrable castle wall with the strength of an anvil.   Incidentally, a rock made of predominately pebbles, and concrete, is called a conglomerate.  Okay, perhaps my analogy and loquaciousness is taking me away from my point.  Let’s see:  little things, when added together, can turn into much larger – and more difficult to manipulate – things.  And if you can skip pebbles across a pond, please do not pat yourself on the back when you choose instead to a heave a conglomerate a foot off the shore.   

My real point: courage is often mislabeled. 

If courage is mislabeled (or, rather, used liberally to describe our actions), than what is it?  I'd say whatever it is, it often goes unnoticed when it occurs in others.  Yet, if we truly look for it, I venture it is likely available to our eyes in the same quantity as perspective.  I think we miss it, because we are often mislead to think that we have it ourselves on a daily basis.  And we get caught up in this, and miss it when it's gleaming from the eyes of someone standing in front of us.  

  

If I put things off, and allow them to go-unchecked, a tide of anxiety and even shyness can make their completion look and feel impossible.  Of course, it’s a culmination of things.  It’s not the pebble, it’s the ... anvil.  I don’t really have a problem with all of this, life gets in its own way.  But I often feel slightly more accomplished when I tick off these, let’s call them put-off things.  This slightly more accomplished feeling is sometimes masked as courage, which I know it is not.  I am beginning to think we have an inherent interest in procrastinating, (mis)prioritizing, and perusing (Mommy Bistro) as we see fit. 

A Goodbye Can Go Bad

A goodbye can go both ways.

A solid goodbye should go unnoticed. It should be a seamless transition that thrusts the conservationists in opposite directions. But in real life, it’s just not that easy, and when a goodbye is off it just may interrupt the pace of things with an awkward and painful lapse in direction for everyone involved. An adieu is like a handshake; the words may join the cadence of a conversation, including its end, or linger in uncomfortable doubt. The former perpetuates awkward moments. Can I go now? Or is there more to this conversation?

Like many posts, I thought about this topic while on a train this afternoon. After a long and obnoxious conversation in front of perfect strangers, a man said goodbye into his phone about fifteen times. With each painful iteration, his voice raised an octave. With his final goodbye, see-ya, bye-bye, baaaayyyeeeee, I truly thought the glass windows may shatter. He finally hung up and smiled like he was an elf that just finished sanding his one-thousandth wooden horse. 

Wiped Out: Tale of a Bad Mood Turned Right

"That's where the guy who invented the windshield wipers lives," we'd all say on our way to the T.O. Mall.  I never saw the guy, assuming it was a guy who invented what now seems obvious: automated and opposing squeegees.  I wondered if he let the invention get to his head.  

"The man who invented the windshield wipers can be such a jerk," his over-worked employees would say.  He'd overhear them and ask, "do we see in the rain?"  He would pivot his head like the wipers, from shoulder to shoulder, and then ask again.  "Do we?  Hunh?" Then he'd point at the worker with his head down and ask, "how about you?  Hunh, you see in the rain on your way to work today?" They would all go back to work and pray for a drought.

A Hippy Tree: Finally a label I can support.

Why the thought?  I was in a bad mood and I saw windshield wipers on a pair of Mercedes headlights.  That used to make me giggle, but not today.  I sighed, and if wondered if the man in the mansion that we used to drive by got a piece of those sales, too.

The Big Squeeze



“You go to da box for two minutes, ya know, by yourself … you feel shame … and then you get free.” - Denis Lemieux



Jet-lag is legit, and it makes your first cup of coffee back in the office that much better. I set my company mug in the appropriate spot and turned the dials. The beans told me, “son, you are going to be okay.” An older woman, head of HR for some region or another, worked her way into the small kitchenette to fix a cuppa. We exchanged awkward glances, as if to say “should I know you?”

It was a look that I had become accustomed to in my new job, so the awkwardness didn’t catch me completely off guard. I was surprised, though, when she reached her arm out to shake my hand.

What do You Want, a Plaque?

There is something terribly odd about the fact that I repaired my toothbrush.  True, yesterday I had to turn my book off during take-off and landing, and that is odd too.  But repairing a toothbrush is just bizarre when you really chew on it. 

What came first, the little bags
or miniature toothbrush sets?

It is true that for several years I walked out of the Dentist's office and felt like a fraud.  How could it be so?  No cavities?  I'd think about my love for sour patch kids, licorice ropes, and automic fire balls and think, that can't be right.  Was this a scam?  Did I laugh so hard at the man in white's jokes that he just decided to let me get away without a single cavity (years later, my movie-theater choices would come to light)?

Just Faucet, It's a Bad Idea

I've said it before, I'm not living in the UK simply to draw comparisons and make complaints but sometimes I have to ask myself, really?  Okay, here is the deal:  this is a highly developed economy and home to countless innovations (including, apparently, the Hoover and meat pie), so why is it that heaps of the sinks still have two faucets - one for hot and one for cold?

Really?  Why?

I really don't get this phenomenon.  The Loo will have touchless flushing, automatic soap dispensers, bloody hell even an XLERATOR® Hand Dryer that just about blows your pants off, yet no device to bridge and regulate hot and cold water?  Really?  

What's the Dell?

I love to spend an hour and a half at Starbucks trying to get online! My Post is written but my bloody communication machine refuses to connect to the world wide web. An old lady is shopping online next to me, the hag is totally rubbing it in. No lady, I usually do not type ipconfig into a dos prompt. Get back to your biscuit.

Tempted to pour my coffee on the keyboard, but restraint and common sense shall prevail, I will go grab a pint at the disclaimer:disclaimer pub!

Btw while I typed this into my phone, a scheduled scan on my computer was just completed. Really? Lucky keyboard, I just polished off my fresh filter coffee.

Let's Talk About the Birds and the Owls

I have always wanted to be a morning person.  It just never happened for me.  I tried all the tricks of the trade, especially the entire alarm clock thing.  But, for whatever reason “the morning” is just not for me.  Ah, for me, I agree with Ray Charles, the night time is the right time.  

Five more minutes Ray?

I’m grumpy without at least three cups of coffee.  I am lethargic until I have a shower, eat a solid breakfast (none of this cereal crap), have another cup of coffee, and then have lunch.  And then, finally, I’m awake and potentially happy.  I can face it, I’m an afternoon person.

And I have to say to all you haters, quit being so damn harsh on night-owls.  “Oh good morning, whoops I mean afternoon, sleepyhead.”  Oh really?  I was up until two in the morning; you went to bed at nine.  Do I dig on you Mr. Rip van Wrinkle?  No.  Do I really care that you have already put in half-a-day?  Not really, I put in my half while you were asleep.  And do I say anything negative to you early bird?  Give the sleepers a rest, will you (yes, this is a terrible pun)? 

Oh right, the point.  So I wanted to be a morning person, and it finally happened.  Simple solution: move into a flat on a busy road that's adjacent to commuter railroad that sits under a flight path to one of the worlds busiest airports.  

It is 6:46am and I have only had one cup of coffee.  This is what happens.  Sorry.

No Love Lost for The Temper Trap

Let’s be frank, these days music videos are soft-core porn.  And for the record, I only watch MTV for the music.  I’m not entirely ranting here.  It is just that I find all the thrusting and jiggling a little bizarre given the oft nonsensical lyrics.  

Maybe I am irritated since I have suffered through countless Cameron Diaz and Carmen Electra movies for a lot less sex appeal?  In a two-minute music video there is rarely enough clothes to outfit the Swedish army (there are only three members and all of them are privates – hey, where is your mind?  It is the music videos I tell you.)

The Temper Trap video for "Love Lost" reminds me of stomping in puddles after a nice rain.  Ah, to be a kid again!  I especially like the chubby kid, who couldn't hit a puddle if it were right in front of him (I am being literal here).  I honestly don't know whether the video is strange, or if it is awesome.  Maybe it is a little bit of both.  Enjoy, and purify your mind.

A Shameless Plug For PEPY and Better World Books

A shameless plug for PEPY and Better World Books

Yes, the picture above depicts the power source to the world's best blog, Etneral Domnation (congratulations guys!).  And no, I did not buy the converter from IKEA (which has been an obsession, along with a little e-reader).  

The PEPY Ride

I risked electrocution to get this post powered, and accordingly I feel I have earned the discretion of a shameless plug (and terrible pun).  While we are at it, make it two.  First, if you want to make a year-end donation, and get the write-off for the 2010 tax year, or you are simply [a saint and] interested in learning about a wonderful organization, I would be ever so grateful that you consider The PEPY Ride.  

Better World Books

Additionally, if you have a hankering to buy books, please use Better World Books.  Your hard earned dough supports global literacy projects, including partners of PEPY.  Bonus, the prices are right, the books are righteous, and there is free shipping around the globe.

Meanwhile, may you 23 + my rouge-and-random-checkers have a safe and happy new year.  Off to Portugal, back in 2012 if I can resist Eternal Domnation for that long!  Until then...happy reading!

Kicking it With Kids

What is fair punishment for a kid that kicks the back of your seat for the entirety of your flight?

My name is what?

My flight from London to Los Angeles was about 11 hours.  The little punk behind me played treadmill with my seat, for all 11 hours.  Bloody Hell, the mother just sat there and watched the brat walk all over me.  I think the kid needs to learn a lesson and understand the pain she caused me.  I'm now in LA and so exhausted that I barely know my name (though my back feels, well refreshed).  

So as fair punishment, I say that she should have to legally change her name annually, on her birthday, for the next 11 years (i.e., the number of hours the runt kicked your seat).  That will teach her, and seems fair to me.    Then again, I am so tired  I don't even know what I am typing.

Untag, You're a Nit.

Remember we used to play tag?  And by we, I mean you and me, and everyone we knew.  Tag was free.  It was arguably fun, that is unless you were “it,” but even then that was half of the game.  Do you run after the young weakling, or puff your chest and go for the speedy neighbor?  Hide in wait amongst the trees for a gorilla-tag, or hop on your bike for a drive-by-tag?  Tag, simply timeless.  

Let’s face it, tag was and still is awesome.  However, and there is always a "however" when I rant, it seems the rules of tag have changed.

Lockers are safe, you can't
tag me here Winny!  Or can you...

It seems that when you go out and have a good time with your family and friends, you are actually playing tag.  You drink a little, you play a few games of shuffle puck, and perhaps (hypothetically) at the moment just before the lights come on, you dance a little bit.  Okay, maybe a lot.  Seems fun, and at the surface all seems fair.  But, you see, the rules of tag have changed.  The game has been sent into overtime.

Mr. Short-Sleeves in Severe Winter Weather Man

We have all seen these people before.  Perhaps we even know these people.  Bloody Hell, one of us may be in the gang of these people.  And who are these italicized people that are driving me crazy, you may ask?  

Really?

Individually, they are none other than that dude or dudette wearing a short sleeve shirt, or God forbid shorts, outside in the middle of a severe winter.  The phenomenon spans the globe, trust me.  I’ll tell you I am but one man and even I have now witnessed it on at least three different continents.  What is with these people?  [I admit that I have identified an entire class of people that are now subject to this rant – but they are not a protected class and I feel free as a bird to dig into their arrogant ways.]

Revision is a Four-Letter Word Disguised as an Eight-Letter Word

I fear that I may have self-helped myself beyond help, if that makes any sense.  For the first time, I have reached the revision stage of writing a novel.  I have loaded up on resources so that I am educated on the art before I crawl down the red inky path.  Some of my resources have been very helpful, others are downright discouraging.  Where one author suggests that revision is like cutting my own hair (let’s call this author "Mr. Helpful"), another essentially suggests that I am an amateurish moron and should cut everything I have  written (let’s call this author "Mr. Dick").  For a short list of books that hypothetically could be the source of Richard (for long), perhaps look at the Creative Writing Toolkit.

I suppose you think
this an inefficient use of words?

I like Mr. Helpful’s analogy, and I am unashamed to adopt it.  I will clip away at my writings, making sure not to cut so much off in a given chapter so that I am forced to lop off other areas that already look fabulous (I initially wrote Fab, but edited it out).  In fact, I may even leave the ending of the book abnormally long to create a mystical mullet novel.  Feast on that Mr. Dick.  

One question for you Mr. Dick, if you are so good at revising and publishing novels, why are you writing a self-help book on the subject?  True, I did buy it, but shouldn't you be writing the next Harry Potter or Twilight series?  Tis what I thoughteded! (these are all things that prevent a story from being published – oh yea, watch this.  Bam, I’m on a blog.) 

Ikea Handle the Truth!

Now I am not one to complain, living aboard the Ikea cruise ship has been a dream come true for me.  Who hasn't walked around Ikea and told themselves that they could totally live in that 500 sq ft apartment?  Many a times between meatballs, that was exactly what I told myself - and now, well we are living that perverse dream.  Our little flat is decked out with Ikea furniture, cookware, and appliances.  So many compartments to keep me organized!    

Score: IKEA 1 - Dominic 0

With our appliances, comes the oft hysterical instructions.  Is that a man or a polar bear?  If you have put together a table, shoe rack, or scrapbook storage box from the giant blue and yellow retailer than you know exactly what I am talking about.  This is totally fine when you are building something you dragged out of the self-service warehouse since there is generally only one right way and they give you the tool to make it happen.  You finish the funky-cheap-ass table and show it off to anyone who will pay attention to you, voila!  

I found the Swedish comic book pictures a little more challenging during my first attempt to do the wash.  The towels were soaking wet and when it was all said and done I found the soap unharmed and mocking me from the safety of its little soap rack.  I would like to point out to you, Ikea washing machine, that it was Ikea towels that you failed to wash with that unused soap biscuit.  You let down your own kind, not me.  

You see, I will get you next time little stencil man!

Life is all about trial and errors here in Her Majesty's Kingdom, and I am really enjoying the ride.  Now on to happy writing...