Saturday
.
10/23/03
Conjoin This
I’ve never been a real big fan of fads. Sure, some fads turn into long term social trends, like overturning elections and our fascination with Gary Coleman, but mostly they just mystify me.
Take, for example, our recent penchant for separating conjoined twins. Or, when I was a kid, Siamese twins. I guess that term was insensitive to the Siamese. But then again, I don’t think there are any more Siamese. It’s all so confusing. Anyway, I heard on the radio yesterday that doctors, somewhere in the US, are getting ready to separate another pair of twins. I stopped for a moment and listened more carefully, thinking that I must have misheard and that it was just an update on one of the other sets separated this year. But no, it’s yet another new pair.
Now, lest I offend anyone by sounding as if I don’t care about the welfare of conjoined twins, let me assure you that I’m a weak-kneed, lily-livered, commie tax and spend liberal who thinks that precisely because we are the ones with all the goods, we’re obligated to share. So, that being understood, I still really don’t understand the whole twin-thing in a practical sort of way.
Namely, are conjoined twins becoming more common? If so, it seems to me as though some one should be busy figuring out why, rather than getting better at fixing the problem after the fact. Or, maybe it’s that there have always been a lot of cranially conjoined twins born and we just never cared that much before. Or, maybe doctors always cared, but only now technology is catching up with the problem.
Since I’m a cynic, I suspect it’s a combination of the latter two. After all, big medical centers of the sort that support these efforts depend largely on public grants and private donations, so salesmanship is, by necessity, a big part of the business. And hell, in this world of ratings driven life, what’s better publicity for your hospital than a successful separation? Remember the nonstop media blitz surrounding multiple births that followed the successful delivery of the McCaughey septuplets? My point exactly.
And, again in a cynical sort of way, I fear that may be the ultimate reason for the increase in very public, very risky attempts at these separations: people around the globe with few resources and little hope catch a glimpse of an over-hyped, Hollywood style solution to whatever problem they may be facing.
So… in the end, is it all good or bad? I dunno. And jeez, this all turned out a little darker than I expected. I should probably have stuck to making fun of archaic Asian cultures. After all, there’s nothing that kills at a party like a good Pol Pot joke.
|
10/23/03
Conjoin This
I’ve never been a real big fan of fads. Sure, some fads turn into long term social trends, like overturning elections and our fascination with Gary Coleman, but mostly they just mystify me.
Take, for example, our recent penchant for separating conjoined twins. Or, when I was a kid, Siamese twins. I guess that term was insensitive to the Siamese. But then again, I don’t think there are any more Siamese. It’s all so confusing. Anyway, I heard on the radio yesterday that doctors, somewhere in the US, are getting ready to separate another pair of twins. I stopped for a moment and listened more carefully, thinking that I must have misheard and that it was just an update on one of the other sets separated this year. But no, it’s yet another new pair.
Now, lest I offend anyone by sounding as if I don’t care about the welfare of conjoined twins, let me assure you that I’m a weak-kneed, lily-livered, commie tax and spend liberal who thinks that precisely because we are the ones with all the goods, we’re obligated to share. So, that being understood, I still really don’t understand the whole twin-thing in a practical sort of way.
Namely, are conjoined twins becoming more common? If so, it seems to me as though some one should be busy figuring out why, rather than getting better at fixing the problem after the fact. Or, maybe it’s that there have always been a lot of cranially conjoined twins born and we just never cared that much before. Or, maybe doctors always cared, but only now technology is catching up with the problem.
Since I’m a cynic, I suspect it’s a combination of the latter two. After all, big medical centers of the sort that support these efforts depend largely on public grants and private donations, so salesmanship is, by necessity, a big part of the business. And hell, in this world of ratings driven life, what’s better publicity for your hospital than a successful separation? Remember the nonstop media blitz surrounding multiple births that followed the successful delivery of the McCaughey septuplets? My point exactly.
And, again in a cynical sort of way, I fear that may be the ultimate reason for the increase in very public, very risky attempts at these separations: people around the globe with few resources and little hope catch a glimpse of an over-hyped, Hollywood style solution to whatever problem they may be facing.
So… in the end, is it all good or bad? I dunno. And jeez, this all turned out a little darker than I expected. I should probably have stuck to making fun of archaic Asian cultures. After all, there’s nothing that kills at a party like a good Pol Pot joke.
Friday
.
10/21/03
Less Is More. Sometimes.
If you think about it, and I don’t suppose you have, have you… there’s probably no end to the variety of seasonal natural wonders all around us. If you live in California you have the return of the Capistrano Swallows in spring to look forward to. If you’re in the Pacific Northwest, the salmon do their wiggly-sparkly thing upstream in the fall. Well, here in southern NY we have the return of the majestic ladybug.
All right, it’s not exactly a cloud of Monarch butterflies on its way to Mexico, but it’s pretty much what we got… as it were. Each October, we’ll get a beautiful day, sunny and breezy and in the seventies, just like this one. Then, around one or two in the afternoon, when the sun is shining on the front of the house, I’ll see one out of the corner of my eye. A small, perfect, lady bug. And then another. And then I realize there are scores of them, flying all around the front of the house, having one last ladybug fling for the year.
Not a big deal, really, but just one of those smaller, quieter pleasures that nature seems to save for just the right moment. Oh yeah, and the boys think it’s the best thing too; here’s one they rescued from a spider.
|
10/21/03
Less Is More. Sometimes.
If you think about it, and I don’t suppose you have, have you… there’s probably no end to the variety of seasonal natural wonders all around us. If you live in California you have the return of the Capistrano Swallows in spring to look forward to. If you’re in the Pacific Northwest, the salmon do their wiggly-sparkly thing upstream in the fall. Well, here in southern NY we have the return of the majestic ladybug.
All right, it’s not exactly a cloud of Monarch butterflies on its way to Mexico, but it’s pretty much what we got… as it were. Each October, we’ll get a beautiful day, sunny and breezy and in the seventies, just like this one. Then, around one or two in the afternoon, when the sun is shining on the front of the house, I’ll see one out of the corner of my eye. A small, perfect, lady bug. And then another. And then I realize there are scores of them, flying all around the front of the house, having one last ladybug fling for the year.
Not a big deal, really, but just one of those smaller, quieter pleasures that nature seems to save for just the right moment. Oh yeah, and the boys think it’s the best thing too; here’s one they rescued from a spider.
Tuesday
.
10/15/03
Elspeth Pays Attention
I was going to blog today about the so-called army probe into the increase in suicides among U.S. troops, but I just didn’t really have it in me. In the story, as reported by USA Today, an army psychiatrist by the name of Elspeth Cameron Ritchie who is concerned about the suicides wonders aloud: " The number of suicides has caused the Army to be concerned. Is there something different going on in Iraq that we really need to pay attention to?"
Priceless? Sure, but in the end a little too dark, even for me. So, hey kids! How about another WMD Smoking Gun story sent to me by a fellow consumer of news more alert than I. Not a smoking gun of the sort BushCheney would prefer, but gosh, that’s half the fun. Enjoy.
|
10/15/03
Elspeth Pays Attention
I was going to blog today about the so-called army probe into the increase in suicides among U.S. troops, but I just didn’t really have it in me. In the story, as reported by USA Today, an army psychiatrist by the name of Elspeth Cameron Ritchie who is concerned about the suicides wonders aloud: " The number of suicides has caused the Army to be concerned. Is there something different going on in Iraq that we really need to pay attention to?"
Priceless? Sure, but in the end a little too dark, even for me. So, hey kids! How about another WMD Smoking Gun story sent to me by a fellow consumer of news more alert than I. Not a smoking gun of the sort BushCheney would prefer, but gosh, that’s half the fun. Enjoy.
Thursday
.
10/13/03
Mmmm. Hot, Steamy Flag-Driven Sincerity.
(Just in the way of a disclaimer… I find that most parenting blogs are heartfelt, if nothing else. As often as not though, they have a tone to them that’s Capra-esque to the point of maudlin sincerity… Yuck. So, despite the suspiciously earnest tone of the following exchange between me and my youngest in this entry, and the opportunity for reflection that that afforded me, I swear its all true, if just a little icky… -E.)
While negotiating the hallway with an armload of laundry last night, I found my younger boy wandering around with a small plastic American flag in his hand. "Dad," he asked, "are we winning?"
I stopped dead. I was pretty sure where this was leading. "Winning?" I asked with my most Winning smile.
"Yeah," he asked, "are we winning the war?" Good Heavens. Our troops in the mid-east deal daily with real landmines and the consequences of any real missteps, and yet there I stood, rooted to the spot in my own house while considering the consequences of any intellectual missteps I might make. A thousand thoughts flew through my mind, the first of which was that I would have preferred to be ambushed by any other question, even the where-do-babies-come-from one.
"Well, um, yeah, sort of… but it’s kind of complicated…" I was floundering. "Yes", I said, "we’re winning, well, for the moment, anyway."
I stopped for a moment. What was I thinking? The boy’s only six, so it’s way too early to start in on him about the real nature of the conflict between chaos and order and the fact that it’s as inevitable as it is intractable.
All sorts of analogies occurred to me to explain the situation in Iraq and Afghanistan (remember Afghanistan?), but nothing seemed right. I thought about how BushCheney stood in front of the U.S. and declared that victory is inevitable; it’s only a matter of keeping our resolve and throwing enough resources at "them". Somehow, apparently, terrorists will just magically stop appearing if we kill enough of them. Then I wondered what the British would have to say about that if we asked them how things went for them around the world. And I wondered what the Israelis would have to say about that if we asked them how things are going at home with the Palestinians. Then I wondered what the Romans would say to that if we could ask them how things went with the Visigoths and Vandals. Just a simple matter of resolve, says BushCheney.
Then I thought about the fact that over the last five thousand years or so, expansive empires have, without exception, failed. Building and maintaining an empire that includes peoples who would really rather not be included, thank you very much, have universally proved to be both politically and financially untenable. In short, there are at least five thousand years worth of lessons about what happens to those who would impose their will on others on a global scale, no matter how well meaning or not.
And yet, the political right of this nation would have us believe that we are somehow different. That we can run a program of either regime change or nation building, whichever euphemism you prefer, with impunity. That we can spiral into an endless cycle of sending our troops and tax dollars abroad, as if willing troops and tax dollars were in endless supply. It truly boggles the mind.
So, about two seconds later, Sensible Dad fought back and regained control of my brain. "Yep," I said, "We’re winning and everything’s fine."
I felt a little guilty about lying to him, but not too much. He had more questions though. He looked at me very earnestly. "What happens when we win?"
Another toughie. "Well… um, actually, not much. We get to go on with things like they already are." That didn’t seem to really satisfy him though, I assume because in his world, winning or losing a game has real consequenses.
"Well what happens if they win?"
"Oh, nothing at all, don’t worry about it, they won’t" I lied.
Well, then again, maybe it wasn’t a lie. May be we’ll find ourselves again. Perhaps our better selves will decide that generations of conflict can, and probably should be avoided. The British lucked out really. Their empire mellowed and matured into the old guy that recognized when enough was enough and that it was time to pack up his ego along with his pith helmet and go home.
Britain survived. And each night that goes by, I pray, for my sons’ sake as well as mine, that we get over ourselves and mature just as gracefully.
So there, I warned you it might be just a little yucky in a sincere sort of way.
|
10/13/03
Mmmm. Hot, Steamy Flag-Driven Sincerity.
(Just in the way of a disclaimer… I find that most parenting blogs are heartfelt, if nothing else. As often as not though, they have a tone to them that’s Capra-esque to the point of maudlin sincerity… Yuck. So, despite the suspiciously earnest tone of the following exchange between me and my youngest in this entry, and the opportunity for reflection that that afforded me, I swear its all true, if just a little icky… -E.)
While negotiating the hallway with an armload of laundry last night, I found my younger boy wandering around with a small plastic American flag in his hand. "Dad," he asked, "are we winning?"
I stopped dead. I was pretty sure where this was leading. "Winning?" I asked with my most Winning smile.
"Yeah," he asked, "are we winning the war?" Good Heavens. Our troops in the mid-east deal daily with real landmines and the consequences of any real missteps, and yet there I stood, rooted to the spot in my own house while considering the consequences of any intellectual missteps I might make. A thousand thoughts flew through my mind, the first of which was that I would have preferred to be ambushed by any other question, even the where-do-babies-come-from one.
"Well, um, yeah, sort of… but it’s kind of complicated…" I was floundering. "Yes", I said, "we’re winning, well, for the moment, anyway."
I stopped for a moment. What was I thinking? The boy’s only six, so it’s way too early to start in on him about the real nature of the conflict between chaos and order and the fact that it’s as inevitable as it is intractable.
All sorts of analogies occurred to me to explain the situation in Iraq and Afghanistan (remember Afghanistan?), but nothing seemed right. I thought about how BushCheney stood in front of the U.S. and declared that victory is inevitable; it’s only a matter of keeping our resolve and throwing enough resources at "them". Somehow, apparently, terrorists will just magically stop appearing if we kill enough of them. Then I wondered what the British would have to say about that if we asked them how things went for them around the world. And I wondered what the Israelis would have to say about that if we asked them how things are going at home with the Palestinians. Then I wondered what the Romans would say to that if we could ask them how things went with the Visigoths and Vandals. Just a simple matter of resolve, says BushCheney.
Then I thought about the fact that over the last five thousand years or so, expansive empires have, without exception, failed. Building and maintaining an empire that includes peoples who would really rather not be included, thank you very much, have universally proved to be both politically and financially untenable. In short, there are at least five thousand years worth of lessons about what happens to those who would impose their will on others on a global scale, no matter how well meaning or not.
And yet, the political right of this nation would have us believe that we are somehow different. That we can run a program of either regime change or nation building, whichever euphemism you prefer, with impunity. That we can spiral into an endless cycle of sending our troops and tax dollars abroad, as if willing troops and tax dollars were in endless supply. It truly boggles the mind.
So, about two seconds later, Sensible Dad fought back and regained control of my brain. "Yep," I said, "We’re winning and everything’s fine."
I felt a little guilty about lying to him, but not too much. He had more questions though. He looked at me very earnestly. "What happens when we win?"
Another toughie. "Well… um, actually, not much. We get to go on with things like they already are." That didn’t seem to really satisfy him though, I assume because in his world, winning or losing a game has real consequenses.
"Well what happens if they win?"
"Oh, nothing at all, don’t worry about it, they won’t" I lied.
Well, then again, maybe it wasn’t a lie. May be we’ll find ourselves again. Perhaps our better selves will decide that generations of conflict can, and probably should be avoided. The British lucked out really. Their empire mellowed and matured into the old guy that recognized when enough was enough and that it was time to pack up his ego along with his pith helmet and go home.
Britain survived. And each night that goes by, I pray, for my sons’ sake as well as mine, that we get over ourselves and mature just as gracefully.
So there, I warned you it might be just a little yucky in a sincere sort of way.
Wednesday
10/12/03
Preaching to the Choir
Woke up this morning feeling pretty sharp. New place around the corner makes a pretty good sesame bagel with sun-dried tomato cream cheese. The day’s turning out just fine. Open up the lifestyle section of my local Gannett rag to find the slightly grim but purposeful visage of one Joe Conason. Damned if this day doesn’t just keep getting better and better.
Conason, who writes for the New York Observer and Salon.com (And now I find my complete unfamiliarity with him a little embarrassing) has jumped into the literary fray along with the likes of Molly Ivins, Paul Krugman and Moore and Franken, and I say, "God bless’em." Conason’s contribution is called, succinctly enough, "Big Lies" which is about the shameless contempt the Professional Right has for the rest of us. "Damn", I whispered to myself. "Is that a little ray of sunlight shining through?"
At the risk of beating a dead horse, which at this point I think is long overdue, Conason goes after all of the day’s biggest bogeymen, the gender-free Coulter included, such as Limbaugh, DeLay, and Bush, along with old favorites such as Gingrich. And best of all it’s in a self described bare-knuckle style that the left so desperately needs. Why, I believe that ray of sunshine brought along a breath of fresh as well.
In short, there seems to be a growing movement among the left in which politeness is no longer required. Conason has this to say about DeLay: " A belligerent politician who loudly maligns the patriotism of his betters… DeLay is simply a cowardly thug in a business suit, who abuses patriotic rhetoric to stifle debate." Amen! Testify, brother!
Now of course it means nothing that a segment of the intellectual left has taken off the gloves if the political left won’t do the same, but today’s going too well to worry about that just now. I’ve got some Salon.com to catch up on.
|
Preaching to the Choir
Woke up this morning feeling pretty sharp. New place around the corner makes a pretty good sesame bagel with sun-dried tomato cream cheese. The day’s turning out just fine. Open up the lifestyle section of my local Gannett rag to find the slightly grim but purposeful visage of one Joe Conason. Damned if this day doesn’t just keep getting better and better.
Conason, who writes for the New York Observer and Salon.com (And now I find my complete unfamiliarity with him a little embarrassing) has jumped into the literary fray along with the likes of Molly Ivins, Paul Krugman and Moore and Franken, and I say, "God bless’em." Conason’s contribution is called, succinctly enough, "Big Lies" which is about the shameless contempt the Professional Right has for the rest of us. "Damn", I whispered to myself. "Is that a little ray of sunlight shining through?"
At the risk of beating a dead horse, which at this point I think is long overdue, Conason goes after all of the day’s biggest bogeymen, the gender-free Coulter included, such as Limbaugh, DeLay, and Bush, along with old favorites such as Gingrich. And best of all it’s in a self described bare-knuckle style that the left so desperately needs. Why, I believe that ray of sunshine brought along a breath of fresh as well.
In short, there seems to be a growing movement among the left in which politeness is no longer required. Conason has this to say about DeLay: " A belligerent politician who loudly maligns the patriotism of his betters… DeLay is simply a cowardly thug in a business suit, who abuses patriotic rhetoric to stifle debate." Amen! Testify, brother!
Now of course it means nothing that a segment of the intellectual left has taken off the gloves if the political left won’t do the same, but today’s going too well to worry about that just now. I’ve got some Salon.com to catch up on.
Monday
10/07/03
Hollywood Hates Me
It’s been said, and by people who insist that they care for me no less, that I can be a real pain in the ass. And probably in more ways than I want to know about. But in any case, lately these same people claim that I am not only a movie snob, but a full-blown snot… as it were.
I guess it’s true, but I wonder how I got this way. I used to go to movies all the time. It didn’t even matter much what was showing; I just liked the whole experience. So, after thinking about it for a bit, I finally realized when my deep, earnest hatred of nauseating mainstream movies started.
I remember clearly one dark day when I was snared by my wife who forced me to watch Mrs. Doubtfire. It hurt, and not in that certain way I kind of like. For those of you who may have blissfully forgotten, Robin Williams played a perversely immature jackass who finally put his wife in the position of having to throw him out. And yet, in the equally perversely twisted logic of the film, we were supposed to feel sorry for him. And worse yet, you could almost hear the screenwriter’s rusty wheels grinding along as each new scene was broadcasted both LOUDLY AND SLOWWWWLY just to make sure that everyone GOT THE POINT and didn’t MISS ANYTHING. (Remember the old SNL sketches where Garrett Morris would appear in the corner of the screen for the hearing impaired, but instead of signing, he just shouted what was being said really loudly? My point exactly.)
Oooh oooh, but wait… then there are the movies that make me squirm because a writer or director had evidently decided that even the most basic foundation of logic that governs the universe need not apply. Case in Point: Pearl Harbor.
Ok, so me and my buddy Joe are sitting downstairs in front of the big tv, watching as fighter jockey Ben Afleck and his buddy make it into the air and shoot at the Zeros. As they do so, however, they somehow manage to be involved in every skirmish in the sky that morning. Then, after landing, the two of them suddenly appear out of the chaos at just the right time and pace in the hospital to furrow their brows and say supportive things to their love interest. But then, they magically appear at the center of rescue party saving sailors atop a capsized ship in the harbor. Huuh? And then… the pair of fighter pilots turned-naval-rescue-party suddenly become bomber pilots and fly in Doolittle’s raid on Japan. Whaaa?
I squirmed. I asked rhetorical questions out loud. Yes, I was a snot. And so, before we even got to find out which one of the hunks was to die a gloriously heroic death, my buddy Joe pulled his newly minted DVD out of the player and vowed to never, ever, watch another movie with me. Just as well, really.
So yet again I’ve gone terribly astray and nearly forgotten what I was actually going to blog about today, which was a movie I just saw that I actually enjoyed. No matter, there’s always tomorrow, and this rant felt just fine.
|
Hollywood Hates Me
It’s been said, and by people who insist that they care for me no less, that I can be a real pain in the ass. And probably in more ways than I want to know about. But in any case, lately these same people claim that I am not only a movie snob, but a full-blown snot… as it were.
I guess it’s true, but I wonder how I got this way. I used to go to movies all the time. It didn’t even matter much what was showing; I just liked the whole experience. So, after thinking about it for a bit, I finally realized when my deep, earnest hatred of nauseating mainstream movies started.
I remember clearly one dark day when I was snared by my wife who forced me to watch Mrs. Doubtfire. It hurt, and not in that certain way I kind of like. For those of you who may have blissfully forgotten, Robin Williams played a perversely immature jackass who finally put his wife in the position of having to throw him out. And yet, in the equally perversely twisted logic of the film, we were supposed to feel sorry for him. And worse yet, you could almost hear the screenwriter’s rusty wheels grinding along as each new scene was broadcasted both LOUDLY AND SLOWWWWLY just to make sure that everyone GOT THE POINT and didn’t MISS ANYTHING. (Remember the old SNL sketches where Garrett Morris would appear in the corner of the screen for the hearing impaired, but instead of signing, he just shouted what was being said really loudly? My point exactly.)
Oooh oooh, but wait… then there are the movies that make me squirm because a writer or director had evidently decided that even the most basic foundation of logic that governs the universe need not apply. Case in Point: Pearl Harbor.
Ok, so me and my buddy Joe are sitting downstairs in front of the big tv, watching as fighter jockey Ben Afleck and his buddy make it into the air and shoot at the Zeros. As they do so, however, they somehow manage to be involved in every skirmish in the sky that morning. Then, after landing, the two of them suddenly appear out of the chaos at just the right time and pace in the hospital to furrow their brows and say supportive things to their love interest. But then, they magically appear at the center of rescue party saving sailors atop a capsized ship in the harbor. Huuh? And then… the pair of fighter pilots turned-naval-rescue-party suddenly become bomber pilots and fly in Doolittle’s raid on Japan. Whaaa?
I squirmed. I asked rhetorical questions out loud. Yes, I was a snot. And so, before we even got to find out which one of the hunks was to die a gloriously heroic death, my buddy Joe pulled his newly minted DVD out of the player and vowed to never, ever, watch another movie with me. Just as well, really.
So yet again I’ve gone terribly astray and nearly forgotten what I was actually going to blog about today, which was a movie I just saw that I actually enjoyed. No matter, there’s always tomorrow, and this rant felt just fine.
10/03/03
Overdue for a Hangover
Suppose, if you will, that it’s 1982. It’s about nine o’clock on any Saturday night, and you’ve just arrived at a party. The party-thrower’s parents have just left for Florida, and even better, forgot to hide the key to the liquor cabinet. By midnight everyone’s having a great time. The patio furniture is in the pool, the dog is drunk on beer and all the bedrooms are locked and in use. Every one is pumped up and feeling great, and you can do anything ‘cause you’re the King of the World!!!
But now it’s eleven in the morning and the only reason you came-to is because you’ve just rolled off the couch. The sun is hurting your eyes, your head is pounding, there’s something sticky all over your shirt, and the furniture in the pool doesn’t seem quite as funny any more.
Then there’s that faint voice in the back of your head saying, "Happy now? I fucking told you to take it easy. Jerk. Now go clean up the dog vomit."
My point? From this week’s cover of Time Magazine it looks as if America may finally be coming-to.
|
Overdue for a Hangover
Suppose, if you will, that it’s 1982. It’s about nine o’clock on any Saturday night, and you’ve just arrived at a party. The party-thrower’s parents have just left for Florida, and even better, forgot to hide the key to the liquor cabinet. By midnight everyone’s having a great time. The patio furniture is in the pool, the dog is drunk on beer and all the bedrooms are locked and in use. Every one is pumped up and feeling great, and you can do anything ‘cause you’re the King of the World!!!
But now it’s eleven in the morning and the only reason you came-to is because you’ve just rolled off the couch. The sun is hurting your eyes, your head is pounding, there’s something sticky all over your shirt, and the furniture in the pool doesn’t seem quite as funny any more.
Then there’s that faint voice in the back of your head saying, "Happy now? I fucking told you to take it easy. Jerk. Now go clean up the dog vomit."
My point? From this week’s cover of Time Magazine it looks as if America may finally be coming-to.
Tuesday
.
.
9/23/03
Creative Vacationing
My well-worn thesaurus tells me that synonyms for ‘vacation’ include: Holiday, Furlough, Recess, Respite, Leave of Absence, Recreation Time, Sabbatical, Rest & Recuperation, and Intermission. I’m guessing however, that only about three of those nine accurately describe part of the weekend we just spent with the boys at the exotic Park Ridge Marriott. Whoo-hoo. Recess, holiday and recreation time. To the boys, it’s a "twenty four hour vacation," but for my Lovely Bride and me it actually gets even better.
The deal is that before I went back to school and was working full time, we were lucky enough to be able to do the big, ridiculous family vacations such as Disney and the like. Recently though, as things have been a little more modest around here, we’ve been making do with our very own Marriott vacations. This summer, for instance, we did do some Mystic and Land of Make Believe, but throughout the year we’ve been using our points and getting good promotions on short stays at Marriotts here and there.
In short, four or five times a year we pack ourselves up and spend two or three nights in a place nearby where there’s year-round swimming, jumping on the beds is allowed, somebody else cleans our messes, and a few cocktails at dinner is ok because it’s an awfully short walk to the elevator. And then, of course, there’s hot tub, sauna, spa, and pay-Disney movies on TV that we haven’t gotten around to seeing yet. (This weekend it was Finding Nemo.)
All in all, a pretty good bang for the buck. My only concern was how to describe these stays. As I said, to the boys, they are "twenty four hour vacations", but then, after a last toss in the pool, they get dropped off at home so they can spend the rest of the weekend with grandma. They don’t seem to realize that’s when the real vacation starts. That’s when Mom and Dad go back to the hotel. All alone. By ourselves… and that’s where we come full circle and the other so-called synonyms for vacation come into play. Now, respite, furlough, and sabbatical really do describe the rest of the weekend.
So save those points, and ask for AAA promos at your inn of choice. Go on, consider it a tip for a happy family, good marriage, or just quality loafing... whichever.
|
.
9/23/03
Creative Vacationing
My well-worn thesaurus tells me that synonyms for ‘vacation’ include: Holiday, Furlough, Recess, Respite, Leave of Absence, Recreation Time, Sabbatical, Rest & Recuperation, and Intermission. I’m guessing however, that only about three of those nine accurately describe part of the weekend we just spent with the boys at the exotic Park Ridge Marriott. Whoo-hoo. Recess, holiday and recreation time. To the boys, it’s a "twenty four hour vacation," but for my Lovely Bride and me it actually gets even better.
The deal is that before I went back to school and was working full time, we were lucky enough to be able to do the big, ridiculous family vacations such as Disney and the like. Recently though, as things have been a little more modest around here, we’ve been making do with our very own Marriott vacations. This summer, for instance, we did do some Mystic and Land of Make Believe, but throughout the year we’ve been using our points and getting good promotions on short stays at Marriotts here and there.
In short, four or five times a year we pack ourselves up and spend two or three nights in a place nearby where there’s year-round swimming, jumping on the beds is allowed, somebody else cleans our messes, and a few cocktails at dinner is ok because it’s an awfully short walk to the elevator. And then, of course, there’s hot tub, sauna, spa, and pay-Disney movies on TV that we haven’t gotten around to seeing yet. (This weekend it was Finding Nemo.)
All in all, a pretty good bang for the buck. My only concern was how to describe these stays. As I said, to the boys, they are "twenty four hour vacations", but then, after a last toss in the pool, they get dropped off at home so they can spend the rest of the weekend with grandma. They don’t seem to realize that’s when the real vacation starts. That’s when Mom and Dad go back to the hotel. All alone. By ourselves… and that’s where we come full circle and the other so-called synonyms for vacation come into play. Now, respite, furlough, and sabbatical really do describe the rest of the weekend.
So save those points, and ask for AAA promos at your inn of choice. Go on, consider it a tip for a happy family, good marriage, or just quality loafing... whichever.
.
.
9/18/03
Proudly Sponsoring...
As I’ve mentioned before, I like a good storm as much as the next guy, and perhaps even a little more. But since I’m here in southern New York, my only real source for hurricane fun is the Weather Channel and CNN.
So, while getting my fix this afternoon, I flipped by CNN and found a wind-swept reporter standing in front of an official looking sort of vehicle as he spoke to two official looking types in yellow slickers. As the surf pounded behind them, they sounded very knowledgeable about wave action and storm surge, and apparently had gone to the trouble of setting up special anemometers to try and catch the strongest wind gusts. They sounded a little disappointed, though, because they were hoping for at least seventy-five mph., but had only registered gusts in the low sixties.
It seemed to me that the whole thing had an oddly recreational tone to it. I looked a little closer. The SUV had a big shiny "Lowes" home improvement logo on the hood. The yellow slickers had the word ALERT in big letters on the back and little "Lowes" logos on the front. Slicker number one continued on about storm surge while slicker number two tried to keep his hood on. The reporter looked fascinated. I looked disgusted.
In all fairness, I missed the beginning of the segment, so for all I know they started with a disclaimer to the effect of: "As much as what we’re about to show you may look like legitimate news reporting, it’s really only a stunt sponsored by the fine people at Lowes." But you know, I kind of doubt that they did.
Anyway, I looked up the official six-year list of names for Atlantic storms, but I didn’t see any list of sponsors. Let's hope Home Depot has learned its lesson and doesn’t miss out on the next one, which is named Juan.
|
.
9/18/03
Proudly Sponsoring...
As I’ve mentioned before, I like a good storm as much as the next guy, and perhaps even a little more. But since I’m here in southern New York, my only real source for hurricane fun is the Weather Channel and CNN.
So, while getting my fix this afternoon, I flipped by CNN and found a wind-swept reporter standing in front of an official looking sort of vehicle as he spoke to two official looking types in yellow slickers. As the surf pounded behind them, they sounded very knowledgeable about wave action and storm surge, and apparently had gone to the trouble of setting up special anemometers to try and catch the strongest wind gusts. They sounded a little disappointed, though, because they were hoping for at least seventy-five mph., but had only registered gusts in the low sixties.
It seemed to me that the whole thing had an oddly recreational tone to it. I looked a little closer. The SUV had a big shiny "Lowes" home improvement logo on the hood. The yellow slickers had the word ALERT in big letters on the back and little "Lowes" logos on the front. Slicker number one continued on about storm surge while slicker number two tried to keep his hood on. The reporter looked fascinated. I looked disgusted.
In all fairness, I missed the beginning of the segment, so for all I know they started with a disclaimer to the effect of: "As much as what we’re about to show you may look like legitimate news reporting, it’s really only a stunt sponsored by the fine people at Lowes." But you know, I kind of doubt that they did.
Anyway, I looked up the official six-year list of names for Atlantic storms, but I didn’t see any list of sponsors. Let's hope Home Depot has learned its lesson and doesn’t miss out on the next one, which is named Juan.
