Plunk's Perceptions

Proctoring Exams

2007-11-15T13:35:00.001-08:00

Proctoring exams can be painfully boring, but I find ways to amuse myself during this time. First, I will usually pick up a pencil and start flipping it on my fingers. About the third time I drop the pencil, I start feeling bad that I am disturbing the students who are tying to focus on their exams.

Soooo, then I start making up little games while I am watching the students. For example, I look down each row and see who is the prettiest girl, then who is the most handsome guy, who is the best dressed, who is the most 'interesting' looking person, who looks the smartest, who has the coolest backpack, and so on (notice the positive vent to my game). If I notice that a particular student in a row has not been chosen as a winner yet, I will look that student over and create a contest just for him/her, such as "who is the student in that row with the, uh, well, uh, the nicest, um, nose ring ... or eyebrows ... or freckles". I think you get the picture.

All of that takes me about 5-10 minutes – even in a large class. So, then I will usually walk around the room once or twice, and then I go back to flipping my pencil a few times until it becomes too distracting (again).

Next, I stand there and think about what I am going to eat for a snack after the test (e.g., popcorn, frozen fruit, maybe pudding). When I get to thinking about food, it usually results in my thinking, “Shoot, I wish I had brought some gum. What if someone has a question and the garlic/onions from lunch is making my breath stink?” So, I will panic about that for a bit. And that is just about the time a student asks me a question – Oh just GREAT! When I get to the student’s desk, I try to lean in close enough to hear the whispered question, but not too close that he/she can smell my breath.

Now, I am 15-20 minutes into the 1-2 hour exam. Usually about this time, I think “My feet hurt! Why didn’t I wear more comfortable shoes?” Which leads to, “Oh yeah, because these shoes are sooo cool, and they match the stylin’ outfit I am wearing ... Hm, I wonder if any of the students think I am a snappy dresser? I wonder if they realize I never repeat an outfit the whole semester. Maybe I should ask them sometime? No, that is too egotistical. But I would like to know. But no, not appropriate. Does it really matter what they think? Yes, I guess it does. What was I just thinking about? Oh yeah, my cool shoes.” This line of thought will usually keep me going for about 15 minutes OR until someone raises a hand to ask me another question. Of course, I begin to panic again over my garlic/onion breath.

After answering the question, I usually make another obligatory walk around the room. As I am walking around the room, I often wonder if it freaks students out when I walk by. When I pause somewhere in the class to look around, I wonder if the student who is sitting close to where I paused is totally freaking out (e.g., “Why did Plunk stop by me? Does he think I am cheating? Is he looking down my blouse? Oh my gosh, if I move my hand up to my cleavage, he will know I know he is checking me out? Oh this is so vain. Plunk is not checking me out. Oh no, then that means he probably thinks I am cheating. I should not have aced the last test. I will just peak up at him. Oh, he is not even looking at me. Whew! ... Hey, why isn't he looking at me? Sheesh! ... Hm, I smell garlic, or is that onion? That's weird ... He is moving on, thank goodness!”

I arrive back to the front of the classroom. It is about this time that I start contemplating many very important issues impacting our society. For example, I often contemplate fast food: “Hm, do I like the chicken soft tacos better at Del Taco or Taco Bell? Hey, I just used the word ‘taco’ three times in one sentence; that does not occur very often. Taco Taco Taco - I like saying the word Taco. Burrito BurrrrriiiTO!” My friends know I can run silly topics like this through my head for a long time. Sometimes I will get tickled, and start chuckling, and then a student will look up. Soooo, I have to let my Super Ego kick in to straighten myself out and be a good test proctor. I will, once again, make an obligatory walk around the room.

What is interesting to me is that when students look up, I will immediately key into them. They will either (1) quickly look down because they don’t want me to think they are looking at someone else’s test; (2) engage in some dramatic gesture such as popping their neck, stretching their arms, etc; again, so I won’t think they are looking at someone else’s test; or (3) smile at me and look back down. I always smile back, and then look around at someone else so the student does not assume I am staring at just him/her. What kind of freaks ME out is when a student keeps looking up, which makes me look over, which then makes me think the student thinks that I am just watching him/her. It is really hard work to proctor an exam.

Eventually, most of the students have finished their exam, and only a few slow, er uh, thorough test takers are left. This is when I will alphabetize the tests for easy grade entry later, and then I will either read or work on my laptop until the last student finishes ... Speaking of which the last student is walking up right now. So, I need to go grade the exams.

Is truth synonymous with honesty?

2007-11-13T18:45:00.000-08:00

Recently, one of my esteemed students asked my opinion about the following statement "Truth is not synonymous with honesty." Anyone who knows me, knows that truthfulness is extremely important to me in relationships. So, I really mulled over this statement, had a flurry of emails on this topic with my venerated Oklahoma correspondent (Roxie), and even consulted a couple of books (e.g., Enough is Enough by Jane Straus).

This is what I keep coming back to...I try to live my life by being truthful AND kindhearted. Sadly, people can use 'brutal honesty' to hurt others. As Roxie said, “I have long thought people who love to say things like, ‘Oh, I am just a straight-talking person’ or ‘I call it like I see it’ or ‘I believe in being brutally honest’ are often pretty unkind people who use the virtue of honesty as club to beat out their aggressions, then sweetly say, ‘Oh, that's just how I am--honest to a fault’.”

I agree with her comments. People may be completely honest in what they say, but they may not be truthful about their intent. Their true intent may be to use ‘honest’ statements as a way to make others look bad, to elevate themselves, and/or to hurt others’ feelings. Conversely, I may not be 100% honest with someone so as to stay ‘true’ to who I am and the feelings I have for the other person. As an illustration, a friend asks me if I like the tie she bought me, yet I don’t really care for the tie. The truth is that (1) I care for that person, (2) I appreciate the thought that went into the gift, and (3) I want to validate that person and her thoughtfulness. So, my answer comes from those truths. Hence, I say, “Thank you for the tie. It is very appreciated ... but, of course, I would love any gift that comes from your heart.” And THAT is the truth.

Even though I live my life to be a very truthful person, it does not necessarily mean I HAVE to be 100% honest about everything I think. As an illustration, my friend buys a new car that I do not particularly like. However, I am not going to just offer, "I don't like your car." The truth is, I can appreciate his excitement about his new car, and hence, I can join in on his enthusiasm and joy.

After my initial post on this topic, I got an email from Jane Straus, author of Enough is Enough (surprised the heck out of me). In her email, Jane made some very insightful comments. She stated, "People often claim to be withholding truth to spare someone else's feelings when the real reason is that they're afraid of rejection or abandonment. In my 25 years as a personal life coach, I've heard many a husband or wife who has had an affair try to convince me and themselves that their motives are loftier than they are. Once they do tell the truth to their spouses, which is what I encourage, their partners invariably express that the hurt isn't from learning the truth, it's from being lied to in the first place. Telling the truth is a sign of respect; it's an acknowledgment that the other person is not too delicate or fragile to hear the truth. Truth is intimate. It is an invitation to build greater trust. Ultimately, truth is a high form of love."

I think Jane makes some very compelling statements (which will probably make you want to read her book). To extend what she is saying, I think people often use "I just want to protect his/her feelings" as a rationale for not being truthful. Yet, the TRUTH is, they are simply trying to justify actions they know are inappropriate. Similarly, some people may keep things about their past a secret from their loved ones, again using the justification "to protect his/her feelings". The point is, these people are intentionally hiding truths (or stated more directly, being deceitful), and as Jane discussed above, not being truthful shows a lack of respect and love for one's partner.

For me, some of the truths I live by are: (1) be both honest AND truthful at the same time, (2) do not use "protecting another's feelings" as a way to justify deceit, (3) do not be blatantly honest at the expense of others, and hence, (4) treat people in the way you want to be treated.

I want to end with an excerpt from Jane's book: "Commit to being truthful in all you say and do...Truth is a complex blend of honesty mixed with compassion and vulnerability. When you are 'brutally honest,' you are expressing your judgment but not expressing your truth. Your spirit knows the difference between truth and honesty. When you express your highest thoughts and intentions, you are able to live a true life, not just an honest one."

Amen!

Advice from the Dating King

2007-09-30T20:18:00.000-07:00

I know that I have been quiet on my blog for quite some time, but I could not come up with a good topic (or find the time). As I struggled to find a good topic, my Oklahoma consultant suggested I write about something where I have lots of experience. In her words, “Few people have spent as much time dating as you have, so you have soooooooo much to offer on THIS subject!” As I blurted out my indignation at what I think might have been a hidden jab, she quickly followed up with, “By default, you’re sorta the KING of dating; you've outlasted all the other single guys.” The ‘king’ eh? Cool! So, what follows is advice from years of experience from the (self-important clearing of throat) ‘DATING KING’.

Rule #1: Always forecast the first kiss. Why? Well, let me tell you about my first kiss. I was 15 years old and a charming older woman (17) had just gotten through putting hickeys (i.e., love-marks) all over my chest, but we had not even kissed yet (this is too weird to be a fabrication). Anyway, as I escorted my date(?) to the front door, my two sisters (ages 11 and 7) started cheering me on to kiss her. (Side note: Wouldn’t it be great if we had cheerleaders for each act of intimacy? The cheerleaders not only encourage us and pump us up, but they also tell us what to do. For example, “G-R-O-P-E, grope. Yes, grope the girl! Grope!” To which her cheerleaders could be cheering her on, “B-L-O-C-K, block that hand, block that hand!” … but I digress. Back to the story). So, there my sisters were cheering me on, “Kiss her Scott, kiss her.” Anyway, she waited patiently for me to process she would be receptive to a kiss since (1) she had just put hickeys on my chest while ‘studying’ on my bed, and (2) she was standing at the door looking at me while my two sisters keep repeating “kiss, kiss, kiss”. But I guess I waited too long because when I finally got up the nerve to go in for the very quick kiss, she leaned down to pick up her purse. What resulted was my fast-approaching mouth connecting with her eye; ramming her contact lens into her eyelid. OH, it was wonderful – my first kiss! As I floated to cloud nine, she was trying to dislodge the contact lens.

Rule #2: Watch what you eat before the first kiss. So, a year later I had my second kiss (with a different girl - things did not work out with the girl above after I rammed her contact lens into her eye). So, I took this beautiful girl out to eat. I had garlic chicken, onion rings, and a root beer to drink (remember I was only 16; I did not know better). Afterwards, we were sitting in my car, and the words of my buddy kept running through my mind, “This girl will make-out with anyone.” My little internal cheerleader gave me enough courage to go for the kiss. I SLOOOOWLY moved in for the kiss (I learned from my error above), and she responded (YES!). Right as I opened my mouth and our lips connected, a root beer stimulated belch with a garlic and onion chaser emerged; leaving my mouth and entering hers. I was mortified; she was grossed out; the date ended. (Side note: I know now that situation could have been salvaged with humor and apology, but alas, I just sat there and stared at her as she got out of the car and went inside). It would be two years before I kissed another girl...which leads to rule #3.

Rule #3: Be responsive to suggestions for improvement. Over the next two years, I dated a few girls, but I could never get the guts to kiss them after my previous experiences. In my sophomore year of college, I started dating a lovely young lady. I am not going to pretend our first kiss was skillfully accomplished, but it was glorious. However, she quickly recognized my limitation in the kissing arena. So, she would give me pointers. It was like my girlfriend and my cheerleader merged into one person, “Yes, loosen your lips a bit. There you go. Good job! Oh, I like the neck thing. Very nice!” I learned (1) to be receptive (and not offended) by helpful suggestions, (2) if I am not sure how to do something right, just ask, and (3) how to be a great kisser. I have applied rule #3 over and over again in relationships, and not just for kissing, but also for other aspects of emotional and physical intimacy. For example, other girlfriends ‘trained’ me to remember and celebrate anniversaries/holidays, give ‘appropriate’ gifts, express my feelings, and be a great lover (I just threw in the last one).

Rule #4: Gum is your best friend. Based on my example above, we can see the obvious role that gum can play in alleviating the stinky breath that may accompany a nice dinner. However, gum can be used in many other ways. For example, if you have a popcorn kernel or some other food stuck in your teeth, then chewing gum can often remove the annoying food; much better than using a finger or trying for hours to get it with your tongue. Next, gum can keep saliva going in those instances when your mouth dries up. A more creative use for gum occurred when I was in college. I went out with this sweet girl. After we started driving, I noticed this horrendous smell; she had obviously ‘passed gas’. If I rolled the window down in the freezing weather, she would know that I knew she had passed gas. But, if I did not get some fresh air coming in, I was going to have to sit in this awful stench. So, I pulled the car into a convenience store “to get some gum.” Of course I opened the door WIDE when I got out and back in. If there is no convenient store around, you could always throw your chewed gum out the window so that you could get in some fresh air (not that I advocate littering, but sometimes desperate times call for desperate measures).

Rule #5: Be on time. For those who have had me in my marriage/family course, you know this is a common theme females write about when describing their worst dating experience. Personally, I think this applies to women as well. Be ready when I get there – thank you very much!

Rule #6: Have a plan. Too often couples drive round and round polluting the atmosphere trying to figure out what to do and where to go. It is great that we are considerate of each other, BUT according to the females in my class when describing their perfect date, they like it when their partner plans the date. It shows the person thought about the date ahead of time. (Side note: Do not say “I don’t care where we eat” and then shoot down each of my suggestions - Argh!). Anyway, I took this delightful female out to eat dinner, but alas, I had no plan. So, as we drove around trying to find a place to eat, she started feeling week, dizzy, and confused due to low blood sugar. By the time we settled on a place, she had a headache. Well, needless to say, I did not get to show her what a great kisser I am. Bummer!

Well, with all of my years of experience, I could go on and on. But, I will leave that up to you. If you have an interesting experience or more dating advice, then add to the comments section.

Addendum: Okay, so I keep getting emails about the whole hickey-before-kiss thing. So, I realized I should clarify how the hickies happened considering how naïve I was. Specifically, as we were studying, the girl said “Hey, have you ever had a hicky before?” To which I embarrassingly responded “Uh, well, uh no, not really”. (Not really?!?!?! Sheesh!) ... To which she said “Well, you should have me give you one so you can tell your friends you have had one.” Her logic was sounding pretty good, but I hesitantly responded, “Well, uh, I am not sure about that. I don’t think I would want a hicky showing on my neck. It might be embarrassing.” To which she convincingly suggested, “You know, I could put one on your chest where no one can see it unless you want to show it off to your buddies.” Well, her logic did make sense to a naïve teenager. So, I took off my shirt so she could put a hicky on my chest. However, she kept "messing up" or "not doing it quite right"...the end result was I ended up with a bunch of “not quite right” hickies all over my chest. Yeah, you can definitely call me naïve ... Oh, and I never even showed my buddies because who wants to show off “not quite right” hickies?

The Amazing Coat

2007-07-03T22:06:00.000-07:00

In the movie, The Tuxedo, Jackie Chan’s character put on a well, uh, you know, a tuxedo. This tuxedo gave anyone who wore it extraordinary powers. Other movies feature similar themes. For example, Frodo Baggins had a ring that turned him invisible, and Harry Potter had a cloak of invisibility.

When I was in 7th grade, I was given a coat that gave me certain powers. When I wore it, I became VERY visible to everyone around. This 'coat of visibility' was made out of vinyl, and was shiny, bright blue, and had bright red stripes (lovely). Oh, and did I mention it was very very very very puffy. It resembled the puffy snowsuit worn by Ralphie's brother in A Christmas Story.

This amazing coat also allowed the wearer to have 'character building' moments (interpretation: completely and utterly embarrassing moments). Yep, wearing the 'coat of visibility' to my first year of junior high was definitely 'character building'.

This coat had two normal-sized pockets and two small, heat-saver pockets. These heat-saver pockets were just barely big enough to FORCE your hands in; hence the heat was kept in (what a bonus!). So one particularly cold day, I put both hands in the heat-saver pockets. When I got to my locker, I tried to pull my hands out, but the sides of the coat moved with my hands because the zipper on the front of the coat was not zipped. I kept trying to yank my hands out of the coat faster and faster, but all that happened is the side of the coat would fly back and upwards with my hands and arms. I must have looked like a bright blue, featherless, very puffy, bird trying to take off and fly. I was probably even making noises like a bird out of exasperation. I quickly got an audience due to the 'visibility' power of the coat, not to mention my frantic attempts to extract my hands and the strange noises emanating from my throat. I beseeched some 'friends' to hold the front of my coat so I could pull my hands out, but too much fun was being had by the bystanders for anyone to assist me. Eventually, I leaned against the wall to smash the side of the coat with my hip while I pulled, and WAHLAH, my hand came out. Yes! Freedom! "Move along people, no more entertainment here".

But, the character building aspect of the coat did not stop with that incident. When I would walk home from 7th grade, I figured out that I could save myself two blocks of walking by cutting through a fenced in yard behind my house. This backyard had a big dog, but my sharp mind quickly resolved that little issue. Each day, I would sneak up to the six-foot tall, wood plank fence, and throw a rock at the far end of the yard. When the dog went running and barking toward the other side of the yard, I would quickly scramble over the fence, run across the yard, and scramble over the fence into my backyard; generally the dog would be snapping at my feet just as I crawled over. This worked for weeks until I tried this trick with my coat on.

As usual, I threw the rock, scrambled over the fence, ran across the yard, and climbed the back fence to jump into my yard. BUT, the big wood plank on the fence (about 12 inches wide) went right up my coat (between my coat and shirt), stopping when it hit the collar of the coat. So, there I was dangling in my backyard about two feet off the ground with the dog yapping behind me. Thankfully this occurred when I was climbing into my yard instead of when I was climbing into the dog’s backyard (Whew!). I tried wiggling out of the coat, but THIS time my zipper was zipped all the way to my chin (bummer!). My next thought was to try and reach my zipper to release me from this predicament, but because the coat was pulled so tight AND it was so puffy, my arms and hands could not reach the zipper (double bummer!).

So, there I am trying to swing my way off this wood plank and/or reach my zipper, but no avail! I was stuck! Finally, I resigned myself to complete embarrassment, er uh, more 'character building', and started yelling for anyone to come help me. I guess the neighbor heard me yelling, and instead of coming to see what was wrong, she called my mom’s second husband at work (who of course she was married to at the time). He drove to the house like a madman, not knowing what was going on. When he ran into the backyard and saw me, he just stopped and stared as I attempted to wave at him – not that he could miss me hanging there in my 'coat of visibility' with a dog barking like crazy behind me. Instead of coming to help me, he turned around and walked back inside (What the heck?). But I quickly realized the amazing power of my coat to create character-building moments was in full effect as he came out with a Polaroid camera and snapped a picture. THEN, he helped me down.

Sometimes when I wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat after having a nightmare about that particular coat trying to kill me, I wonder if my life would have been better in 7th grade without that coat.

The true answer, though, is that I really am glad I was given that coat. That coat has given me and my acquaintances years of laughter as I recount those two incidents. May the coat rest in peace.

Would You Take A Do-Over?

2007-06-24T15:38:00.000-07:00

I am fortunate that I accomplished my education and professional goals, but sometimes I wonder at what costs. I ponder, "What did I give up in regards to relationship goals to meet my other goals?" And this gets me to thinking of other choices I might have made differently. The end result is that I occasionally fantasize what it would be like to 'do over' some of my life.

Of course, in my fantasy, I retain my current knowledge. This way I could avoid some of my more embarrassing moments (e.g., drinking root beer before I teach with the unexpected result of a loud burp in class – oops). Also, with my current knowledge, I would know just the right comeback for that bully in high school (e.g., "If I throw a stick, will you leave?"). In other fantasies, I say just the right thing to those missed opportunities with women, and uh, well, you know, uh, get their phone numbers. I remember one time, a totally hot girl at a college dance said "Scott, give me a call sometime." So, I ran back to my dorm room and called her. But of course, she was at the dance, so she did not answer. I never got the guts to call her again. I would like to 'do over' that experience, and of course, call her the next day :)

On a more serious note, if I could go back in time with my current knowledge, I could avoid or rectify situations that resulted in someone getting hurt (others and myself). And finally, there are moments that I would relive exactly the same way so that I could fully cherish the experience. Ah yes!

But truthfully, this is all good in the abstract. The reality is that I am not the same person as I was back then, and I am relieved. Each embarrassing moment, missed opportunity, painful experience, and wonderful occurrence created who I am today. I don’t want to give that person up by creating a different history because my current self was too hard won. And ultimately, there is still time to set and attain those relationship goals. And with that, I have a phone call to make…

(A friend read this and said, "I would 'do over' many things; but if I didn't do them I wouldn't be able to avoid doing them again.......much wiser for it to this day.") Amen

Moving from Oklahoma to LA

2007-06-22T12:45:00.000-07:00

Many people ask me how I ended up in Los Angeles. Well, when I applied for jobs, I knew I wanted to be close to water (either a beautiful lake or the ocean), and I wanted it to be warm (translation: no snow, no ice). Hence, I only applied for university positions south of I-40 near water (Note: ponds, creeks, water troughs, and cesspools do NOT count).

I noticed that California State University Northridge (CSUN) had a job opening. On the CSUN webpage, it said, "Located in the beautiful San Fernando Valley", which I thought sounded quaint, maybe even wine country. I had NO CLUE it was actually in Los Angeles! There was no mention of Los Angeles anywhere on the page. So, I sent in my application and got an interview. Woo hoo! Wine country here I come!

(Side note: In a previous blog about Sunray, TX, faithful readers may recall they had a brochure with a picture of a beautiful lake, when in fact there was no lake anywhere near Sunray. You would think I would have learned my lesson. Just goes to show, no matter how much education a person has, they still can be so so so naïve).

Anyhow, they told me to fly into LAX for the interview, so I figured CSUN must be close by (duh!). I flew in to LAX and exited the plane at one of those gates that open up onto a huge room with massive numbers of gates. Numerous planes must have landed at about the same time because it was packed with people. I walked outside to catch my shuttle, and the traffic at LAX was a nightmare. In retrospect, it might have been about normal that night, but remember I was coming from Enid, OK. I remember thinking to myself, "There is NO WAY I would live here!" I finally caught my shuttle, and one hour later (after five circles of the LAX airport looking for other passengers) we departed. When we drove onto the 405 interstate, again I thought, "No way, it is not going to happen."

Well, that next day it was a beautiful spring morning and the sky was sparkling clear (pretty good for LA). I could see snow on top of a couple of the San Gabriel mountains, yet it was in the 70s in 'The Valley'. In Oklahoma, it was cold and snowing (brrrr). Later that evening, they took me to the Chart House Restaurant in Malibu, which is right on the ocean (so not fair). Dolphins swam by. I was ALMOST hooked. The next morning, as I was heading back to the airport, a lady on the shuttle told me that one of her kids was snow skiing that weekend, and the other one was surfing, all within an hour of Northridge. It was at this point that I thought, "If they offer, I will come."

Obviously they offered, and I did come.

(Side note: I turned down a job at a university on a Caribbean Island to come here. CSUN was a better professional move).

BUT WAIT, there is more to this story. To get here, I drove a Uhaul truck and pulled a trailer with my car from Enid, OK to Los Angeles. I entered Los Angeles optimistically on a Sunday afternoon in July, and of course, I hit the dreaded 'beach traffic'. This was fairly traumatic for me, as not only was I in the worst traffic I had ever experienced, but I was on the largest freeway I had ever seen, driving a big truck pulling a trailer, merging and crossing lanes. I was a wreck, but luckily, I did not cause a wreck (Whew!).

To make things worse, I was following directions given to my by a legally blind man (the guy I was renting a room from in Studio City) who has never driven in his life (seriously). Not surprisingly, the directions were wrong. And then, to throw salt on the wound, everyone I asked directions from was rude AND unaware of how to get to Studio City. I truly thought, "Plunk, my man, you have made a HUGE mistake coming here." Well, I bought a map of Los Angeles, and found my way to my new 'home'.

Luckily, there is a happy ending. It did not take me long to embrace LA. Even with all of its downsides (e.g., crime, cost of living, traffic), there are so many gems here (e.g., beaches, tide pools, hikes, arts, festivals, food, diversity). When I go to Oklahoma, I still say "I am going home to visit family and friends," but when I am flying back, I also say "I am glad to be going back home to LA."

Mountain Biking Envy

2007-06-01T21:37:00.000-07:00

As many of you know, I am an avid hiker. Yep, I am one of THOSE guys zipping along with two walking sticks, backpack, wrist-mounted GPS, trail running shoes, and camouflage shorts (note: I do wear a shirt, socks, and underwear also). I pride myself that I pass everyone on the trail, and NO one passes me ... well, except occasionally, mountain bikers zip right past me. I always envied this elite group as I imagined that they could go so-much-further in so-much-less-time and see things that I did not get to see (so not fair!). Being a bicyclist myself (on the city streets of Los Angeles commuting back and forth to work), I was CERTAIN I could easily make the transition off-road. I too, could become a MOUNTAIN BIKER. Woo hoo!

I wanted a mountain bike that I would ride mostly on fire roads; no extreme off-road biking for me! I figure I risk my life enough dodging traffic on LA’s streets, hence there is no reason to decrease my odds of a long life by engaging in extreme OFF-ROAD biking.

As with all major purchases, being the fiscally conservative, smart consumer that I am, I spent many hours on the Internet researching mountain bikes (hard tails vs. full suspension, types of brakes and shifters, brands, price, etc.). With my newly found knowledge, I decided it was best to try out a couple of different types of bikes. So, I called my buddy, Nate, and went riding with him at the top of Reseda Blvd. Nate had two bikes: a $200-$300 hard tail (weight = heavy) and a very expensive, full suspension bike that weighed about as much as a roll of quarters. I rode both bikes that day. Nate was kind enough to let me ride the expensive bike up the steep incline, and I was able to muscle up the incline with little problem. Oh yeah! I was a man! I was invincible! I could mountain bike! Finally, I was part of that elite group! Woo hoo!

At the top, we switched bikes, and I rode the less-expensive bike up and down some small hills with no problem. When I came down Reseda, it was a straight shot, no curves what-so-ever. Oh the joy, the exhilaration, of flying down the mountain!

Nate, being the generous guy that he is, let me borrow the less-expensive bike for a few days so I could try it out on different types of trails. Being the macho mountain biking dude I now envisioned myself to be, I immediately took it to one of my favorite hikes; a very very steep elevation gain with lots of curves (Rocky Peak for those in the know). I started up the first hill and made it about 100 feet before I had to stop to catch my breath and begin pushing the bike up up up the hill. The rest of the two-mile ascent was a mix of me pushing the bike up the steep inclines and briefly pedaling on the flat areas. As I was going up the hill, I kept looking back and there was gentleman in his late 60s or early 70s who kept pace with me the whole way. Each time I would look back at him, he would just grin and nod his head in greeting. Argh! I was supposed to be going faster and further on the bike.

At one point during my ascent, a large herd of brightly outfitted, elderly mountain bikers zipped past me. Thankfully, my pride was somewhat salvaged since they passed me right as I stopped to eat a snack and drink some water. I gave them the thumbs up as if I too were enjoying the experience. Yeah right!

Since I knew that I was not making good time going uphill, I kept telling myself, “It is okay, you will make up for it when you are going downhill.” FINALLY, I made it to the top and began my descent on the curvy steep trail. It was soooo scary and precarious. Since I am not an adrenaline junky, I had my brakes cranked down the whole time. About halfway down, a jogger flew past me like I was standing still. How humiliating; especially since no one passes me when I am hiking. Well, I finally made it down in one piece, my pride left on the trail somewhere between the older smiling hiker, the herd of elderly mountain bikers, and the jogger.

As I reflect on this experience, I realize that maybe I like hiking better anyway. Plus, I really don’t like those mountain bikers’ outfits. Plus, the mountain bikers are always endangering us hikers with their antics, not to mention, all those mountain bikers are probably on steroids anyway. And, as a hiker, I can stop and take pictures easier. And and and and ... Okay, okay, so I am obviously just an envious, old bitter hiker. Hoo...rah!

In true reflection, I realized that I really learned a lot about why I love to hike. I get my thrill from the burn as I plow ahead, but I also love to photograph the wildlife and amazing views I see when hiking. While many of those bikers do it because they love the adrenaline associated with the fast descent. Plus, they love the burn as they power up the hills. Obviously different strokes for different folks - isn't that what makes it a beautiful world? Enjoy life!

The Road Less Traveled … Hm

2007-03-22T15:07:00.000-07:00

I went hiking this morning by myself. I took the proper precautions and let someone know where I was hiking and about how long I was going to be gone. I wore a bright red windbreaker, and I carried my cell phone. Yep, I approach this hiking thing smartly.

As I started my trek, I saw a small trail veering off the main trail (a fire road that winds up to the top). The small trail went straight up the mountain through the woods. So, I thought to myself, “Self, you could take this itty bitty trail, and probably get to the summit quicker and connect up to the fire road at the top.” As I contemplated my choice, Robert Frost’s poem, the Road Less Traveled popped into my head: “Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both...” In his poem, he took the road less traveled “And that has made all the difference”.

Recalling his poem appealed to the adventurous part of my nature by taking the path less traveled, AND taking the tiny path appealed to the more practical side of my nature since it would probably get me to the top of the mountain quicker. So, off I started up mountain on the tiny trail; good spirits and optimism led the way.

My optimism and good spirits slowly started fading as the path became steeper, muddier, and narrower. There were times as I crawled (and I don’t mean that figuratively) up the trail that I thought to myself, “Self, you really should turn around.” But alas, I kept climbing up thinking, “It is only a little bit further.” Each time I would stop to take a breath, admire the view, and drink my Gatorade, I would look back down the precarious slope and wonder how I made it up. (Detail-oriented side note: The Gatorade was grape. I bought it at Target right before the hike).

I kept going higher and higher, with the summit always in sight. Often, as I crawled and scrambled up the steep slope, grabbing hold of tree limbs, shrubs, and rock holds, I realized that there was no way I could go back down this ‘path’. I also realized that the ‘path’ must be an animal trail because only animals and a crazy, somewhat demented, 42-year-old-man would ever use this trail.

I remember, right before I crested the summit with a tear in my eye, thinking, “Thank you Lord for letting me finally make it.” Just to be clear, the tear was from a twig that poked me in the eye. Yeah, that’s right, a twig! Anyway, I grabbed hold of the shrub, pulled myself up to the summit, and the view made my jaw drop. Oh sure, it was stunningly beautiful, but my jaw dropped as I looked down over a 300-foot cliff and across a large ravine. I realized this was NOT a short cut to the fire road at the top of the mountain. Instead, it was a ‘false summit.’ It was at this point that a twig or something must have poked me in both eyes.

So, I had a decision to make. I could either go back the way I came, or try to walk along this summit and go down at a different point. I could not go down the cliff as (1) it was very sheer, and (2) I would still have to go up the other side of the canyon (bummer). Given what a struggle it was to come up the trail and how risky it would be going down it, I decided to look for another trail. (Detail-oriented side note: I had now been hiking about an hour).

You readers who have an overly sensitive and caring nature (i.e., a mother-complex), who are worried about me getting lost, should know that I obviously made it out okay because I am typing this blog. Also, you should know that I could see the freeway from where I was at. It is just that there was over a mile of undergrowth, trees, mud, rock, and steep descent between me and freedom.

On a side note, when I was on the top of the mountain, a helicopter flew over and circled me three times, probably wondering what the heck I was doing up there. I have to admit that I even thought about signaling it. However, staying true to my male ego, I just waved and started walking along the summit like I knew what I was doing. I knew that if I got into trouble, I could always call on my cell phone, uh, assuming it had service (I never did check).

Anyway, I slowly made my way along the summit until I found another animal trail that went down. I crawled under thickets, climbed over thickets, and sometimes I just pushed my way through the thickets. I was getting pretty scratched up on my face and hands. Luckily, my body was covered by jeans, shirt, jacket, and stocking cap. There were a few times when I slipped or the ground gave way, and I slid down the hill 5-10 feet until I ran into more thickets. Needless to say, I was looking quite a mess.

I would like to take a moment to highlight a few other thoughts and experiences I had on this hike. First, I heard, but did not see, a rattlesnake at two different locations. When I would hear the rattling, I would not only veer the other direction, but I would start singing loudly to warn off any other rattlers. Second, as I was crawling under the thicket on the trail, I kept thinking, “What kind of animal is big enough to leave this trail, but small enough to go under this thicket?” The ONLY animals that kept coming to mind were bobcats and mountain lions. Hence, I would again start singing loudly to ward off any dangerous cats. As I have had a run-in with a mountain lion in the past, you can imagine my concern.

Believe it or not, I was actually feeling pretty good about my progress until I arrived at the (insert sinister music here) POISON OAK! Specifically, I ended up in a narrow and steep canyon completely surrounded and filled with poison oak. I could either go back the way I came, or I could crawl over and through the poison oak to get out. I know from reading about poison oak that a small percentage of people are not allergic to it. "Hm, am I one of those?" I thought. I guess I was going to find out because I plunged down the canyon, through the poison oak, fighting my way to freedom. I AM MAN, HEAR ME ROAR! ... squeak.

Well, I finally made it out of the ravine, and lo and behold, I could see the fire road. Dang it, twigs must have poked my eyes again!

I practically ran to the road, rejoicing to be free of the evil, dark, forest. By the time I emerged back on the fire road (almost two hours after leaving the fire road), I was covered in mud, twigs, and brambles. I quickly hiked back to the car, and I drove quickly home to take a shower to try and remove the urushiol (Detail-oriented note: Urushiol is a surface oil found on poison oak that generally causes an irritating itchy rash and/or blistering of the skin - what a bonus!).

The people outside my condo and in the elevator must have wondered what happened to me. One friend, on hearing this story, said I should have started mumbling incoherently and they would have just thought I was a vagabond. But instead, I embarrassingly said ‘Hello, uh, beautiful day isn't it’ and proceeded to my condo.

So, now I am waiting to see if the poison oak appears on my hands and face where it repeatedly touched me as I struggled to get out of the gully. I really need to learn to take the road more traveled. I won’t know for sure whether or not I have a reaction to the poison oak until 72 hours past the point of contact. I have a feeling my face and hands are going to be covered in a rash as my face feels hot and irritated. I stocked up on food a little bit ago. This way if the rash and blisters do appear, I won’t have to go out in public with my face covered with pink calamine lotion.

I find myself reflecting back on Robert Frost’s poem, and how it ends, “Two roads diverged in a wood, And I took the one less traveled by. And that has made all the difference.” Yes, I completely agree with him, as I sit here wondering if my face is going to be covered in rash and blisters tomorrow.

I should point out that I have learned my lesson. As a matter of fact, the last time I made this error in judgment, my buddy, Rick, and I ended up less than ten feet away from a mountain lion. Sooooo not good!!!! Also, on that same trip we had to swim across a raging creek, scale a rock cliff, and constantly avoid poison oak. Oh, and the time before that when I took the road less traveled (also with my buddy Rick), I ended up on top of another mountain with no easy way down. This side trip took my friends and I quite a long time to make our way down. I used to blame my buddy Rick for these, uh, side trips. But clearly, the blame has been misplaced. Yep, I have learned my lesson. Anyone care to go hiking?

After thought: Well, three days have passed, and I did NOT emerge with a rash or blisters. I am one of the lucky few. Whew!

Observations of Oklahoma

2007-03-08T16:56:00.000-08:00

People in Oklahoma are very friendly. Going to Walmart or Kmart is a social event. I went to Walmart to buy two items (i.e., t-shirt, socks), and I ended up staying almost two hours socializing with ‘long lost friends’ and making new friends. I was bragging to some California friends how great it was to be able to get across Enid (my home town) in 15 minutes, even at rush hour; but what I did not factor into the equation is the 60+ minutes I must stay at each place in Oklahoma to do the obligatory socializing. Even stopping for gas can result in obligatory socializing (“It sure is a purty day today” "I sure do you like your pickup").

Speaking of socializing, in Oklahoma we even do it on the highways. We generally acknowledge other vehicles with a wave, two-finger wave, and/or head nod. When I first moved to Los Angeles, I had to break myself of the habit of acknowledging other drivers as people thought I was giving them ‘the finger.’

Well, I have to admit, the names of businesses in Oklahoma were not quite as exciting as the ones in North Carolina, but in my hometown (Enid), there is a business named Knotty Rugs & Nice Furniture :) ... Oh, a bar named Crappy's.

If you ever make it to Oklahoma, one thing you will notice is the love for anything fried and gravy. For breakfast today (I am in Oklahoma as I type), I had biscuits and sausage gravy. For lunch, I had chicken strips, French fries, roll, and gravy. And then I came home to my mom’s infamous, tasty, breaded and fried pork chops covered in gravy accompanied by mashed potatoes and gravy, with a side of corn (no gravy). For those who do not know how gravy is made in Oklahoma, it is essentially leftover grease (from sausage this morning, from fried chicken and pork chops later in the day) mixed in with some processed flour and milk. You see, in Oklahoma we don’t want to waste anything. Got some grease? Just add flour and milk, and now your boring old hamburger steak is a delicacy. Want to really spice it up? Well, then first you fry up some bacon just so you can get the grease to fry chicken or chicken fried steak (which is really beef, not chicken).

By the way, fried food is not limited to meat. We also have fried vegetables (okra topping the list), fried taters (that would be potatoes - and yes, I know they are a vegetable), fried eggs, fried ice cream, and shucks, many people even fry their biscuits, toast, and cornbread in a skillet instead of the oven. Grease is definitely one of the major food groups in Oklahoma. Okies (as well as those from the South East) love grease so much, that it is either (1) poured in a coffee can or jar by the stove to use later, OR (2) left it in the pan and put it in the oven for the next time the person is cooking.

Another thing about Oklahoma is that the wind seems to always be blowing or gusting. Here in Los Angeles, the winds do not blow THAT much in comparison to Oklahoma. In actuality, it is such a novelty in Los Angeles, that Angelinos even name the gusty wind (e.g., “The Santa Ana winds sure are blowing today”). In Oklahoma, winds aren’t named because it would take too much effort to name them all. “Well, the Billy Joe Bob wind sure is gusting today” or “The Mary Sue Lynn wind is sure flurrying”. I did hear one explanation for why it is so windy in Oklahoma. Specifically, I was told that Texas sucks and Kansas blows, but that seems a bit tacky, so I won't post that (for those who are geographically challenged, OK is between TX and KS).

The Man Who Snowed

2006-12-06T16:22:00.000-08:00

About six years ago, I was flying, hm, uh somewhere (can’t remember where), when a very tall (about 6.5 feet tall), older gentleman sat down in front of me. Right after we got our drinks from the flight attendant, the gentleman stretched his arms (as best he could), and then he scratched the back of his head vigorously with both hands. What happened next can only be described as ghastly. As the man scratched his head, an overabundance of dandruff cascaded down onto my tray and intro my drink. I watched as if the world was in slow motion. It looked like snow falling, but without the cold. I only snapped out of my brief hypnotic trance when I saw the dandruff descend into my glass of Sprite. My jaw dropped, and I exhaled, not realizing I had been holding my breath as the dandruff descended.

It was at this point I heard the fellow next to me say “ohhhh”. I looked at him with my mouth open, and he returned the open-mouthed look, and we both knew each other had seen what just happened. The flight attendant walked by, and I asked her if I could get another Sprite. She glanced down at my glass and asked “Why?” since it was obviously still full. I replied “There is something in it” to which the fellow next to me quickly added “Believe you me, there is definitely something in it.” She took the glass, and I blew the dandruff off my tray (yuck!). She soon returned with a fresh drink.

A few minutes later the flight attendant brought out our ‘snack packs’ (little boxes with a sandwich, granola bar, carrots, etc.). I was sitting there enjoying my wonderful grub, when I saw the gentleman reach up to stretch and scratch his head. I quickly grabbed my drink and snack pack to my chest, as did the fellow beside me, to protect our goodies as the dandruff came falling down. And, so commenced the dandruff dance for the reminder of the flight. The gentleman would stretch and scratch, and we would grab, lean back, then blow our trays clean.

When the flight ended, I reached under the seat to get my black computer bag. It was completely covered with dandruff; I just about barfed. I quickly disembarked from the plane, and headed to the first bathroom to thoroughly wash my bag, my hands, and my face. Standing next to me was the fellow from the plane, also scrubbing clean. I still get a little freaked out when I see people scratching their heads with two hands, but therapy is helping me work through it.

Screaming Lady

2006-12-05T16:15:00.000-08:00

Most of you probably heard this story right after it happened, but for those of you who are new to my exploits, here goes my craziest on-plane story.

I was on my way to Houston, TX from Dallas, TX on a small commuter jet; three seats across (one seat on one side, two seats on the other side of the aisle). I was sitting in the second to last seat on the side with only one seat. The last lady to board the plane sat behind me in the very last seat. When she passed me, she was sniffling just a bit and had watery eyes. I assumed she had probably just left someone she loved and was a bit emotional.

Anyway, when the plane started up, I could hear the lady sniffling a bit louder behind me. And then, when the plane started moving, she began to sob a bit. And as you might guess, when the plane took off, the sobbing increased. It was at this point, I realized she must have a fear of flying. I was conflicted as to whether to turn around and offer a warm and comforting gesture or respect her privacy. Since she was much older than me (interpretation: I was not attracted to her - for shame!), I decided to respect her privacy (interpretation: I leaned back in my seat to take a snooze).

About thirty minutes into the flight, we hit some very significant turbulence. At this point, the lady completely panicked. She reached around my chair to grab hold of it, but she also got two handfuls of my hair. Before this story progresses, I must remind people that I used to have very long and very curly hair. So, my hair and her fingers were like Velcro.

Besides grabbing two handfuls of my hair, she started yelling at the top of her lungs, “If anyone survives, let my son know I love him. Let my son know I love him.” And each time we hit turbulence, she yanked my head back and forth while she was yelling her undying love for her son. In retrospect, you have to admire that her love for son is what emerged when she was in complete panic mode.

So, there I was, pinned to my chair by a panicked lady alternating between screaming and sobbing. I was gently trying to pry her fingers out of my curly hair, but I had no luck. During this time, I could hear the two ladies who were sitting across the aisle from her talking to her. One lady was saying “Tell me about your son. How old is he? Where does he live? Please let loose of the nice man’s hair.” I later found out this lady was a Licensed Marriage and Family Therapist. I could hear the other lady saying comments such as, “I really like your hair. Where do you get it done? Let the man’s hair go so I can see you nails.” As you might guess, this lady was a Licensed Cosmetologist. The flight attendant was seat belted in at the front of the plane during this whole ordeal. I made eye contact with her repeatedly during my traumatic experience, but she did not budge. Of course most of the passengers looked back to see what was going on, but the only two passengers to get involved were the Therapist and Cosmetologist (God bless them).

So, for about 10-15 minutes, my reality consisted of the lady yanking my hair, screaming, and sobbing while the other two ladies tried to distract her and get her to let go of my hair. Finally, one hand released so she could show the Cosmetologist her nails. And then I heard the Cosmetologist say, “Oh my, those are lovely nails. Is your other hand done the same?” A few seconds later, the other hand released. As you might guess, I quickly leaned forward as far as I could in my seat. Out of my peripheral vision I could see two hands extended into the aisle, and I could hear the lady behind me sniffling. I did not want to overly embarrass the lady behind me, so I did not look back at her. However, I did glance around to my right and mouth “thank you” to the two ladies.

Throughout the rest of the flight, every time we would hit turbulence, I would lean forward so the lady could grab my seat unrestricted, scream at the top of her lungs, and/or sob uncontrollably. When we finally landed in Houston, and the plane came to a stop, the sobbing stopped immediately. The lady rushed by me (I am assuming because she was embarrassed). I walked off the plane with the Therapist and Cosmetologist, thanking them for helping me. I gave the flight attendant a scathing look that said, “Thanks for nothing.”

And so ends the story of the screaming lady.

Trying to Leave Vancouver

2006-12-02T16:08:00.000-08:00

After reading my kitchen faucet story, my friend, Carolyn, recounted a story to me where she had difficulty getting onto her plane due to an expired driver’s license. Here is an amusing excerpt from her email after the expired license had been revealed:

"But, lest I have a hidden desire (unknown to me and very surprising for a person with flight anxiety like I have) to become a terrorist, the ticket agent at American Airlines noted the difference! Anyhow, I'm pleased to report there were no explosives on my cell phone or shoes (verified by collecting samples and running this through a machine), and I hadn't accidentally included knives or guns in my luggage or on my body! However, when I got to the checkpoint I remembered the diet coke (of course I had one which I meant to drink on the drive over but I wasn't that thirsty) and immediately surrendered it! So, the good news is I was cleared in Tulsa and Minneapolis. The bad news, I may join you on the list of suspicious persons at the airport (do we get FBI files for our offenses?)."

Well, reading Carolyn's amusing anecdote reminded me of the time I almost did not get out of Vancouver, B.C.

Leaving Vancouver

Before I begin, I must give a bit of background to this story. I had flown to three different cities in less than three weeks on three different airlines. Needless-to-say (although obviously I feel compelled to say it anyway), I was exhausted after three weeks of networking at conferences, seeing the sights in the evenings, and sleeping in hotel beds. Also, when I flew to Vancouver, I booked my flight on Northwest Airlines, but it was actually serviced by Alaska Airlines. The prior week, I had flown on Continental Airlines, but the route was serviced by Northwest Airlines. Okay, the background is set.

The conference ended on Sunday, and I knew I was supposed to catch my flight that afternoon after my poster session. Unfortunately, I could not find my flight itinerary, so I could not remember exactly what time I was leaving, nor could I remember for sure which airline I was on. In my defense, I WAS suffering from sleep deprivation.

So, I left immediately after my poster session thinking I could just insert my credit card into the electronic check-in kiosks at airlines I knew I had booked tickets on recently. This way, I could find my itinerary without embarrassing myself too much by going to a ticket agent. Alas, there were no electronic check-ins there. This was a HUGE bummer!

Given my recent flights, Northwest Airlines kept popping into my mind, but I was pretty sure I had flown on Alaska Airlines coming to Canada four days earlier. What a dilemma. Which airline do I embarrass myself at first by admitting I can’t remember my itinerary? I finally settled on Alaska Airlines.

So, I wait patiently in line, and finally my turn comes up. The conversation went something like this:

Me: “Well, hello there!” (obviously trying to establish trust with a big smile and friendly greeting). “I am kind of in an embarrassing situation. I seem to have lost my itinerary, so I can’t remember what time my flight is supposed to leave, nor can I remember for sure which airline I am on. Would it be possible for you to check and see if I am flying on your airline this afternoon?”

Ticket Agent: “Are you serious?”

Me: “Sadly, I am. I have flown numerous flights over the last three weeks, all on different airlines, and I just can’t remember my itinerary.” (Okay, so I overstated it a bit when I said 'numerous')

Ticket Agent: “How many days ago did you fly here?” (I paused to think about this, trying to figure out whether to count Wednesday since I had flown in very late that night.)

Me: “Uh, well, uh, four days ago.” (I should have just said Wednesday night)

Ticket Agent: “So, you are telling me you arrived on Thursday, and you can’t remember what airline you flew in on?”

Me: “Well, actually I arrived late Wednesday night.” (ah, finally, the truth was out) “And I think I bought the ticket on one airline, but it was serviced by a different airline.”

Ticket Agent: “So, it was five days then!”

Me: “Uh, I guess so.”

Ticket Agent: “Do you even know what day it is today?” (Now here is where I really blew it because I thought she was asking about calendar date, not day of the week)

Me: “Uh, hm, I am not sure, uh...”

Ticket Agent: “You don’t even know that it is Sunday, and you expect me to allow you on a flight?”

Me: “OH!!!! I thought you meant calendar date.”

Ticket Agent: “Okay then, what month and day is it?”

Me: (Oh nuts! I don’t know) “Uh, well, uh, hm, uh, well, I am not sure, but it is late March.”

Ticket Agent: “It is April,...April 1st” (well crud!)

Me: “Oh come on, I was close.”

Ticket Agent: “You need to wait right here please.” (and off she went to get her supervisor - just great!)

Before I proceed with this story, I should point out that in Vancouver they probably have encounters like this every-once-in-awhile due to all the heroin addicts there. In Vancouver, methadone (a synthetic opiate) is legal, and is used as a treatment for heroin users. Many places give it out for free. So, I can just imagine this particular Ticket Agent probably thought she was dealing with some stoned-out guy who did not know where he was at or what he was doing. I am sure my blood shot eyes did not help (remember, I was sleep deprived!!!).

Ticket Agent: “THIS is the guy I told you about.” (as she points at me sneers)

Supervisor: “Let me get this straight. You don’t know what airline or what time you are leaving? Plus, you don’t know what day it is? Am I correct?”

Me: “First off, I thought it was late March, not realizing today was April 1st. My error. In regards to not knowing the airline or flight, as I tried to explain to the LADY over there...” (at this point I gave her a sneer back - oh yeah!) “...I have flown numerous flights in the last few weeks, all on different airlines, and I misplaced my itinerary. Also, I have not slept much in the last few weeks since I have been in hotel beds. So, I asked her if she could please check and see if I was indeed flying on Alaskan Airlines because I think that is the airline I flew here on … but to be honest, I think I might have purchased the ticket on a different airline, maybe Northwest or Continental.”

Supervisor: “Well, I think something fishy maybe going on, but I am going to give you the benefit of the doubt and check. May I please see your ID?”

So, I gave him my driver’s license (clearly before the new passport rules). He took one look at it and said, “You do know this is expired don’t you? By two years!”

Me: “What?” (Ticket Agent now gave me another sneer - what a stinker!)

Supervisor: “You license has been expired for two years. How long have you been here?”

Me: “Four, I mean five days, uh since Wednesday. Hold on, I think I have my passport in my computer bag.” (this is when I appealed to the good Lord to please let me find my passport, please, please, please, please - oh, thank God!). “Here is my passport!” (whew!)

Supervisor: “Okay, Mr. Plunkett, just a minute.” (tick tock tick tock) “Mr. Plunkett, you are indeed flying on our airline this afternoon, but you booked the ticket through Northwest Airlines. You will need to go to their Ticket Agent. Sorry for the inconvenience, but we have to be safe.”

Me: “No worries. Thank you for checking.”

At this point, I would have loved to stick my tongue out at the Ticket Agent and say “nanny nanny boo boo.” But, I refrained myself, and marched happily over to the NW ticket counter.

And that is how I left Vancouver. Whew!

Hitchhikers

2006-12-02T16:02:00.000-08:00

I wanted to include this story on my homepage because as you may or may not know, I do pick up hitchhikers. The most interesting hitchhiker was a guy I picked up en-route from Ponca City, OK to Alva, OK. I first saw this person in the morning when I was driving to testify at a custody battle.

I will refer to this person as 'Arthur' (as in 'Arthur Dent' which is the name of the hitchhiker in the book The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy). Anyway, this person was, believe it or not, hitchhiking. I sped past him (if you are a cop, I was only going speed limit). Later that evening as I was heading to Alva, I saw him again about 60 miles from where I had seen him earlier that morning.

Since I was bored, tired, feeling a lack of adventure, and obviously, no concern for my life, I thought "What the heck, I'm a social worker and co-dependent and have to help the world, I'll just pick up the poor guy and give him a ride." Little did I know that 'Arthur' was a one of those homeless individuals who must have been released during the big push to de-institutionalize America's mental institutes.

As we drove down the lonely, dark, and very isolated highway, I kept hearing Arthur mumbling something. So, I would say "Excuse me, did you say something?" He would look at me as if I had just violated him and practically yell "I wasn't talking to you!" After a few of these incidents, I quit talking to him.

About 45 minutes into the drive, Arthur actually initiated a conversation with me. I discovered that he believed he was an alien space ship pilot who was on this earth seeing if there were any worthwhile beings on this planet. Arthur's earlier mumblings were actually his attempts to stay in contact with his alien compadres via a microphone in his upper left hand army jacket. His conversation with his amigos really became annoying as I was trying to listen to my new Slim Whitman 8-track.

At one point, Arthur asked if he could "check me out" for his buddies in the sky. I said "Uh, I guess so." So, he slapped the back of his hand on my forehead and began repeating to me and his hidden microphone, "You're okay. He's okay. You're okay. He's okay." So here I am, driving down a deserted highway in the middle of the night with a guy who thinks he is a space ship pilot 'feeling up' my forehead.

Luckily I passed the test. I would hate to think what would have happened had I not passed his test. Other notable incidents that occurred on this trip included: (1) Arthur discussing his friend, Merlin, from King Arthur's court. Hm . . . maybe this is why I called him Arthur (my subconscious really works in weird ways) and (2) Arthur explaining his theory of gravity, space flight, etc.

It is quite possible that my picking Arthur up might very well have saved the Earth from imminent disaster as I demonstrated to Arthur that humans were indeed compassionate. I must confess, however, that I didn't give Arthur money at the end of our journey when he asked. But, if the world is destroyed, just remember, I did my part for humanity by giving this poor soul a ride . . . so you can't blame me.

Note: The above story is completely true, and I am serious!!! Well, okay, except for the part about the Slim Whitman 8-track. I must admit, I am not a big fan of Slim Whitman's music, although I'm sure he's a nice guy.

I have picked up many hitchhikers over the years (save the lectures, I have heard all the warnings from my mom). Anyway, as you can imagine I have had other interesting experiences. Here are just a few . . .

I picked up a hitchhiker who had his own web-page. He would call a friend each day, and his friend would update his home page so you could track his travels.

I picked up a lady who, as it turns out, I had met before. One night when I was at a country-western dance club, a lady came out of the bathroom without her clothes on - yes, this was the same lady! Hm . . . small world!

I picked up a man who quoted scriptures from the Bible the whole time he was in the car - I suspect my driving was bringing out the gospel in him. and so on and so on . .

Sunray, TX

2006-12-01T15:51:00.000-08:00

I moved to Sunray, TX to take my first teaching job after graduating college. For those who don’t know, Sunray is in the middle of the panhandle of TX. When I initially interviewed for the job (at a job fair in Kansas), I was given a beautiful brochure on the town showing a sailboat on a lake at sunset. Point of fact, there is no beautiful lake in or around Sunray. Talk about false advertising! However, there are large feedlots within 30 miles of Sunray so that when the wind blows, you get the aroma of cow manure. Ah Sunray!

So, I moved there in my old Ford Maverick … not that I am bragging, but this car had some amazing options (e.g., volume button on the stereo, TWO side view mirrors, oxidized paint that allowed people to use their finger to leave me messages on my car such as "wash me", "please junk me").

At Sunray, I taught, 7th grade theater arts and high school basic math, consumer math, yearbook, newspaper, speech, and debate. Yes, I was a dream come true for the administrators at the school.

Day One
My first day of teaching, the Principal heard me telling my students my class rules. Specifically, my last class rule was “If you see me standing up here with chalk on my rear, toothpaste on my mouth, or my zipper undone, please let me know.” So, the Principal called over the intercom for me to come down to his office. And here is what he said:

Principal: “Now Mr. Plunkett, we can’t have you saying the word ‘zipper’ in class. One out of a hundred students will take your talking about your ‘zipper’ wrong.”

Side note: When I told my grandfather this story, he said “You should have just told that Principal that it was better to say ‘zipper’ than say, if my privates are hanging out, let me know.”

Day Two
On the second day of teaching, I sent one of the female journalism students down to the football field to practice taking action shots for the yearbook. About 15 minutes later, I hear myself being called to the Principal’s office. The Principal said, “Now Mr. Plunkett, we can’t have girls down on the football field taking pictures of those boys. They will get to socializing down there, and then one thing will lead to another (he moves his hand in a forward circle) and you knoowwww.” Well, I did not know what he was talking about, until I realized that he was trying to insinuate that me sending a girl to take pictures would result in the girl having sex with the football player(s). Oh my!

So, for the rest of the year, I had to attend all the male athletic events to take pictures since (1) I could not risk a female student’s purity by sending her to be so close to those sweaty, virile, male athletes, and (2) all of my guy journalism students were athletes. I guess the Principal did not realize that guys and girls can also socialize at school, at church, and so on.

Day Three
On day three, I made the grave error of sending a male and female student to the dark room to take inventory. In my defense, the door was open and the light was on. But alas, 5 minutes after they went into the darkroom, I heard over the intercom, “Mr. Plunkett, can you please come to the Principal’s office?” So, off I go to hear what I have done wrong this time.

Principal: “Mr. Plunkett, we can not have boys and girls in the darkroom at the same time.”

Me: “But the lights were on and the door was open!”

Principal: “Even so, hands can grope, and then, you knowwwww (while he moves his hand in a forward circle).

Other Days
All I can say, is I am sure glad the first week was only three days long. Sheesh! By the time Monday came around, I had a reputation as being in more trouble than the worst students. I would like to say that I really liked the Principal (seriously), and he always had the students’ and my best interests in mind. AND, I have to admit that I did bring a few things on myself...

For example, at Sunray, there were no school dances due to the strong, conservative Baptist influence in town. One time I was walking by the typing teacher’s class, and she was having the students type in rhythm to a waltz. I am a fair dancer, so I grabbed the Home Economics teacher and went waltzing into the class as a joke. Halfway across the room, I saw the Principal sitting in the back evaluating the typing teacher (yikes). Twenty minutes later, I hear “Mr. Plunkett, can you please come to the Principal’s office?” I walked in, and before I could apologize, the Principal says, “As much as I admire your dancing abilities, can you please refrain from one, dancing on school property, and two, interrupting another teacher’s lecture. Thank you.”

On another occasion, we had costume week to celebrate homecoming. I came in dressed as a punk rocker (makeup, hair done up, paper clips sticking out of my ears, etc.). The Principal heard my voice in the hallway and called me in so he could introduce me to three representatives from the Texas Department of Education. Oops!

One time, my girlfriend came to see me for the weekend. We never left my house the whole weekend, yet when Monday came, my students and fellow teachers all asked me who the girl was who stayed at my house (welcome to small town mid America). The Principal met me in the hallway and said “Mr. Plunkett, when you have a female visitor, she is more than welcome to stay with my wife, kids, and I.” I said “Thank you sir! My mom may be coming to visit me, so that will be great since I only have one bed.” Then I turned around and walked away, pretending I did not know what he was referring to (oh, I am bad sometimes).

Although the Principal chastised me occasionally, like I said previously, he was a good guy. The Superintendent, on the other hand, was not such a likable person. One time when we were driving down the road coming back from a meeting, he pointed out a young lady driving by and said “You see that young gal over there. She would not be appropriate for you to be seen with as she is DIVORCED!” He also rebuked me in public for the following:
1. Wearing my trench coat to school (it was snowing outside)
2. Having my shirt untucked at school
3. Having hair that touched my collar
4. Allowing a 22-year-old friend I made in Sunray call me ‘Scott’ at a school function
5. Making fun of Texans in response to an Oklahoma joke

With all of this said, you may think I hate Sunray or the people there. Oh contraire, I loved the students. I loved that the Principal cared enough to watch out over me and the students. I enjoyed the friendliness in the community. Would I go back? No way! BUT, I do feel that I made an impression on some of the students, and I know that they made an impression on me.

Potty Restaurant

2006-12-01T15:48:00.000-08:00

How this menu came about will give you an insight into my warped mind. I was driving down the road one day and saw a sign for Black Angus restaurant; but what I read was Black Anus. Once I realized my error, I got to chuckling at myself, and then my mind started thinking “Hm, what kind of food would be on the menu at Black Anus.” The idea is that anything on the menu must be a real food, but have something to do with the rear, defecation, or urination.

(Note: this is not meant to offend anyone who likes, works at, or is associated with Black Angus. It just so happens I like to eat there myself)

It is bad enough that I let my mind wonder this way, but then I involved my family and friends. Yes, I know, I know, I know, a somewhat demented mental exercise, and yet, one that has caused hours of amusement for me and my friends. If you can add to the list, by all means do so. (Note: The additions have been rolling in. Thanks!)

Appetizers

Pot stickers
Pea soup

Main Meals

Poo Poo Platter
Gai Poo Lo
Pot Roast
Potpie
Rump roast
Dumplings
Sh**-on-a-brick
Crappie
Butt bacon
Pizza

Side Dishes

Peas
Snow Peas
Black-Eyed Peas
Chickpeas
Peewee Carrots
Rice Pilaf
Leaks
Mustard greens
Butternut Squash
Shitake Mushrooms

Specials

“Number One” Special
“Number Two” Special

Desserts

Dump Cake
Fudge
Fudgesicle
Shoo Fly Pie
Snickerdoodle cookie
Butterscotch
Butterfingers
Peach Pie

Condiments

Mustard
Butter
Peanut butter (this one gets double credit – think about it)

Drinks

Buttermilk
Mountain Dew

Bathrooms, Tech Guys, and the Weird Professor (me)

2006-11-30T15:36:00.000-08:00

Throughout my life, I have gathered what I refer to as “Plunk’s Life Lessons.” These are tidbits of information that I believe make living in this world a safer and/or better place. My poor nephews and youngest brother have heard me spouting off these pieces of wisdom for years. I generally start off with “Plunk’s life lesson #...”, to which I usually hear groans from whoever is riding with me. Anyway...

Plunks Life Lesson #1: Always tie your shoelaces before entering a men’s restroom (Believe me, you don't want your shoelaces dragging the floor in men's restrooms - ewe, yuck!).

Okies in a California Bathroom (this story has sexual images, so read at your own risk)

This story occurred about 5 years ago when two friends of mine from Oklahoma (both law enforcement officers) came to California to visit me. Anyway, myself and one of my buddies, who I shall refer to as Randy (since that is his name), entered the men’s restroom to, uh, pass water, take a leak, take care of business, go wee wee (enter your favorite euphemism for urination here). As I entered the bathroom, I noticed two pairs of feet in the first stall all facing the wall. I did not say anything to Officer Randy. When I went to wash my hands…

Plunks Life Lesson #2: Always wash your hands after using the bathroom, and use a towel to open the door when leaving a men’s restroom (From observations, most men do not wash their hands after using the restroom, so the door handle is going to be, uh, contaminated - yuck!)

...So, when I went to wash my hands, I noticed that all four feet were now facing the other direction. In the reflection of the mirror, I could see a set of eyes peering through the crack between the stall door and walls. At this point I wondered if they were checking me out (male ego speaking), or more likely, they were waiting to see when the bathroom was vacant so they could continue, er, uh, using the bathroom?!?!

Officer Randy and I exited the bathroom as Officer Dave entered (he had been keeping a certain female faculty member company in the hallway). I looked at Randy and asked “Did you notice anything suspicious or different in the bathroom?” Randy gave me an incredulous look as if to say “Uh, excuse me, but I am an officer of the law who has been trained to notice all of my surroundings.” His response was “You mean the four feet all facing the wall when we walked in and then facing the door when we washed our hands?” To which I replied “yeah, that.” I really had nothing else to say. Neither of us broached the question of “What do you think they were doing?” I think we both knew that answer to that question. As we both stood there with an awkward silence, trying to figure out what to say next, Officer Dave came out of the restroom and said, “Did you see the two people in the bathroom stall?” To which we both nodded, (another awkward silence) and then Randy said “Well, you sure don’t see that in Oklahoma very often.” To which I said, “I sure hope they wash their hands afterwards.”

Laptop in the Stall

I walked into the bathroom one day and saw an extension chord plugged into the wall which ran across the bathroom into one of the stalls where it was plugged into a laptop chord. I could see two legs with pants pulled down under the stall door (no, I was not peaking under the stall door - sheesh!).

My thoughts about that are numerous. First, in the time it took to plug in the extension chord, and the laptop chord, and get the laptop situated on my lap, I could have been in and out of the bathroom (hand washing included - refer to life lesson #2). Not that I am bragging, but I am pretty quick when it comes to using the bathroom. Next, just planning that event (i.e., thinking about and finding the extension chord) would have taken more time than my typical bathroom excursion. Next, I wonder if he thought about that chord lying on the bathroom floor? (refer to Plunk’s Life Lesson #1 – seems very relevant here). Also, what could be so important that a person needs to go to that effort to have his laptop plugged into the wall socket while using the bathroom? Was he afraid he was going to be in there so long that the battery was going to die? Did he have a project deadline that was taking every available second of the day? Is that the only place he feels it is okay to surf porn? Anyway, I should have waited to ask whoever came out so I could put my mind at rest, but given that he was plugged into the wall socket, he could have been in there for hours.

Bathroom, Tech Guy, and Me

My office building is in the shape of ‘U’. At one end of the ‘U’ is my office, and on the other end of the ‘U’ are the Tech Support offices for the university. The bathroom is in the middle. So, what frequently happens is I get onto the same bathroom rotation as many of the computer guys, which has led to some casual friendships with some of the guys - you know, saying ‘hello’, talking about our day while standing next to each other at the water sink and/or urinal, passing the sports section of the newspaper under the stall walls, giving a ‘high five’ after a particularly loud passing of gas – you know, those kinds of things. But, it has also led to a couple of interesting encounters; one of which I will share today.

There was a tech guy who got onto the same bathroom cycle as me. We would invariably end up in the bathroom at the same time 2-3 times a day. Each time we met each other at the door, I would say ‘hello’ or ‘howdy’ (okie for “how are you doing today?”), but alas, this fellow would never say anything back. I started wondering if he was deaf, so I would be sure and make eye contact with him when speaking, and I would make sure I would move my lips in an exaggerated way so that if he were a lip reader, he would know what I was saying. In retrospect, he probably thought I was kind of weird.

One day, I was eating lunch with one of the administrative assistants in his office, so I asked her about him. She informed me that he was not deaf, but that he was just painfully shy. But even so, I really wanted to get at least one acknowledgment from him some day.

One characteristic about this fellow is that he always wore dark pants with white socks and old torn up black sneakers (his socks showed through numerous holes in his shoes). I was standing at the urinal one day (sorry for the visual), when I heard someone enter the bathroom. I glanced over my shoulder to see who was coming in; in case it was one of my tech guy buddies I could give an appropriate greeting. It was the shy tech guy. He walked up to ‘pass water’ beside me when I noticed he had on a brand new pair of white sneakers - very snazzy. So, in greeting I looked down at his sneakers and said “Wow! Very nice. Very snazzy.” My timing was off because right as those words came out of my mouth, he was unzipping and pulling his privates out of his pants to urinate. I did not notice as I was looking at his shoes. All he saw and heard was me looking down and making my comment. He very quickly put his privates away, zipped up, and backtracked out of the bathroom. It took me a second to realize what happened.

For the next few months, every time he saw me in the hall or bathroom, he turned around and went the other direction. Except for the fact that he was painfully shy, I imagine that story would have been all over the place and all of the tech guys would have started avoiding me. But that did not happen. Of course he might have posted a blog about the weird professor in his building. I have not seen the Shy Tech Guy for over a year. I wonder if my bathroom encounter led to his taking a position elsewhere due to the emotional trauma.

Shy Tech Guy, if you are reading this, know that I was commenting on your new sneakers!

On Marriage...

2006-11-29T15:28:00.000-08:00

I was recently asked to write an article on marriage. I think they were under the impression that I must be an expert since I teach a marriage class. However, being a long-term bachelor, one has to wonder what valuable piece of information I can offer for those considering “taking the plunge.” I suppose that being "single, never married" allows me to give the unbiased view (at least this is what I tell my classes). Let’s face it, if I were recently divorced I might have a very negative view of marriage. On the other hand, if I were a newlywed, I might view this societal institution through rose-colored glasses. So, here is an “unbiased” commentary on the institution of marriage.

Since I am a bachelor you may think that I do not support marriage. On the contrary, I am all for marriage. There are those who have forecast the end of marriage in society. For example, one doomsday commentator stated “In 50 years, unless there is some change, the tribal custom of marriage will no longer exist.” This comment would indicate that marriage is definitely under threat of extinction. However, psychologist John Watson made this comment well over fifty years ago.

It would appear to me that if marriage were going to become extinguished, it would have happened by now. Actually, marriage is thriving in today’s society. Current statistics show that 90-95% of the population marry at least once. Now some would argue that many people must NOT like marriage because about 45% of first marriages end in divorce, but I disagree. (Note: That statistic is exaggerated, but that is a different article). Heck, the majority of the people who divorce like marriage so much that they do it again; and some even try it again and again – now THAT is commitment to marriage!.

With so many people getting married (or remarried), it would seem that marriage must play an important role in society. Marriage plays a very important role to me. It takes one more single guy out of the competition. Yes, I know, it also means there is one less single female out there, but I generally ignore that little fact.

In actuality, marriage performs a variety of functions. Marriage serves as a public and/or spiritual affirmation of commitment, joins two families and social networks, establishes a legal contract between the State and the couple, provides a context for most human sexual activity and reproduction, forms an economic union between spouses, and provides an opportunity to develop an intimate and sharing relationship.

You may not know this, but the median age of first marriage for females is around 25, while the median age for males to get married is approximately 27 years old. I don’t know how my mom learned these averages, but I have been listening to her lament my moving past the average age of being married for many years now. The way I see it, there is one primary reason I should get married and that is to get my mom off my back! Of course, I can also see the appeal of dual income and the legitimization of sexual experiences. Others have listed a whole slew of more positive reasons to get married including: love, desire for children, security, social status, and the romantization of marriage. But, there are also less positive reasons to get married such as a desire to leave home, fear of independence, fear of loneliness, societal pressure to get married, as well as discrimination against singles. Regardless of the reason, just suffice it to say, that marriage is NOT on its way out!

Note: My personal opinion of marriage and/or life-long commitment is that it can be a wondrous thing. It is something I desire immensely (with the right person of course).

North Carolina Revisited

2006-11-12T16:50:00.000-08:00

After spending over a week in North Carolina, I have a few more observations. First, I had forgotten what it was like to live in a neighborhood where everyone knew each other and people looked out for each other. I experienced this first hand while at the Baker household. Also, being a part of the Baker family made me realize how much I have missed out on in my single life. I enjoyed the family dinners, listening to their children’s reports of how their day went, and going to the cub scouts’ meeting, just to name a few. I even enjoyed staying home with their sick 6-year-old son one day. It was a humbling experience to say the least.

In regards to other observations about North Carolina, I was amazed at how many people had American flags displayed to commemorate Veteran’s day. I loved the friendliness at the grocery store. But, I have to admit, I was saddened to see that some people still displayed the confederate flag, even though it has such harsh meaning to one segment of the population. But on to more happy thoughts …

So, as the Baker family was driving me to the airport in Raleigh, NC, we passed a few interestingly named places (e.g., Hog Slab) and signs (e.g., Pizza, beer, and bait sold here). But one place really stood out – Two Dogs Pizza. Well, one thing led to another, and for the next 75 miles we played around with what Two Dogs Pizza must be like.

First, we started with some of the different types of pizzas. For example, the Dalmatian pizza would be heavy on the mozzarella with black olive toppings. The Bull Dog pizza would be a fancy name for beef pizza (think about it). Those with constipation problems, should order the Shih Tsu pizza (sorry about that one – couldn’t resist). Of course other types of pizza could be the Bloodhound pizza (heavy on the red sauce), Sheepdog pizza (anyone like lamb, hoggett or mutton on your pizza?), Chihuahua pizza (the typical Mexican pizza), Bolognese pizza (no explanation needed), and so on. For those who like everything on your pizza, they could order the Mixed Breed (or Mutt) pizza.

For those customers who want an all-you-can-eat special, they could order the Chow Chow special. I am sure Catholics would be especially fond of the St. Bernard special (a thick crust pizza with a brandy chaser).

Of course the pizza sizes must be Toy, Miniature, Standard, and Mastiff.

There could also be a non pizza menu that might include German Shepherd pie, Wiener Dogs (for those picky-eater children), and the dessert menu lovingly labeled "treats."

Oh, and the bathrooms would be labeled "spayed" and "neutered." And the toilets could be designed as water hydrants and/or trees.

At Two Dog Pizza, getting a "doggie bag" has even more meaning. And for those parents who bring their kids, just send them to the indoor playground called, of course, the "puppie kennel."

The wait staff would be referred to as Retrievers.

Of course Two Dog Pizza could have plenty of great advertising banners, such as “Our pizza is dog-gone-good,” or “Its a dog eat dog world.”

Well, I believe the Baker family and I have “beat this dead dog with a stick” too long.

Enjoy life!

Traveling in North Carolina

2006-11-04T16:44:00.000-08:00

Traveling in NC is interesting - I do have family roots there, and I have spent many vacations there, so I guess I was partly home. As I was riding the bus through the central part of NC, I saw many interesting stores and shops that surpass my favorites in Los Angeles (e.g., "Donuts and Chicken" or “Rosco's House of Chicken and Waffle”) (NOTE: everyone should eat at Rosco's in LA sometime – yum!).

One place that cracked me up was a building that had a sign that said “Chicken Barn and Coin Laundry and Cleaners.” There were two drive-in windows. I am assuming one for chicken the other for dry-cleaning. This might not be a bad idea. What a time saver for the over-worked, time-limited, spouse/parent:

Husband: "Honey, I am going to run by and pick up the dry-cleaning and a bucket of chicken".

Wife: “Don’t forget to ask about the sauce?”

Husband: “Did you mean for the chicken or the sauce stains in the dry cleaning?”

Also, people who are sitting in the coin laundry facility waiting for their clothes will be smelling the scrumptious fried chicken, gizzards, green beans cooked in lard, gravy, cornbread, and so on (YUM!!!)

Customer #1: "Well, I do need to get some extra quarters for the dryer. I could just order some chicken gizzards and use the change for the dryer." (nice justification)

Customer #2: "Hm, do I use my last 4 quarters on the dryer or on the two drumstick special?" (tough decision) ... "I think I will get the two drumsticks and just put the wet clothes in the back of the pickup on the way home" (very nice justification)

I think their business would definitely get high volumes of repeat business as people take their 'clean' clothes home (which smell like chicken) and then wonder why they are always craving fried chicken.

The place can also save on marketing costs by creating banners or slogans that work for both. For example:

Banner 1: “Extra crispy served here” – which could easily refer to the chicken or the starch needed for those Redneck jeans.

Banner 2: “What makes us special is our ancient Chinese secret” – which again could refer to the chicken (think Colonel Sanders) or the cleaning power (think Calgon).

Okay, I think I have played the “Chicken Barn and Coin Laundry and Cleaners” as far as I can.

Tattoos and Body Piercing...

I noticed that the vast majority of people in the Greyhound Bus had numerous tattoos and body piercings. Well, on my trip I passed a strip mall that had FOUR Tattoo/Body Piercing stores … Wow! And, I thought it was popular in Los Angeles. Obviously, body modification is very very popular in North Carolina.

Anyway, the shops all had banners. They are each listed below:

"Cheapest Tattoos and Body Piercing Around".

“PAINLESS Tattoos and Body Piercing"

"Sterile Needles used for ALL Procedures"

"Veteran's Day Special - All flag tattoos half price".

Now that is a tough decision, cheap, painless, sterile, or what the heck, get a flag tattoo at half price. God Bless America!

Okay, this one cracked me up, and is making me regret leaving my camcorder and camera at home. As I was riding the bus through some small town in NC, I pass four places of business on the same block. The first one's name was “Peak-A-Boo Boutique” followed by “Pork Hut” followed by “Second Fling Consignment” followed by “Judgment Day Livestock.” Sounds like a logical order … think about it :) (To be completely honest, the boutique was across the street)

I also noticed that folk in North Carolina like to use the word 'hut' and ‘barn’ in their business names. I saw Chicken Hut, Pork Hut, Chicken Barn, Pork Barn, Pig Hut, and one shop was actually called the Barn Hut.

Another thing I saw on a store window was

"We sell...
Beer
Barbeque
Belt buckles
Bibles
And other groceries"

Interesting order to their priorities :)

And the last amusing thing I saw was a small white building that had a hand-painted sign above the door that said “Catfish Guts” ... I have no clue whether it was a café, fishing/bait shop, or who knows what?

Now you may think I have a snobbish view towards North Carolina, but I have to add this. As I rode down the road, I loved looking at the beautiful fall trees in green, yellow, orange, and red. It was absolutely stunning! Also, many cotton patches were in bloom. It looked like snow in the fields. In addition, the patches of water every few miles made me envision sitting on the bank catching some brim, bass, catfish, and pickerel. Ah yes! And finally, I enjoyed seeing the small towns where people sometimes waved at the bus as we drove by. I don’t see that response very often in California. I am sure if I had spent any time in the communities, I would have enjoyed the friendly atmosphere where the employees called their customers “honey, dear, hun”, said "thank you hun, have a great day", and so on. Well, tomorrow I will be at a North Carolina cookout. I will keep you posted.

Enjoy life

After posting this, I got a response from one of my friends who reminded me of the grocery stores named "Piggly Wiggly." And another friend reminded me of the infamous "Pig Pickins" (where they slow cook a pig in the ground - yum yum yum).

Traveling by Bus

2006-11-03T16:33:00.000-08:00

I have ridden buses many times in my life. Yellow school buses when I was a kid, yellow buses and larger buses in Belize, Central America, buses in numerous cities (e.g., LA, NYC, Honolulu), but nothing ever really prepares a person for the Greyhound Bus experience in the U.S., or in this case, North Carolina.

But before I get to that story, I would like to share a short tidbit from my bus ride in LA on the first night of my trip.

Van Nuys Fly-A-Way Bus to LAX Airport

The bus driver for the Fly-A-Way was a young, somewhat attractive, female with a somewhat pleasant personality (the word for today is 'somewhat'). She started flirting with the somewhat attractive guy across the aisle from me (I tried not to take offense as she seemingly skipped over flirting with me - ouch!). Anyway, as we pulled into the madhouse called LAX airport, she started writing her phone number down on a piece of paper to give to the obviously-more-attractive-than-me-guy. She did this while somehow avoiding traffic accidents. If this was not bad enough, the obviously-more-attractive-than-me-guy encourages her reckless behavior by asking for her address as well so "I can send you a postcard from my travels" (note: he was flying to Sacramento and back - woo hoo. I want a postcard too!). Yeah, she bought that line.

Anyhow, after many near misses with other buses and cars, she finally got her info written and delivered to the (okay, I will say it) ATTRACTIVE guy. Anyhoo, he gets off the bus at terminal three. And I swear this is true, the baggage guy at the same terminal followed her back on the bus to get her phone number. This gal was impressive. As I watched her write it all down with her left hand (I have nothing against lefties - I was just pointing it out), I noticed the engagement/wedding ring on her finger (yikes). Then I felt somewhat bad for leaning over and suggesting she just have business cards printed with her digits (I was just thinking of her being a safer driving).

The Greyhound Bus

One of my original plans for this trip was to buy a 30 day pass on Greyhound for $500-600. But after hearing my aunt and a buddy give me heartfelt warnings, I decided to do some internet searches for people's experiences on this mode of transportation in the U.S. After reading the colorful commentaries, I decided I would limit my exposure, and only take short-in-duration bus trips. When I read about the bus stations, they talked about how the stations are usually filthy, in the worst part of town, and to be cautious of being victimized in and around these places.

Anyway, I show up at the Greyhound Station in Raleigh, NC. It was all I imagined it would be. It was not in the best part of town, AND it was certainly not clean. But the people in Raleigh must have read the web pages too, and were obviously concerned about safety, as half of the building was a bus station, and the other half was a police station (seriously). I actually felt better seeing this until one of the police officers walked down the hall past the police station entrance, realized his mistake as he entered the bus station, got a panicked look on his face, put his hand on his gun, and slowly walked backwards back to the police station (okay, I might have exaggerated this somewhat).

So, I buy my ticket for my 3.25 hour ride. In the 1.5 hours I was in the bus station, I had a few interesting experiences, starting with the bathroom ... I am in the bathroom standing at a standup urinal (sorry for the visual), when a guy in cut-off jean shorts stands next to me to use the restroom (once, again, sorry for the somewhat disturbing visual). He looks over at me and starts talking to me. I am trying to be polite, when he says "I have a tumor in my knee, they may have to amputate." Then he sticks his leg out next to mine to show me his knee, all the while still urinating (again, sorry for the disturbing visual - but, just remember, I had to live it). I glanced down (to be polite), tried to avoid seeing his privates, mumbled "that is a bummer", zipped up, washed my hands, and got the heck out of there.

I headed over to the soda/tea/water machine to buy some water, when a different guy ambles up next to me, leans my direction, and starts singing in my ear "I want coffee, I want tea, I was some Java Jive and it wants me ..." (I actually knew this song, but I did not join in). He keeps looking at me, smiling, and singing, so I smile back, nod at him, and slowly side-step to the next machine, buy a soda, and go sit down.

At this time, I see a janitor come out of the women's bathroom and pour high concentrate toilet bowl cleaner (the pink kind you have probably seen before) into a mop bucket and start to mop the floor. You know a place is filthy when they use toilet bowl cleaner on the floor. The fumes got so overwhelming, that myself and others moved over to the door and crowded around it to get some fresh air. (point of note - you are not supposed to stand outside where the buses are at). I am standing there with the others, when cut-off-jean-shorts-guy nudges up beside me and says "Hey dude, I have a tumor in my knee, they may have to amputate." And he once again, sticks his leg out for me to see. I guess he did not recognize me with my pants pulled up. I gave some appropriately sympathetic comment and moved back into the aromatic, fumigated main room and sat down beside a man who was either sleeping or had passed out from the fumes.

As I looked around the room, it was a mix of age groups, mostly Caucasian and African Americans (which fits the demographics of NC). There were a few college-student-looking-people with hiking packs; a few homeless-looking-people (not sure if they were going to ride the bus or were just trying to find somewhat of a shelter to rest); a few people who looked pretty strung out on methamphetamines (very emaciated, yellow teeth, picking at their skin, looking around in fast motions - paranoid); a few people who looked completely zoned out from either the fumes, long days traveling, or recent use of depressants; a couple of military guys; a few people who looked like they were going to visit relatives (since they had bags and gift-wrapped packages); and a few other diverse people. I am not sure where singing-man went.

The bus shows up 30 minutes late. We all rush up to get in line so we can get a prime seat on the bus. I don't know what a prime seat is, but I did not want to miss out. Luckily cut-off-jean-shorts-guy was way in the back of the line. As we are loading on the bus, the driver takes our tickets. Similar to reports on the web pages, this driver was not a pleasant person. He was rude to everyone (except one lady in a fur coat - to be discussed later). He kept saying "Hurry up. THIS is the reason the bus is late. YOU people are too slow. Move along!" He even got into two verbal altercations with passengers ahead of me.

When it came my turn, I quickly walked up there, smiled real big, and said "Good day sir" and "thank you sir", hoping to direct his wrath away from me. It worked, and I got into the bus with no problems. Later I heard the driver yell "If you got a problem with your leg, then keep it to yourself!" I guess cut-off-jean-shorts-guy was getting ready to get on the bus. I quickly moved my bag into the seat next to me (I know, for shame!). The last guy to get on the bus was singing-man. He started walking down the aisle, made eye contact with me, smiled, and directed his singing towards me as he changed his tune to "I like coffee, I like tea ..." I have to admit, it made me smile, ... well, that is, until the bus driver got on the bus and yelled at a man for sitting in the seat behind him "DON'T YOU KNOW that NO ONE is allowed to SIT in the FRONT ROWS of a bus unless it is completely full? Now get your A** out of that seat and move somewhere else!" The guy in front of me looked back and whispered "I knew that was going to happen. That was hilarious." I just felt embarrassed for the guy who was sulking down the aisle. But I did learn a valuable Greyhound bus riding, unspoken/unposted rule - Do not sit in the front row!

The bus ride itself was mostly somewhat boring except for two things - (1) seeing the names of stores in NC (which I will chronicle in tomorrow's update), and (2) the fur-coat-lady ...

Okay, so there was a somewhat attractive female across the aisle wearing knee-high, lace-up boots, jeans, a stretch t-shirt, and a fake fur - she had the whole Janice Joplin / Courtney Love image going. Well, I listened to her talk to the guy in front of her, and she said "I travel the bus between Raleigh and the marine base at Lejun 3-4 times a week. I meet a lot of really nice people, and I do a lot of networking with new clients on the bus." It was at this point, I decided not to use the bathroom in the bus or to let my bare skin touch anything. Since there was no movie on the bus, I guess she was the entertainment for some (ewe, that was soooo bad - forgive me).

In closing ... when I had originally planned on doing the 30 day bus pass, I envisioned myself sleeping on the bus, reading, relaxing, enjoying the scenery, and so on. I think this is more descriptive of the express bus service from Cancun, Mexico to Chetumal, Mexico, not the U.S. Greyhound bus. So, I am glad I listened to my aunt and my buddy and limited my Greyhound experience to a few short distance trips - whew! I am somewhat, no VERY, relieved!

Amen.

Since posting this, I received a comment from my buddy Aaron who said, "You most be getting jaded in your old age, there was a time when you would’ve joined right in singing that song. Of course, that would have been in Oklahoma, and there probably would have been only one weirdo/drugy/schizo around, not a bus full of them." He also shared his experience on the Greyhound bus, and one line especially made me smile, "Other than being dressed in jeans and t-shirts that were obviously a little to nice for the crowd, we were doing our best to fit in." :)

Traveling with a Kitchen Faucet

2006-11-02T16:26:00.000-08:00

Background to the following story: I carried a kitchen faucet (that my stepmom bought in Oklahoma), to California to transport to Belize, Central America. However, my trip got delayed indefinitely, so I had to carry the faucet back to Oklahoma, but I was flying to North Carolina first (on my way to OK). The idea was to give the faucet to my aunt in Oklahoma to take to Belize. As most of you know, I don’t like to check bags ... And the story begins ...

Well, the faucet caused quite a stir in my carryon bag. First, the security guy stopped the conveyor belt when my bag was going through. He just stared and stared at the screen. He finally called another guy over who also stared, and then a supervisor was called over.

They kept asking each other - “What do you think it is?”

I kept saying “It is a faucet”, but they were not paying attention to me; well, except for when security guy number two would look up and say “Please step back sir.”

FINALLY, the supervisor looked up and said “Whose bag is in here?”

I said “Mine sir, and I think what you are looking at is a faucet.”

And then all three guys went “oooohhhhh” and started smiling, pointing at it, and congratulating themselves for figuring it out (I guess they forgot I just told them).

Of course then the supervisor asked “Uh sir, why are you carrying a faucet in your carryon bag?”

The lady behind me, with one hand on her hip and her front foot stomping, said “Yeah, why you carryin’ a faucet?!?!” (I think she was not so much curious as she was annoyed since her bags were being held up)

To which I said, “I am transporting it to my folks in Central America; nice faucets are hard to come by in 3rd world countries.”

The supervisor asked for my tickets, glanced at my ticket to Raleigh, NC, and said “Uh, sir, you do realize you aren’t going to Central America?!?!”

So, then I had to explain how I was going to North Carolina for a few days, and then to Oklahoma, and then my aunt was taking the faucet from there to Central America.

To which the first security guy said “Wouldn’t it have been easier to just buy the faucet in Oklahoma?”

Lady-with-hand-on hip moved about 8 inches from my face and said “Yeah wouldn’t it have been easier?” (at this point, I started wondering if she suffered from echolalia)

Anyway, I said, “Well, it was actually bought in Oklahoma, but I took it to California with me.”

“What?” said the first security guy – obviously confused

“What!?!?!” said echolalia lady as her head snaps back and mouth pops open with a complete look of exasperation.

So, I had to explain how I had been planning on going to Central America a couple months ago. So, I carried the faucet from Oklahoma to California. But then my trip got delayed, and now the faucet is making its way back to Oklahoma.

The first security guy then said “Then wouldn’t it have been easier to just buy the faucet in California?” And then before I could answer, he said “Oh never mind, don’t answer that ... Please step over here sir.”

At this point echolalia/hand-on-hip lady gives a grunt of satisfaction and pushes past me.

Fifteen minutes later, after they went through my bag with a fine-toothed comb and verified the faucet was indeed a faucet, I was finally free to go. I should point out that when the security guy put a rubber glove on, I got worried. But, I guess they do that before sticking their hands into any bag (whew!).

The morals to this story are numerous. First, let the purchaser of the faucet carry the faucet! Second, don’t put a kitchen faucet in a carryon bag. Third, sometimes too much honesty can be confusing - I should have just said I bought it for a plumber friend in North Carolina. Next, if you move to a 3rd world country, just suck it up and use a 3rd world faucet. And the main moral of the story is ... next time you pack everything, including the kitchen sink, I recommend leaving the faucet at home.

Amen.

P.S. With the exception of a few added commentaries, this story is true. The picture to the right shows me and my buddy showing off the infamous faucet and carryon bag :)

Addendum – About 2 hours after writing this in the airport, I got up to use the restroom and realized I never got my boarding passes back from the supervisor. They may have called me over the loudspeakers, but I was listening to music with my headphones on. Anyway, I went down to security, and they could not find the boarding passes. So, I had to go back through security to get new ones printed. Luckily, security guy #1 was still there when I came back, and when my bag went through, he just waived me on – whew! :)

Also, my sister reminded me that the faucet had traveled via car from OK to FL, and then by plane (in a checked bag) from FL to CA. I am glad I did not remember that when I was in the airport as it would have added to the confusion :)

My friend Gloria had this amusing experience...I had a similar experience to the faucet when a bottle opener was found in my bag (It was placed in the bag 2 years before during a camping trip and never removed.) Because airport security saw it through the screen, they asked if I was carrying one. Of course, I was not aware of it and said "No!" After I explained what happened, they said that they will have to take it away from my bag, so I said "Oh it's OK because I HAVE MORE!" (pure Spaniard innocence!!!...I was just thinking aloud about the bottle openers at home). Of course, I got 'special treatment' as I was asked to remove my shoes and had to answer additional questions.