Since my visit to Philadelphia, I worked for a week in Lexington before coming here to northwest Missouri for my last week of work until New York City. There wasn't much to report from Lexington - long days and nights, some annoying people, and a boss who acted unprofessionally. In other words, a normal week on the road. There will be much more to say once I finally retire.
In the meantime, we've been here in St Joseph, less than an hour north of Kansas City, for a women's $10,000 tournament. This is the entry level of professional tennis; many of the women here do not even have rankings yet. As a result, the level of play has been quite uneven at times, and startlingly competitive at others. In general, there is a wide gap between the skills of the top twenty players and the rest of the top 100. From about ranking 200 through 400, just about any player can beat any other on a given day. Once you get below that - and some players here are ranked around 1000 - the level of play once again drops off. There have been several matches here where the loser did not manage to win more than two games in the match. Then again, two equally inconsistent players could meet on the court and take you for a three-hour ride.
After receiving this assignment several months ago, I heard a few horror stories about the weather. I remember how parts of the Midwest can be in the middle of the summer, so I expected the worst. But we have been fortunate to have mostly overcast days (and a little rain) all week. Friday will finally be the clear and sunny scorcher we have been expecting all week. There was rain all day on Tuesday, creating a very long Wednesday, but now the end of the week is here, and we are back on schedule.
I have worked in a wide variety of tennis facilities in the eight years I have been on the road. This tournament is being played at a park with tennis courts and a track and football field, located alongside a fairly busy residential street. Three of the courts we have played on border the sidewalk and the road pretty closely. In the mornings, the sidewalk is the best place to watch matches and avoid the sun. There is a small building with restrooms and air conditioning. The accommodations are not elegant, but for an entry-level tournament, we have just about everything we need. Well, and we have one thing we don't need.
In all the years and all the cities and states I have visited, I have never encountered as many pigs as I have in St Joseph. Male pigs. Apparently, it is considered the height of class in this city to slow your pickup as you drive by the park and whistle, hoot, cat-call, or blow your horn at the women. It is true that these women are dressed unlike anyone that these pigs will see in their daily lives of work, Wal-Mart, and home. But that certainly does not excuse the behavior.
In the last three days, I have watched countless cars drive down the street - which in the afternoons is directly in front of me - and slow down once the pig drivers realize that lightly-dressed women are playing tennis on the courts. Most pigs slow down for the first bank of courts, speed up until the next bank of courts, slow down again, and so on. A few pigs have nearly caused wrecks, either by slowing down unexpectedly to ogle, or by nearly rear-ending the driver in front because they were not paying attention. At least ten have made some sort of inappropriate noise to signal - well, to signal what, I am not exactly sure.
Is this some weird mating ritual in northwest Missouri to which most of the rest of the country has not been exposed? I've seen men all over this country notice the female tennis players with whom I work, but I have never seen the women treated this way as they have been in St Joseph. Which of these women is going to say to herself, "Wow, he slowed down and whistled out the window, and then drove away quickly. I must be looking good today. And that man - so brave. That's the man for me"? These players know how they are dressed, and they know when they look good. But they did not invite rude behavior, and it offended me to have to see it this week.
Being a gentleman, it has been hard to wrap my mind around the goals of the pig. The one who whistled and then drove off quickly - what is he hoping to accomplish? If she thinks he is a pig, as she should, then driving away quickly might be smart. If he is trying to impress her, how would she know who he is? Is she to stop playing tennis and chase him down the street? The men who yelled, "Yeah, baby," and the like - is this the rural Missouri idea of how to woo a woman, or, more importantly, to treat a woman with respect? What motivates these pigs?
After a few days of witnessing pigs in the wild, and thinking about their behavior, I can only think of one explanation. Pigs aren't concerned with impressing women; they're trying to impress each other. They know they do not stand a chance with any of the women on our courts. So to earn standing with their fellow pigs, they try to demean the women that they cannot have. It is the gayest thing they can do without touching each other. If they were all on an elementary playground, the pigs would be trying to push the women down - that's about how mature this behavior is.
In this work environment, it is not my place to say anything to the pigs. (It is complicated to explain.) But I have apologized to the women when it has tread too closely to our tennis. In my experience, I feel that it has to be something about this place, St Joseph, that all these pigs have in common. I have never seen such disrespect for women anywhere else I have worked. And it bothered me enough to write about it. When women, and even other men, see this behavior, they should object to it. These pigs are close kin to the monsters that abuse and beat women. And often this puerile porcine behavior is how it starts.
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Monday, July 21, 2008
Shine a light through the eyes of the ones left behind
Before heading to World TeamTennis in Wilmington, Delaware last Tuesday night, I decided to take my free day and spend it in the city of Philadelphia, where my mother is from and where I had spent so much of my youth. I have only been back there once since my grandparents died in 1989. Many of my memories had solidified, while others had become embellished through the years in my mind. In all, I was not sure what to expect.
From Albany, I drove through northern New Jersey and approached south Philadelphia from I-95. The skyline is different and taller, certainly; but much of the vague details, the set dressing of the city looked remarkably the same. And the first thing I tried to find was a bathroom, since the only place most Philadelphians can use the facilities is at home. My search was unsuccessful, so I parked at 12th and Washington for the first stop of the day - cheesesteak.
I can remember the biggest local debate among Philadelphians related to cheesesteak - specifically, Geno's or Pat's. Both are located roughly at the intersection of 9th Street and Passyunk Avenue, alongside the Capitolo Park. Years ago, the basic difference between the two restaurants was that one used real cheese on the steaks and one used Cheese Whiz. (I haven't been able to sort out which was which.) As a result of this and other subtle differences, my mother is for Pat's, and her elder sister, Aunt Lucille, is for Geno's.
I checked with both of them before I made my decision.
Aunt Lucille swayed me - she was the older sister, and lived in Philadelphia for more than fifty years.
Geno's and Pat's are both the kinds of restaurant with lots of locals as well as tourists. It helps to watch the habits of the locals so that you know how to order. While I was reading the menu board and listening to some construction workers order, I saw it:
For a rare moment in my life, I was stymied. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. But before I knew it, my turn was up, so I ordered and paid (cash only), went to the next window and ordered fries and a soda (cash only), and found a seat. How did I not know about this sign, this place?
I hadn't even had time to figure all this out before the next surprise. The Geno's cheesesteak - soft bread, steak, dice onions, provolone cheese - tasted like nothing. It did not taste bad. It just had no flavor at all. And I don't think this was one of those memories from my childhood that I had embellished. I remember the cheesesteaks being good, and I have lamented the lack of quality cheesesteaks in other parts of the country. (Excluding, of course, Texadelphia.) But this was a bad cheesesteak. Do you hear me, Joe Vento? A bad cheesesteak.
[Later, when I got back to the hotel, I looked up some information on the sign and the owner. Fox News set up Joe Vento and gave him a forum to "vent" about Barack Obama's comments on languages, and he didn't fail to demonstrate his ignorance.
If you had the stomach to watch the whole thing, you might agree with me that Joe Vento could stand to learn English, as well.
Any politically astute viewer who saw all of Obama's comments in context would know that Obama is not advocating for all American children to learn Spanish. But someone like Joe Vento who is ignorant - either by upbringing or by choice - wouldn't know the difference.
Do not be afraid of who you are going to get? It can't get worse that Bush, right? Right?
Bonus: This photo was on the fence of the Little League field at Capitolo Park near Geno's and Pat's.]
After Geno's, I drove down to mom's old neighborhood - 12th and Daly Street, near Jackson Street. I parked by my grandparents' church, on whose fronts steps I vomited as a kid. (Ah, memories.) Grandmom and Grandpop's house is now peach, but the railing and the front stoop were the same. The butcher across the street is now a salon, but the Mauro grocery store is still there, so I went inside.
I don't know what I was expecting to find inside the grocery; maybe I just wanted to see if it still felt so small and familiar. And in most ways, it did. Carol was behind the front counter, and Joe was behind the back. But before I could say anything or notice much more, I saw the ATM machine, and it had money in the dispenser. No one else was in the store. And just then, Carol came around the counter and asked if she could help me. I told her that I had come in for another reason (to buy some Tastykakes), but that I noticed the cash. So she called to Joe to get her an envelope and to see if he could remember who had been in the store last. And then she wheeled around on me and said, "You're Dana's son, aren't you?" (Dana is my mom.) I was stunned and said, "How did you know that?" Carol had recognized me from an old picture Mom had sent to her.
I walked a block up the street to the bakery where we used to get rolls and Sunday pizza. But the bakery is closed on Mondays, so no bread and disappointing cheesesteak were all I ate in the city.
Before heading to my hotel in suburban Philadelphia, I had one more stop - to visit my grandparents cemetery on Baltimore Pike in Yeadon. Uncle Frank sent directions to me, but somehow I sensed how to get there, too. I hadn't been back to visit them since their funeral in December 1989. I drove right to the cemetery and found them from memory, without any trouble at all.
I sat with them for awhile, and then gave them a kiss and a pat for me and for Mom before heading to Glen Mills.
From Albany, I drove through northern New Jersey and approached south Philadelphia from I-95. The skyline is different and taller, certainly; but much of the vague details, the set dressing of the city looked remarkably the same. And the first thing I tried to find was a bathroom, since the only place most Philadelphians can use the facilities is at home. My search was unsuccessful, so I parked at 12th and Washington for the first stop of the day - cheesesteak.
I can remember the biggest local debate among Philadelphians related to cheesesteak - specifically, Geno's or Pat's. Both are located roughly at the intersection of 9th Street and Passyunk Avenue, alongside the Capitolo Park. Years ago, the basic difference between the two restaurants was that one used real cheese on the steaks and one used Cheese Whiz. (I haven't been able to sort out which was which.) As a result of this and other subtle differences, my mother is for Pat's, and her elder sister, Aunt Lucille, is for Geno's.
I checked with both of them before I made my decision.
Aunt Lucille swayed me - she was the older sister, and lived in Philadelphia for more than fifty years.
Geno's and Pat's are both the kinds of restaurant with lots of locals as well as tourists. It helps to watch the habits of the locals so that you know how to order. While I was reading the menu board and listening to some construction workers order, I saw it:
For a rare moment in my life, I was stymied. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. But before I knew it, my turn was up, so I ordered and paid (cash only), went to the next window and ordered fries and a soda (cash only), and found a seat. How did I not know about this sign, this place?
I hadn't even had time to figure all this out before the next surprise. The Geno's cheesesteak - soft bread, steak, dice onions, provolone cheese - tasted like nothing. It did not taste bad. It just had no flavor at all. And I don't think this was one of those memories from my childhood that I had embellished. I remember the cheesesteaks being good, and I have lamented the lack of quality cheesesteaks in other parts of the country. (Excluding, of course, Texadelphia.) But this was a bad cheesesteak. Do you hear me, Joe Vento? A bad cheesesteak.
[Later, when I got back to the hotel, I looked up some information on the sign and the owner. Fox News set up Joe Vento and gave him a forum to "vent" about Barack Obama's comments on languages, and he didn't fail to demonstrate his ignorance.
If you had the stomach to watch the whole thing, you might agree with me that Joe Vento could stand to learn English, as well.
Any politically astute viewer who saw all of Obama's comments in context would know that Obama is not advocating for all American children to learn Spanish. But someone like Joe Vento who is ignorant - either by upbringing or by choice - wouldn't know the difference.
Vento: This guy [Obama], with this — he scares me. I'm telling all the people out there, please, please, vote these people out of office. And if they can't tell you that English will be the official language before the election, vote them all out, and do not be afraid of who you're going to get. It is not going to be worse than what we already have. We have got to speak. [Emphasis added]
Do not be afraid of who you are going to get? It can't get worse that Bush, right? Right?
Bonus: This photo was on the fence of the Little League field at Capitolo Park near Geno's and Pat's.]
After Geno's, I drove down to mom's old neighborhood - 12th and Daly Street, near Jackson Street. I parked by my grandparents' church, on whose fronts steps I vomited as a kid. (Ah, memories.) Grandmom and Grandpop's house is now peach, but the railing and the front stoop were the same. The butcher across the street is now a salon, but the Mauro grocery store is still there, so I went inside.
I don't know what I was expecting to find inside the grocery; maybe I just wanted to see if it still felt so small and familiar. And in most ways, it did. Carol was behind the front counter, and Joe was behind the back. But before I could say anything or notice much more, I saw the ATM machine, and it had money in the dispenser. No one else was in the store. And just then, Carol came around the counter and asked if she could help me. I told her that I had come in for another reason (to buy some Tastykakes), but that I noticed the cash. So she called to Joe to get her an envelope and to see if he could remember who had been in the store last. And then she wheeled around on me and said, "You're Dana's son, aren't you?" (Dana is my mom.) I was stunned and said, "How did you know that?" Carol had recognized me from an old picture Mom had sent to her.
I walked a block up the street to the bakery where we used to get rolls and Sunday pizza. But the bakery is closed on Mondays, so no bread and disappointing cheesesteak were all I ate in the city.
Before heading to my hotel in suburban Philadelphia, I had one more stop - to visit my grandparents cemetery on Baltimore Pike in Yeadon. Uncle Frank sent directions to me, but somehow I sensed how to get there, too. I hadn't been back to visit them since their funeral in December 1989. I drove right to the cemetery and found them from memory, without any trouble at all.
I sat with them for awhile, and then gave them a kiss and a pat for me and for Mom before heading to Glen Mills.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
For the Pennsylvania we never found
I spent last week at a women's tennis event in Allentown. For all the time I spent in Pennsylvania as a child, I had never been there. I went there from Raleigh, traveling through the traffic bottleneck approaching Washington, and then up around Baltimore and into south-central Pennsylvania, approaching Allentown from the west and passing through some small parts of Amish country. It was a calm, quiet, and pretty drive - much nicer than the natural utilitarianism I would experience in New Jersey at the end of the week.
When I arrive at the hotel late Saturday night, there was a Jewish wedding party, a band in the bar, and a youth softball tournament that had quite literally overrun the hotel. Consequently, the front desk could not find my room, and I had to put down my own credit card for the night. As I waited, the desk clerk was on the phone with our chief umpire, telling him that there had been an error in reservations, that the hotel was overbooked, and that their company policy for overbooking was that whoever arrived first got the remaining rooms. Thankfully, I got a room, albeit a smoking one.
While I never found out who owned the hotel, it was the most patriotic place I have ever stayed. Seals with eagles adorned doors, carpets, and directional signs. The restaurant was called "America". The walls were adorned with all sorts of patriotic photographic art. Even the cigar lounge was prominently sponsored by Samuel Adams beer. (Although, I admit some trepidation in including this last fact, given that I do not know the provenance of that line of beers. I just know from the advertising that it seems colonial and patriotic.) And each morning at 8 a.m., they salute America with a flag raising. Employees and guests gather at the flag poles and honor hotel guests' family and friends who have served in the armed forces. The flag is raised to the National Anthem, followed by the much-overplayed "God Bless the U.S.A." by - you guessed it - Lee Greenwood. [Right next door to the hotel was the Liber-tee mini-golf. I went over there a few times for ice cream, as well as to play a round of golf by myself one cool night.]
The facility for tennis was decent, the staff was good, and the week was fairly normal. We had a few rain delays, one that moved our matches to the adjoining indoor courts. Imagine, if you will, Noah's Ark. Now, turn it upside down and place it over four tennis courts. That is what the indoor facility looked like. It was constructed of rich, dark wood planks around four inches wide, and it was built quite securely. The arc of the roof gently curved back in the opposite direction before reaching a point at the top. While the entire place smelled like your grandmother's damp attic, it did not leak a drop of water.
On Friday evening after work, I stopped by the supervisor's desk to chat before returning to the hotel. The order of play for the next day was on the table - two singles semifinals and the doubles final. As I looked at it, I said to her, "Well, I bet I know which match I am doing tomorrow." I had already had one of the singles semifinalists that day in her quarterfinal match, and back-to-back matches for chair umpires are avoided. And I've never done a final, so...
"You are doing the doubles final," she said. I told her that I was pretty certain this would be my first professional final. "Don't you think it's about time, then?" she said.
I wound up doing the opposite singles semifinal first, and then the doubles final third the next day. Other than a few extra duties for the final, it was mostly like any other match. I hadn't felt nerves on court in a long time, so it was an interesting feeling. But once we all got a few games under our belts, it was just like any other day at the office. And the match went pretty smoothly.
One note from the singles semifinal. The player to my left came to the next for an overhead smash. She succeeded in putting the ball into play against her opponent, but I heard something hit the ground as I watched the ball speed to the other side. The opponent got her racquet on the ball, but it sailed far outside. That's when I noticed the sound again, and saw the first player's racquet bouncing in her opponent's court. Apparently during the smash, the racquet slipped from her hand, bounced on her side of the court and then over the net. After the ball went out, the first player said to me, "Do I still win the point?" "No," I replied, to laughter from the player and the crowd.
And on other note - in another match, a tall player came racing into the net to play a short ball from her opponent. She got the return over, but her foot touched the base of the net in the process, so I called "touch". She looked at me and said, "Touch? What touch? Who touch?" So I told her that her foot had touched the net. As she walked back to the baseline, she shrugged and said, "Eh, my big feet."
Sunday morning I left for Albany for World TeamTennis, a pleasant drive of a couple hundred miles. Since I wasn't in a hurry, I drove mostly 55 mph on this trip. When I arrived, I discovered my gas mileage was 62.5 mpg for the trip. That's when I decided that I needed a bumper sticker reading, "I Drive This Way To Save Money". It amazed me at all the SUVs racing past me, sometimes more than 20 mph faster than me. Before you complain about the high price of gas, how about adjusting your driving habits?
I've also been playing the license plate game with some friends - the hard version, where you have to find all 50 state plates in alphabetical order. I have been stuck on Colorado for a couple of months now, which annoyed me since I was going to be up in New England these two weeks to get Connecticut and Delaware. And despite seeing Washington, California, Wyoming, Florida (lots of Florida), North Carolina, Texas, Alabama, Quebec, New Brunswick, and even Mexico (D.F.), I still haven't seen Colorado. I'll have more to say about this in a future entry about bumper-sticker politics.
I was in Albany for World TeamTennis, a unique format of professional tennis that uses a box umpire in place of a chair umpire. In other words, you do the same job, but just standing the entire time on a box at the net. WTT has different formats, scoring systems, procedures, verbiage, and mechanics. And while I have been a line umpire at WTT events before - a job exactly the same as line umpiring on the pro circuit - I had never been a box umpire before.
I studied the rules carefully, but some of them are arcane and hard to get unless you see them in action. I don't get the cable channel that shows WTT, so I asked a lot of questions in the last couple of weeks. I knew the basics, but I did not know what the actual product looked like, so I was winging it. Players can tell by the little things if you know what you are doing. If you can't get simple announcements and verbiage correct, they'll mark you as a rookie and eat you alive, even if you aren't. So I tried to master the little things that would instill confidence.
WTT has noisy crowds, even during play; it has coaches and players that come from the bench to argue calls with you; it has instant replay and challenges (in some cities); it has a headset microphone and a Palm Pilot for live scoring and a wide range of line umpire skills, varying from city to city. In essence, it is a challenge even for experience officials. And it was one of the few things left on my list of things I hadn't yet done in tennis.
The night seems like a blur, even though I was sweating, my legs hurt, and I was on the box for three hours, as the match went into overtime. But overall I survived it, and I even enjoyed it a little bit. I'll be more prepared for tonight's match at the DuPont Country Club in Wilmington, and then I will be done with WTT for the far forseeable future. (In case you are wondering, I am next off to see family in the Washington area and then have a vacation with Dave, and then I go to Lexington for a week and St. Joseph, MO (north of Kansas City) for a week.)
When I arrive at the hotel late Saturday night, there was a Jewish wedding party, a band in the bar, and a youth softball tournament that had quite literally overrun the hotel. Consequently, the front desk could not find my room, and I had to put down my own credit card for the night. As I waited, the desk clerk was on the phone with our chief umpire, telling him that there had been an error in reservations, that the hotel was overbooked, and that their company policy for overbooking was that whoever arrived first got the remaining rooms. Thankfully, I got a room, albeit a smoking one.
While I never found out who owned the hotel, it was the most patriotic place I have ever stayed. Seals with eagles adorned doors, carpets, and directional signs. The restaurant was called "America". The walls were adorned with all sorts of patriotic photographic art. Even the cigar lounge was prominently sponsored by Samuel Adams beer. (Although, I admit some trepidation in including this last fact, given that I do not know the provenance of that line of beers. I just know from the advertising that it seems colonial and patriotic.) And each morning at 8 a.m., they salute America with a flag raising. Employees and guests gather at the flag poles and honor hotel guests' family and friends who have served in the armed forces. The flag is raised to the National Anthem, followed by the much-overplayed "God Bless the U.S.A." by - you guessed it - Lee Greenwood. [Right next door to the hotel was the Liber-tee mini-golf. I went over there a few times for ice cream, as well as to play a round of golf by myself one cool night.]
The facility for tennis was decent, the staff was good, and the week was fairly normal. We had a few rain delays, one that moved our matches to the adjoining indoor courts. Imagine, if you will, Noah's Ark. Now, turn it upside down and place it over four tennis courts. That is what the indoor facility looked like. It was constructed of rich, dark wood planks around four inches wide, and it was built quite securely. The arc of the roof gently curved back in the opposite direction before reaching a point at the top. While the entire place smelled like your grandmother's damp attic, it did not leak a drop of water.
On Friday evening after work, I stopped by the supervisor's desk to chat before returning to the hotel. The order of play for the next day was on the table - two singles semifinals and the doubles final. As I looked at it, I said to her, "Well, I bet I know which match I am doing tomorrow." I had already had one of the singles semifinalists that day in her quarterfinal match, and back-to-back matches for chair umpires are avoided. And I've never done a final, so...
"You are doing the doubles final," she said. I told her that I was pretty certain this would be my first professional final. "Don't you think it's about time, then?" she said.
I wound up doing the opposite singles semifinal first, and then the doubles final third the next day. Other than a few extra duties for the final, it was mostly like any other match. I hadn't felt nerves on court in a long time, so it was an interesting feeling. But once we all got a few games under our belts, it was just like any other day at the office. And the match went pretty smoothly.
One note from the singles semifinal. The player to my left came to the next for an overhead smash. She succeeded in putting the ball into play against her opponent, but I heard something hit the ground as I watched the ball speed to the other side. The opponent got her racquet on the ball, but it sailed far outside. That's when I noticed the sound again, and saw the first player's racquet bouncing in her opponent's court. Apparently during the smash, the racquet slipped from her hand, bounced on her side of the court and then over the net. After the ball went out, the first player said to me, "Do I still win the point?" "No," I replied, to laughter from the player and the crowd.
And on other note - in another match, a tall player came racing into the net to play a short ball from her opponent. She got the return over, but her foot touched the base of the net in the process, so I called "touch". She looked at me and said, "Touch? What touch? Who touch?" So I told her that her foot had touched the net. As she walked back to the baseline, she shrugged and said, "Eh, my big feet."
Sunday morning I left for Albany for World TeamTennis, a pleasant drive of a couple hundred miles. Since I wasn't in a hurry, I drove mostly 55 mph on this trip. When I arrived, I discovered my gas mileage was 62.5 mpg for the trip. That's when I decided that I needed a bumper sticker reading, "I Drive This Way To Save Money". It amazed me at all the SUVs racing past me, sometimes more than 20 mph faster than me. Before you complain about the high price of gas, how about adjusting your driving habits?
I've also been playing the license plate game with some friends - the hard version, where you have to find all 50 state plates in alphabetical order. I have been stuck on Colorado for a couple of months now, which annoyed me since I was going to be up in New England these two weeks to get Connecticut and Delaware. And despite seeing Washington, California, Wyoming, Florida (lots of Florida), North Carolina, Texas, Alabama, Quebec, New Brunswick, and even Mexico (D.F.), I still haven't seen Colorado. I'll have more to say about this in a future entry about bumper-sticker politics.
I was in Albany for World TeamTennis, a unique format of professional tennis that uses a box umpire in place of a chair umpire. In other words, you do the same job, but just standing the entire time on a box at the net. WTT has different formats, scoring systems, procedures, verbiage, and mechanics. And while I have been a line umpire at WTT events before - a job exactly the same as line umpiring on the pro circuit - I had never been a box umpire before.
I studied the rules carefully, but some of them are arcane and hard to get unless you see them in action. I don't get the cable channel that shows WTT, so I asked a lot of questions in the last couple of weeks. I knew the basics, but I did not know what the actual product looked like, so I was winging it. Players can tell by the little things if you know what you are doing. If you can't get simple announcements and verbiage correct, they'll mark you as a rookie and eat you alive, even if you aren't. So I tried to master the little things that would instill confidence.
WTT has noisy crowds, even during play; it has coaches and players that come from the bench to argue calls with you; it has instant replay and challenges (in some cities); it has a headset microphone and a Palm Pilot for live scoring and a wide range of line umpire skills, varying from city to city. In essence, it is a challenge even for experience officials. And it was one of the few things left on my list of things I hadn't yet done in tennis.
The night seems like a blur, even though I was sweating, my legs hurt, and I was on the box for three hours, as the match went into overtime. But overall I survived it, and I even enjoyed it a little bit. I'll be more prepared for tonight's match at the DuPont Country Club in Wilmington, and then I will be done with WTT for the far forseeable future. (In case you are wondering, I am next off to see family in the Washington area and then have a vacation with Dave, and then I go to Lexington for a week and St. Joseph, MO (north of Kansas City) for a week.)
Saturday, April 05, 2008
Cross Country Days 7-18: Not much happened...well, one thing happened
My work in California, and the enjoyment of the non-work time, plus the drive back to Alabama were times that I did not feel like writing, so I am a little behind. So let me just summarize what happened for the week there and on the trip back.
I spent a week in Redding, California. It was very beautiful, and with only one exception, the weather was fantastic. I found a nice park and running trail where I could work out, and I managed to keep my slow but steady weight loss going while I was on the road. (I lost three more pounds, and I am now down sixteen pounds since the start of the year.) Also, I had a very good week of work. I was complimented by a fellow higher-ranking official on the job I had done that week. (This despite a day in which I gave six penalties in two matches, including a well-deserved penalty that cost a doubles team their match.)
On the drive back, I spent a night with my cousin and her husband in Napa. They work in the wine and beer industry. She had been bitten on the face by a dog the day before, but was in remarkably good spirits, and we had a nice visit. I spent the next night in Phoenix, and then the next two nights visiting friends in San Antonio (more below). On the next to last day of my trip, I drove through Austin and visited my old high school. I got lots of hugs and smiles, and it was very nice to be so warmly remembered. (I am considering a job offer there.) I spent the night in Lewisville with my sister's family, visiting my nephew (who is gigantic and not even two yet). Then I drove to the University of Mississippi for a college tennis match, and finally back home for a week of rest. The visits with friends and the urge to be home made the last week of this trip fly. But overall, it was an excellent experience. Two-hundred-mile drives are nothing to me now.
So, back to San Antonio...
At the start of this trip, I had six friends in San Antonio: three sets of gay couples. I met the other two couples through the first couple, Jeremy (I've known ten years) and Jon (I've known in one way or another for fourteen years). The other couples are James and A.J., both Starbucks baristas, and Jonathan and Justin, who split up in the recent past, but still live together out of circumstance. Jon and Jonathan are my age, and everyone else is in their 20s.
Jeremy and Jon have always been my main place to visit and stay when I come to San Antonio, even when I lived only an hour away in Austin. They have the biggest house, the most computer toys, and always seemed welcoming, or at least ambivalent, to my visits. Jonathan and Justin moved from Ohio and lived with Jeremy and Jon for a few months until they go on their own four feet. Initially, I was going to visit Justin after he got off work late, because I wasn't arriving from Phoenix until around 11pm. But I was exhausted when I got close to town, so I begged off meeting him that night, and instead called James and A.J., who were happy to wait up to see me, and gladly let me spend the night.
I had a great visit with them, even though it was short, and my plan was to spend the next day with Jeremy and Jon, hopefully have Justin and Jonathan come over to visit, and go out to dinner like we usually do when I visit. So, I left James and A.J.'s place and went to get my car serviced. By noon I was out, and I called Jeremy and went over to their house (Jon was at work). I confirmed again that when Jon got off work (Jeremy said around 7), that we'd all go to dinner.
During the first part of the visit, Jeremy says to me, "In exchange for sleeping here, would you clean the kitchen?" I was very taken aback - I've never had to sing for my supper before, so to speak. But for some reason I agreed, probably in part because I never have to do any cleaning in my own house.
The kitchen was a disaster. There were flies and bugs crawling because of how unsanitary it was. Food was caked onto plates and the range top. The microwave looked like a lentil soup had exploded inside it. Cereal bowls were stacked up six-high in the sink. The floor was covered with dog hair, dog food, and all manner of crumbs and human food remnants. It was disgusting. And it was somewhat expected - Jeremy and Jon are slobs. Part of the rent arrangement when Justin and Jonathan lived there was to clean the house. I watched Justin do ten loads of laundry one day, and he couldn't even catch up.
Well, like a good friend, I diligently cleaned up. I spent forty-five minutes on the microwave alone. As I worked more and more, I became angrier and angrier that Jeremy would even ask such a thing of me. You don't ask friends to clean your house, especially in exchange for letting them stay at your house, when you have let them stay at your house for years before without such a request. So now, I was stumped as to exactly what the hell was going on in his head.
While I am working in the kitchen, Jeremy is mesmerized by World of Warcraft. I am used to this obsession, however, and I visit with him while I play Wii in the same room. About an hour later, a man comes over - middle aged, hulking, and, according to Jeremy, a divorced masseur. Jeremy said he always has a massage at 2pm on Wednesday -- "ALWAYS" -- so would I mind? He said I was welcome to stay and play games in the meanwhile. Sure, I thought, no problem. Well, that was the next problem.
See, the massage didn't take place at Jeremy's house. Jeremy left and went somewhere else, probably to the guy's house, which Jeremy said was in the neighborhood. And then Jeremy was gone for three and a half hours. I couldn't leave because I didn't have anywhere else to go at that point. And, by the way, there was much more than massaging going on, from the behavior between the two of them when the man was there.
So Jeremy is back now, and it is almost six o'clock. Both of them are flakes, I know, but I've overlooked it for a decade, so why stop now? Jeremy goes back to his computer games, so I go back to the Wii. (Actually, I had never left the Wii for the most part in the previous three hours - there was nothing else to do there.) Time passes, I am hungry, and we are waiting for Jon to come home so we can go to dinner. Suddenly, I notice two things at once. First, it is nine pm. And second, Jeremy is getting dressed and putting his shoes on.
I asked where he was going, and he said to the gym to workout. So I said, um, hey, it's nine pm, and where's Jon, and we're supposed to be going to dinner, right? And he said, oh, I thought I told you, Jon is going to have drinks with friends after work, and won't be home until nine or ten, buh-bye. Well, not quite buh-bye, because I told him I was hungry and aggravated, and that he in fact had not told me that. He replied, oh, I must have said it to (the massage guy). So Jeremy leaves me alone in the house for the second time that day.
About an hour later, after ten pm, Jeremy calls and says, "Okay, my workout is done." Long pause. Like I am supposed to say something in reply. ("Great, I am ready for dinner. Don't mind me, it wasn't any inconvenience at all.") Finally I said, "okay." He had just spoken to Jon, who was on his way home. So I said, fine, we'll figure out what to do when you get here.
They both arrive home around the same time, and I explain the situation to Jon. After some arguing, Jon agrees to make some Hamburger Helper for dinner. Not what I was expecting, but not horrible, either. So he cooks, we chat, and Justin comes over to visit. (He'll wind up staying for about four hours, probably the nicest part of the day.) When it is done, Jeremy says, "Eat what you want and I'll take the rest." So I do. Jon sees what has happened and says, "I didn't cook for you guys to eat it all." So he comes and takes some from each of us. Thankful for anything to eat, I just consume my Helper in mostly silence.
While we are eating, and Jeremy goes back to his computer games, I explain to Jon what happened with the kitchen. Jon tells me that he had told Jeremy the day before to clean the kitchen, because it had gotten disgusting. Now I am pissed. Jeremy, my "friend", used me. Neither Jon nor Justin seems to have an explanation for this. So as the night continues, and the three of us stay up late talking, I ask Jon what he really gets out of a friendship with me. Justin tries to explain, both then and in a later IM exchange, that friends are not ledger sheets. That made sense, but it still did not explain why Jon tolerates me, much less calls me friend. He's never needed me for anything, never had to rely on me for anything, and I don't have anything he wants or needs. He sometimes shows contempt towards me between being affectionate. And all of those things, especially in recent years, apply doubly to Jeremy.
I should have stayed with James and A.J. again that night, but it was late, and I just said, screw it. Sleep, get up, leave without saying goodbye, go to Austin, and don't look back. And that's what I did. I don't consider Jeremy or Jon friends anymore.
It's funny how time can pass, and you can think things are just fine, and it takes a strong slap across the face ("clean my kitchen") to realize that you have been ignored and abused all that time. I guess I kept going back to them because they had things I needed - computer knowledge and equipment, a place to stay in town, occasional fun friends. It is hard to believe that at thirty-four, I can still be surprised by things like this.
I spent a week in Redding, California. It was very beautiful, and with only one exception, the weather was fantastic. I found a nice park and running trail where I could work out, and I managed to keep my slow but steady weight loss going while I was on the road. (I lost three more pounds, and I am now down sixteen pounds since the start of the year.) Also, I had a very good week of work. I was complimented by a fellow higher-ranking official on the job I had done that week. (This despite a day in which I gave six penalties in two matches, including a well-deserved penalty that cost a doubles team their match.)
On the drive back, I spent a night with my cousin and her husband in Napa. They work in the wine and beer industry. She had been bitten on the face by a dog the day before, but was in remarkably good spirits, and we had a nice visit. I spent the next night in Phoenix, and then the next two nights visiting friends in San Antonio (more below). On the next to last day of my trip, I drove through Austin and visited my old high school. I got lots of hugs and smiles, and it was very nice to be so warmly remembered. (I am considering a job offer there.) I spent the night in Lewisville with my sister's family, visiting my nephew (who is gigantic and not even two yet). Then I drove to the University of Mississippi for a college tennis match, and finally back home for a week of rest. The visits with friends and the urge to be home made the last week of this trip fly. But overall, it was an excellent experience. Two-hundred-mile drives are nothing to me now.
So, back to San Antonio...
At the start of this trip, I had six friends in San Antonio: three sets of gay couples. I met the other two couples through the first couple, Jeremy (I've known ten years) and Jon (I've known in one way or another for fourteen years). The other couples are James and A.J., both Starbucks baristas, and Jonathan and Justin, who split up in the recent past, but still live together out of circumstance. Jon and Jonathan are my age, and everyone else is in their 20s.
Jeremy and Jon have always been my main place to visit and stay when I come to San Antonio, even when I lived only an hour away in Austin. They have the biggest house, the most computer toys, and always seemed welcoming, or at least ambivalent, to my visits. Jonathan and Justin moved from Ohio and lived with Jeremy and Jon for a few months until they go on their own four feet. Initially, I was going to visit Justin after he got off work late, because I wasn't arriving from Phoenix until around 11pm. But I was exhausted when I got close to town, so I begged off meeting him that night, and instead called James and A.J., who were happy to wait up to see me, and gladly let me spend the night.
I had a great visit with them, even though it was short, and my plan was to spend the next day with Jeremy and Jon, hopefully have Justin and Jonathan come over to visit, and go out to dinner like we usually do when I visit. So, I left James and A.J.'s place and went to get my car serviced. By noon I was out, and I called Jeremy and went over to their house (Jon was at work). I confirmed again that when Jon got off work (Jeremy said around 7), that we'd all go to dinner.
During the first part of the visit, Jeremy says to me, "In exchange for sleeping here, would you clean the kitchen?" I was very taken aback - I've never had to sing for my supper before, so to speak. But for some reason I agreed, probably in part because I never have to do any cleaning in my own house.
The kitchen was a disaster. There were flies and bugs crawling because of how unsanitary it was. Food was caked onto plates and the range top. The microwave looked like a lentil soup had exploded inside it. Cereal bowls were stacked up six-high in the sink. The floor was covered with dog hair, dog food, and all manner of crumbs and human food remnants. It was disgusting. And it was somewhat expected - Jeremy and Jon are slobs. Part of the rent arrangement when Justin and Jonathan lived there was to clean the house. I watched Justin do ten loads of laundry one day, and he couldn't even catch up.
Well, like a good friend, I diligently cleaned up. I spent forty-five minutes on the microwave alone. As I worked more and more, I became angrier and angrier that Jeremy would even ask such a thing of me. You don't ask friends to clean your house, especially in exchange for letting them stay at your house, when you have let them stay at your house for years before without such a request. So now, I was stumped as to exactly what the hell was going on in his head.
While I am working in the kitchen, Jeremy is mesmerized by World of Warcraft. I am used to this obsession, however, and I visit with him while I play Wii in the same room. About an hour later, a man comes over - middle aged, hulking, and, according to Jeremy, a divorced masseur. Jeremy said he always has a massage at 2pm on Wednesday -- "ALWAYS" -- so would I mind? He said I was welcome to stay and play games in the meanwhile. Sure, I thought, no problem. Well, that was the next problem.
See, the massage didn't take place at Jeremy's house. Jeremy left and went somewhere else, probably to the guy's house, which Jeremy said was in the neighborhood. And then Jeremy was gone for three and a half hours. I couldn't leave because I didn't have anywhere else to go at that point. And, by the way, there was much more than massaging going on, from the behavior between the two of them when the man was there.
So Jeremy is back now, and it is almost six o'clock. Both of them are flakes, I know, but I've overlooked it for a decade, so why stop now? Jeremy goes back to his computer games, so I go back to the Wii. (Actually, I had never left the Wii for the most part in the previous three hours - there was nothing else to do there.) Time passes, I am hungry, and we are waiting for Jon to come home so we can go to dinner. Suddenly, I notice two things at once. First, it is nine pm. And second, Jeremy is getting dressed and putting his shoes on.
I asked where he was going, and he said to the gym to workout. So I said, um, hey, it's nine pm, and where's Jon, and we're supposed to be going to dinner, right? And he said, oh, I thought I told you, Jon is going to have drinks with friends after work, and won't be home until nine or ten, buh-bye. Well, not quite buh-bye, because I told him I was hungry and aggravated, and that he in fact had not told me that. He replied, oh, I must have said it to (the massage guy). So Jeremy leaves me alone in the house for the second time that day.
About an hour later, after ten pm, Jeremy calls and says, "Okay, my workout is done." Long pause. Like I am supposed to say something in reply. ("Great, I am ready for dinner. Don't mind me, it wasn't any inconvenience at all.") Finally I said, "okay." He had just spoken to Jon, who was on his way home. So I said, fine, we'll figure out what to do when you get here.
They both arrive home around the same time, and I explain the situation to Jon. After some arguing, Jon agrees to make some Hamburger Helper for dinner. Not what I was expecting, but not horrible, either. So he cooks, we chat, and Justin comes over to visit. (He'll wind up staying for about four hours, probably the nicest part of the day.) When it is done, Jeremy says, "Eat what you want and I'll take the rest." So I do. Jon sees what has happened and says, "I didn't cook for you guys to eat it all." So he comes and takes some from each of us. Thankful for anything to eat, I just consume my Helper in mostly silence.
While we are eating, and Jeremy goes back to his computer games, I explain to Jon what happened with the kitchen. Jon tells me that he had told Jeremy the day before to clean the kitchen, because it had gotten disgusting. Now I am pissed. Jeremy, my "friend", used me. Neither Jon nor Justin seems to have an explanation for this. So as the night continues, and the three of us stay up late talking, I ask Jon what he really gets out of a friendship with me. Justin tries to explain, both then and in a later IM exchange, that friends are not ledger sheets. That made sense, but it still did not explain why Jon tolerates me, much less calls me friend. He's never needed me for anything, never had to rely on me for anything, and I don't have anything he wants or needs. He sometimes shows contempt towards me between being affectionate. And all of those things, especially in recent years, apply doubly to Jeremy.
I should have stayed with James and A.J. again that night, but it was late, and I just said, screw it. Sleep, get up, leave without saying goodbye, go to Austin, and don't look back. And that's what I did. I don't consider Jeremy or Jon friends anymore.
It's funny how time can pass, and you can think things are just fine, and it takes a strong slap across the face ("clean my kitchen") to realize that you have been ignored and abused all that time. I guess I kept going back to them because they had things I needed - computer knowledge and equipment, a place to stay in town, occasional fun friends. It is hard to believe that at thirty-four, I can still be surprised by things like this.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
V13: On dinosaurs and Texas Canyon
This is a special edition of my vlog for my nephew, Will Carter, whose birthday I missed while out on the road.
The week of work in Redding was nice, with beautiful weather and uneventful events. I have some photos of the Sundial Bridge in Redding that I will post to flickr soon. Here are three:
I am on my way back to Alabama this week. I still owe you a post on the last and most treacherous part of the drive to California. There is already a video up on my vlog at YouTube.
The week of work in Redding was nice, with beautiful weather and uneventful events. I have some photos of the Sundial Bridge in Redding that I will post to flickr soon. Here are three:
I am on my way back to Alabama this week. I still owe you a post on the last and most treacherous part of the drive to California. There is already a video up on my vlog at YouTube.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Cross Country Day 2: Saint Louis to Denver / V11: On wind
One of the disadvantages to sleeping in the car is that I tend to wake up pretty early - because I am cold, because my back aches, or because the sun makes me rise. In this case, it was a combination of all three that got me on the road to Denver around 6:30 in the morning on day 2. I had breakfast at a Holiday Inn Express west of town. I hear that people who eat there can do pretty phenomenal things. Since I was trying to drive 850 miles in one day, I thought it was an apt choice.
The day was going to be divided into three parts - I-70 from Saint Louis to Kansas City; the drive clear across Kansas, and the shorter drive from the Colorado state line to Denver. During the first part of the trip, there was not much of interest to see. I spent most of the time thinking about baseball, actually.
The 1985 World Series was the I-70 series: the Kansas City Royals against the Saint Louis Cardinals. I knew I was mesmerized by sports from an early age, but this is my youngest and most vivid childhood sports memory. See, there was a time when World Series games were broadcast on weeknights at a time that kids could stay up and watch them, when games were played much closer together to keep the interest and drama high. I sat in the living room of our home every game night of that seven-game series, with Dad's ottoman over my legs. On top of the ottoman, I had the lineups for each team written in pencil on notebook paper, and I would compute and update in real time the players World Series batting averages. This should have been a sign that I needed to go into sabermetrics when I was older, but the 1994 strike, and canceling the World Series that year on my 21st birthday, forever ended my love affair with baseball. I remember being thrilled that Kansas City (controversially) won game six, and how they blew out the Cards in game seven so badly that both Whitey Herzog and Joaquin Andujar got tossed from the contest. Sadly, now, I can't even watch baseball. Even the playoff fail to excite me like once when I was young.
Perhaps because of the daydreaming, I cannot remember much about the drive across Missouri. But when I got to Kansas City, I needed a rest. I decided to visit the international headquarters of the Order of DeMolay, a Masonic-sponsored youth organization that I participated in until I was 21. Someday I'll tell more stories, but for now I will just say that DeMolay helped me come out of my shell, and gave me the confidence to speak in front of people, to seek elected office, and to become a professional sports official. The tour was interesting, and it refreshed a lot of memories that had collected dust since my majority. I don't think it stimulated me to go back and serve as an adviser, or to become a Master Mason like I promised. But who knows?
Rested and refreshed, it was time to tackle Kansas. Ah, yes - 450 miles of unbridled mediocrity. But Kansas was also where a lot of the fun began. Once it was finished, I realized that I could have easily spent a couple of days stopping and enjoying all the kitsch along I-70. But with the long day ahead, I just did not have the time. At first - hell, for the first 200 miles - Kansas is not as flat as you would believe. In fact, there were large swaths of the drive that significantly resembled north Alabama, save for the fact that the dominant color was yellow-brown, not green.
Shortly after leaving Kansas City, I-70 becomes the Kansas Turnpike. At the entrance, you get a time-stamped ticket. You pay when you get off the turnpike. This ticket-taking made me think of a problem I faced in high school calculus. We had to prove, using calculus, that if a driver averaged 60 miles per hour for a three-hour drive, at some point during the drive he must have been traveling exactly 60 miles per hour. My teacher Mrs. Jones said that if the speed limit on a section of toll road was 65, and the time stamp when you entered and when you left computed to show that you averaged 66 miles per hour, then one could prove that at one point, you must have been speeding. The toll booth operator would collect your toll money, and then hand you a speeding ticket and tell you to have a nice day. I drove one mile per hour under the speed limit all the way to Topeka.
Before the next major bout of fun, some random things happened. A tumbleweed actually rolled onto the interstate in front of the car, and I struck it with the right front fender. From where I sat, it looked like it exploded into hundreds of shards. When I stopped an hour later at a rest area, the bulk of it was still lodged in the front of the car. I passed the Oz Museum and winery, and I really wanted to stop there for mom's friend Kay, but it was too far off the interstate, and I did not want to take that big of a detour. And looking at the map of Kansas, I understand now why meteorologists and experts tell you that if you are caught in a tornado while driving, you should drive in right angles away from the funnel. Kansas roads only intersect at right angles, so it is the only way you can flee. Moreover, it might not be as dangerous to fall asleep while driving in Kansas as elsewhere I have been. There's nothing to run into. Finally, when trucks and farm vehicles sprint down the dirt roads that gird the interstate, they resemble terrestrial comets, with long tails stretching behind them.
I was in a bit of a hurry the night before I left when I tried to recalibrate my iPod to work with my laptop. As a result, I allowed the computer to decide which songs fill on my iPod. When I started using it during the drive, I had to skip five to ten tracks each time to get to a track I wanted to hear. The automatic upload had included podcasts, audio books (but only selected chapters - no complete books), songs I didn't know I had, too many classical works, and Christmas music. I'll be fixing that when I stop for a few days in Golden.
On a political aside, I heard the following factoid on CNN: Hillary Clinton is more likely than Barack Obama to be supported by "lower income white rural working-class voters". Tell me if that stilted description does not also sound like the voters who are most likely to be racist.
About halfway across Kansas, I began to see the wind turbines I was expecting. Here, let me allow the video to tell the story.
[I had to climb a steep embankment and slither through a well-constructed barbed wire fence to bring this story to you.]
As I passed through the tiny towns that randomly dotted the interstate in western Kansas and eastern Colorado, I tried to imagine what life was like for teens on the High Plains. There can be an Abercrombie or Old Navy for a hundred miles. What sets the tone for fashion, for coolness out here? How do they react to seeing styles in movies and on MTV that they cannot replicate where they live? And what in the world do they do when they are not in school? For some reason, the only thing I can visualize is the John Deere chicken fight scene from "Footloose".
Once I survived Kansas - which, by the way, was not bleeding anywhere - the last part of the trip through Colorado was survivable. Even as early as I left, I had to drive straight into the setting sun for a couple of hours. The sky was so clear and bright that I could see several jets flying in several directions, condensation trails giving them away. It was as if some giant force used Q-tips to write in the sky.
About 75 miles from Denver I was finally able to spy the Rocky Mountains. They helped shield the sun, but they also made it too dark as I drove into the Denver metro area for me to look around. The last (and only) time I was in Denver previously was in the summer of 1992 for a DeMolay convention. We stayed on campus at the Colorado School for Mines, where my friend Ryan is a graduate student, and the rest of the time I stayed with a friend in Aurora. It was so dark, and I was so tired when I arrived, that I did not even notice the huge Coors factory on the left as I drove into Golden. I hoped I would recognize more from sixteen years ago, but I didn't.
Ryan lives in a bachelor apartment about three blocks from his campus building. It was really great to see him after the insanely long drive. We went to dinner at a new Mexican restaurant in town, and after he had one margarita, I had to drive us home. I am looking forward to the stay here, and when I get some time, I will take some photos and edit and upload them for you to see.
The day was going to be divided into three parts - I-70 from Saint Louis to Kansas City; the drive clear across Kansas, and the shorter drive from the Colorado state line to Denver. During the first part of the trip, there was not much of interest to see. I spent most of the time thinking about baseball, actually.
The 1985 World Series was the I-70 series: the Kansas City Royals against the Saint Louis Cardinals. I knew I was mesmerized by sports from an early age, but this is my youngest and most vivid childhood sports memory. See, there was a time when World Series games were broadcast on weeknights at a time that kids could stay up and watch them, when games were played much closer together to keep the interest and drama high. I sat in the living room of our home every game night of that seven-game series, with Dad's ottoman over my legs. On top of the ottoman, I had the lineups for each team written in pencil on notebook paper, and I would compute and update in real time the players World Series batting averages. This should have been a sign that I needed to go into sabermetrics when I was older, but the 1994 strike, and canceling the World Series that year on my 21st birthday, forever ended my love affair with baseball. I remember being thrilled that Kansas City (controversially) won game six, and how they blew out the Cards in game seven so badly that both Whitey Herzog and Joaquin Andujar got tossed from the contest. Sadly, now, I can't even watch baseball. Even the playoff fail to excite me like once when I was young.
Perhaps because of the daydreaming, I cannot remember much about the drive across Missouri. But when I got to Kansas City, I needed a rest. I decided to visit the international headquarters of the Order of DeMolay, a Masonic-sponsored youth organization that I participated in until I was 21. Someday I'll tell more stories, but for now I will just say that DeMolay helped me come out of my shell, and gave me the confidence to speak in front of people, to seek elected office, and to become a professional sports official. The tour was interesting, and it refreshed a lot of memories that had collected dust since my majority. I don't think it stimulated me to go back and serve as an adviser, or to become a Master Mason like I promised. But who knows?
Rested and refreshed, it was time to tackle Kansas. Ah, yes - 450 miles of unbridled mediocrity. But Kansas was also where a lot of the fun began. Once it was finished, I realized that I could have easily spent a couple of days stopping and enjoying all the kitsch along I-70. But with the long day ahead, I just did not have the time. At first - hell, for the first 200 miles - Kansas is not as flat as you would believe. In fact, there were large swaths of the drive that significantly resembled north Alabama, save for the fact that the dominant color was yellow-brown, not green.
Shortly after leaving Kansas City, I-70 becomes the Kansas Turnpike. At the entrance, you get a time-stamped ticket. You pay when you get off the turnpike. This ticket-taking made me think of a problem I faced in high school calculus. We had to prove, using calculus, that if a driver averaged 60 miles per hour for a three-hour drive, at some point during the drive he must have been traveling exactly 60 miles per hour. My teacher Mrs. Jones said that if the speed limit on a section of toll road was 65, and the time stamp when you entered and when you left computed to show that you averaged 66 miles per hour, then one could prove that at one point, you must have been speeding. The toll booth operator would collect your toll money, and then hand you a speeding ticket and tell you to have a nice day. I drove one mile per hour under the speed limit all the way to Topeka.
Before the next major bout of fun, some random things happened. A tumbleweed actually rolled onto the interstate in front of the car, and I struck it with the right front fender. From where I sat, it looked like it exploded into hundreds of shards. When I stopped an hour later at a rest area, the bulk of it was still lodged in the front of the car. I passed the Oz Museum and winery, and I really wanted to stop there for mom's friend Kay, but it was too far off the interstate, and I did not want to take that big of a detour. And looking at the map of Kansas, I understand now why meteorologists and experts tell you that if you are caught in a tornado while driving, you should drive in right angles away from the funnel. Kansas roads only intersect at right angles, so it is the only way you can flee. Moreover, it might not be as dangerous to fall asleep while driving in Kansas as elsewhere I have been. There's nothing to run into. Finally, when trucks and farm vehicles sprint down the dirt roads that gird the interstate, they resemble terrestrial comets, with long tails stretching behind them.
I was in a bit of a hurry the night before I left when I tried to recalibrate my iPod to work with my laptop. As a result, I allowed the computer to decide which songs fill on my iPod. When I started using it during the drive, I had to skip five to ten tracks each time to get to a track I wanted to hear. The automatic upload had included podcasts, audio books (but only selected chapters - no complete books), songs I didn't know I had, too many classical works, and Christmas music. I'll be fixing that when I stop for a few days in Golden.
On a political aside, I heard the following factoid on CNN: Hillary Clinton is more likely than Barack Obama to be supported by "lower income white rural working-class voters". Tell me if that stilted description does not also sound like the voters who are most likely to be racist.
About halfway across Kansas, I began to see the wind turbines I was expecting. Here, let me allow the video to tell the story.
[I had to climb a steep embankment and slither through a well-constructed barbed wire fence to bring this story to you.]
As I passed through the tiny towns that randomly dotted the interstate in western Kansas and eastern Colorado, I tried to imagine what life was like for teens on the High Plains. There can be an Abercrombie or Old Navy for a hundred miles. What sets the tone for fashion, for coolness out here? How do they react to seeing styles in movies and on MTV that they cannot replicate where they live? And what in the world do they do when they are not in school? For some reason, the only thing I can visualize is the John Deere chicken fight scene from "Footloose".
Once I survived Kansas - which, by the way, was not bleeding anywhere - the last part of the trip through Colorado was survivable. Even as early as I left, I had to drive straight into the setting sun for a couple of hours. The sky was so clear and bright that I could see several jets flying in several directions, condensation trails giving them away. It was as if some giant force used Q-tips to write in the sky.
About 75 miles from Denver I was finally able to spy the Rocky Mountains. They helped shield the sun, but they also made it too dark as I drove into the Denver metro area for me to look around. The last (and only) time I was in Denver previously was in the summer of 1992 for a DeMolay convention. We stayed on campus at the Colorado School for Mines, where my friend Ryan is a graduate student, and the rest of the time I stayed with a friend in Aurora. It was so dark, and I was so tired when I arrived, that I did not even notice the huge Coors factory on the left as I drove into Golden. I hoped I would recognize more from sixteen years ago, but I didn't.
Ryan lives in a bachelor apartment about three blocks from his campus building. It was really great to see him after the insanely long drive. We went to dinner at a new Mexican restaurant in town, and after he had one margarita, I had to drive us home. I am looking forward to the stay here, and when I get some time, I will take some photos and edit and upload them for you to see.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Cross Country Day 1: Home to Saint Louis / V9: On Spitzer and gas / V10: On Superman
So today I embarked on my insanely ambitious cross-country drive from Huntsville, Alabama to Redding, California, for a week-long professional tennis tournament that I am umpiring. At least at the start of the trip, the plan was to drive from home to Saint Louis for the night, then to Golden, Colorado to visit my friend Ryan for three days, and then on to Salt Lake City and finally Redding on Saturday night. (The tournament begins on Sunday.) We will see if the weather and my plans hold.
I have driven most of this route before a number of times - especially in Tennessee - so there wasn't that much surprising to see. I got bored in Kentucky, so I put some random thoughts down on film.
It wasn't until I arrived in southern Illinois that things got interesting. And, unfortunately, it was the only interesting thing until I reached Saint Louis after dark. Seeing the Arch, lit only by ambient light from the city, is an impressive sight at night.
One thing you should understand about me is that I enjoy kitsch and Americana. (Some might say to this, "what's the difference?") I stop for quilting museums and the largest ball of twine and the potato chip that looks like the Virgin Mary. I find that local cultural icons such as these help me get a better understanding of the values and norms of different parts of America. And in my travels, I have gotten pretty good at distinguishing the genuine from the tourist trap.
So we return to the story in southern Illinois - Massac County, to be exact. There is a rest area just off the interstate interchange as soon as you cross from Kentucky into Illinois. I remember stopping at it once before, when I drove to the Chicago suburbs in 2003 for the U.S. Open golf tournament with my brother-in-law. When you exit the rest area and get back on the local highway that takes you to the interstate, there is a blue sign with Superman's shield on it, reading "Giant Superman Statue". I am intrigued. So, instead of getting back on the interstate, I follow the signs.
One mile passes, and then another and another. Periodically, there is another blue sign that says "Giant Superman Statue - straight ahead". I have faith and persist. Finally, I enter the nearest city. It is fairly flat out here, save for the grain elevators, so I figure that I won't have much trouble finding this giant statue. And right when I enter town and am welcomed by the Chamber of Commerce's sign, I see something that makes me groan and wonder if I ever should have exited the interstate in the first place. More on that in a minute.
Finally, the signs direct me to the town square, site of the county courthouse. This is what I find:
Here is a still photo:
There is a post script to this story, the thing I mentioned that I would come back to at the end. As soon as you enter Metropolis, Illinois, there is a Big John grocery store on the left hand side of the road. This is what I saw as soon as I came into town:
Now, here is my first thought - Superman got purchased by this grocery store and converted into a bag boy. I was thisclose to turning around and leaving Metropolis in a cloud of angry regret. But then I saw another sign ahead for the Superman statue, so I continued. When I stopped to take this photo, another car was also stopped taking a picture of Big John. I am sure I was not the only one fooled by this inconvenient placement of a grocer's statue.
I have driven most of this route before a number of times - especially in Tennessee - so there wasn't that much surprising to see. I got bored in Kentucky, so I put some random thoughts down on film.
It wasn't until I arrived in southern Illinois that things got interesting. And, unfortunately, it was the only interesting thing until I reached Saint Louis after dark. Seeing the Arch, lit only by ambient light from the city, is an impressive sight at night.
One thing you should understand about me is that I enjoy kitsch and Americana. (Some might say to this, "what's the difference?") I stop for quilting museums and the largest ball of twine and the potato chip that looks like the Virgin Mary. I find that local cultural icons such as these help me get a better understanding of the values and norms of different parts of America. And in my travels, I have gotten pretty good at distinguishing the genuine from the tourist trap.
So we return to the story in southern Illinois - Massac County, to be exact. There is a rest area just off the interstate interchange as soon as you cross from Kentucky into Illinois. I remember stopping at it once before, when I drove to the Chicago suburbs in 2003 for the U.S. Open golf tournament with my brother-in-law. When you exit the rest area and get back on the local highway that takes you to the interstate, there is a blue sign with Superman's shield on it, reading "Giant Superman Statue". I am intrigued. So, instead of getting back on the interstate, I follow the signs.
One mile passes, and then another and another. Periodically, there is another blue sign that says "Giant Superman Statue - straight ahead". I have faith and persist. Finally, I enter the nearest city. It is fairly flat out here, save for the grain elevators, so I figure that I won't have much trouble finding this giant statue. And right when I enter town and am welcomed by the Chamber of Commerce's sign, I see something that makes me groan and wonder if I ever should have exited the interstate in the first place. More on that in a minute.
Finally, the signs direct me to the town square, site of the county courthouse. This is what I find:
Here is a still photo:
There is a post script to this story, the thing I mentioned that I would come back to at the end. As soon as you enter Metropolis, Illinois, there is a Big John grocery store on the left hand side of the road. This is what I saw as soon as I came into town:
Now, here is my first thought - Superman got purchased by this grocery store and converted into a bag boy. I was thisclose to turning around and leaving Metropolis in a cloud of angry regret. But then I saw another sign ahead for the Superman statue, so I continued. When I stopped to take this photo, another car was also stopped taking a picture of Big John. I am sure I was not the only one fooled by this inconvenient placement of a grocer's statue.
Saturday, March 08, 2008
V8: On a snowy future
It snowed in Atlanta on my visit there. I am about to start on my 5,000-mile trek to northern California and back. This is just a short update on what is up, and a quick view of the snow.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
V7: On Lake Erie
I am back from Toronto, and there is much to tell and write. For now, be satisfied with this stop along the frozen shores of Lake Erie on the trip to Toronto. I apologize for the quality and I have learned from my error.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
Pizza Hut Italian Bistro
In the last few weeks, I have seen television ads for this new Italian Bistro by Pizza Hut -- a sit-down Italian restaurant with new items, plus traditional Pizza Hut pizzas. I drove past one on my way to my hotel in McAllen, Texas, last night, so I decided to give it a try.
What a mistake.
Everything there tasted like Pizza Hut pizza. The Caesar salad, the bread, the dipping sauce, even the sausage and peppers all tasted of the same seasonings. I was hoping for a diverse menu, and they offered several more selections than I expected. However, the apparently did not add any new ingredients to the kitchen.
Also, the amount of sausage in the sausage and peppers was embarrassingly small. I pointed this out to the manager, and let him know that I think most patrons would be disappointed when seeing how little sausage there was.
All in all, it was an extremely disappointing experience. Don't waste your time.
What a mistake.
Everything there tasted like Pizza Hut pizza. The Caesar salad, the bread, the dipping sauce, even the sausage and peppers all tasted of the same seasonings. I was hoping for a diverse menu, and they offered several more selections than I expected. However, the apparently did not add any new ingredients to the kitchen.
Also, the amount of sausage in the sausage and peppers was embarrassingly small. I pointed this out to the manager, and let him know that I think most patrons would be disappointed when seeing how little sausage there was.
All in all, it was an extremely disappointing experience. Don't waste your time.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)