Perils of Caffeine in the Evening

A little behind the curve here. After fulfilling my social/business obligations in Houston, I drove my rental car to the airport. To be precise, the George HW Bush (ptui!!!) Airport. I was reminded that this was Texas when I refilled the tank at a Shell station, then had to drive over 10 miles between the airport entrance and the “Rental Car Return”. Signs kept appearing that said “Rental Car Return”, directing me to exit the 3-lane approach drive from the lane opposite to the one I was in, and then continuing for so long without additional instruction that I was ready to give up hope, then directing me to dive across three lanes and exit in another direction, etc. I was sure that when I finally arived somewhere that I could actually relinquish the vehicle, the tank would be half-empty and I would be confronted with the accusing glares of Thrifty employees who would not believe that I had spent $15 refilling their little Dodge Neon just 1/2 hour ago.

I had booked a late flight (8:45) because I thought we would be doing a plant tour after our elegant lunch, but it turned out that the day’s festivities were concluded after lunch, so I was WAY early for my scheduled flight. I had been upgraded to first class on my scheduled flight, but I saw that there was an earlier flight at 5:30, so I waitlisted for it at the advice of a gate agent, who was convinced that the hurricane activity presaging Charlie would cause multiple delays and cancellations.

At the gate for the 5:30 flight, they announced that the flight was oversold and were asking for volunteers. For me, this translated into exchanging my first class seat for a middle seat in coach, if available. I hung around until they were almost finished boarding and, seeing no dearth of folks showing up, decided to keep my seat on the later flight.

So, instead of returning to Seattle and a houseful of my wife’s relatives 3 hours ahead of schedule, my elbows skinned from competing for armrest space, I returned to the Continental President’s Club, reconnected to their free broadband internet signal, poured a glass of free Chardonnay, and whiled away the time until my next flight composing enjoyments for you, Dear Reader, which I was able to upload just prior to packing up and running for my gate.

I boarded in due time, and found that my seat was occupied. A couple had been assigned seats in first class, but not together, and wondered if I would give up my customary aisle seat in trade for a window in a different row. No problem, I moved on to the exchanged seat and saw that I had to negotiate past a largish man with a leg brace in the aisle seat.

Once ensconced in my seat, I overheard my largish seatmate speaking hurriedly to someone he called “Brother Omar”, and noticed that he had a copy of the Koran open in his lap. He was a black man, not Arabic, and sounded as urbane as (and with an accent similar to) Bryant Gumbel. Still, the combination of the open Koran, the emphatic phone conversation and the brace, even at this remove from 9/11, set my teeth on edge a bit. I mean, I flew the Friday after 9/11, and have flown regularly since, so I long ago rationalized the minimal threat involved. I’m convinced that there will be another attack, but it won’t be a copycat crime. Still, I’ve read of instances where TSA, as anal as they are with tennis shoes and belt buckles and wine corkscrews, gives passes to folks with leg braces and other prosthetics because they don’t have specific guidelines for them.

I opened my current book (All The King’s Men by Robert Penn Warren) and read with my eyes, but kept my ears peeled for my seatmate’s cellphone conversation. Eventually he rang off the phone. After a bit he turned to me and asked me what I was reading. Bonus points in his column. I explained that it was a work of fiction very loosely based on the career of Louisiana governer Huey Long, that the language was sumptuous and, although it used the “N” word (for that is why I thought he asked - that he had espied it in the text). it had to be taken in the context of the time, etc,. Then he took a call from someone he was planning to meet up with when he landed, and the general humanity of what I discerned of him disarmed me about any Mad Muslim scenarios.

As the flight progressed, I considered for a bit, as you might at a church picnic, about the appropriateness of my ordering alcohol in the presence of a seatmate who obviously eschewed it. This quibble was exceedingly fleeting, however, and I encouraged the flow of Chardonnay refills that one becomes accustomed to in first class. My glass of infidel elixir cohabited the armrest for most of the flight with his copy of the Koran in a church-state armistice in our demilitarized airspace.

Later, as I opened my laptop (he already had his opened), he asked me a techinical question about how I had Windows XP configured, and I pondered how someone who was so obviously addicted to technological gadgets could so unreservedly espouse a faith that considered modernity in even its low-tech manifestations the enemy.

We landed safely, of course. The next terrorist orgy will not involve corpulent zealots with prostheses, seated next to more nimble seatmates bent on stopping them.

On Monday and Tuesday, I went to Houston to meet with the management of one of my clients’ major suppliers.  The supplier is Japanese-owned, publicly-traded, and the CEO and upper management are native Japanese.  So, I surfed a little bit to bone up on Japanese business etiquette.  For one thing, I had to bring a suit, the first time I believe I’ve worn one in 3 or 4 years, and of all places, it had to be Houston.  In August.

The sites I saw were equivocal on the issue of bowing.  I decided to take my cue from our hosts, and we got by with some head-bobbing and hearty handshakes.  And lots of politeness, enough, after a while to get even Mother Theresa’s gag reflex going. 

We had prepared a Powerpoint presentation, which I had on my laptop.  They had a projector for me to use, and the gathering waited, politely, while I sought to adjust my display to feed the projector.  And waited some more.  I had, the week before, upgraded my OS from Windows 2000 to XP in order to try to alleviate some of the problems that I whined about last week.  When I opened my display driver dialog, which used to allow me to select among external monitors, televisions and projectors, those options were nowhere to be found.  While my client CEO’s polite veneer heaved to and became markedly restive, the supplier CEO’s lieutenants’ politeness increased to the level of trying to help me.  Helpful suggestions, “are we there yet” inquiries and sympathetic murmurrings are equally the bane of those of us who wrestle with technology for a living, and I alternately cringed and seethed.

After what seemed, and indeed probably was, an eternity in the temporal argot of Chief Executive Officers, I finally did something which caused my laptop display to flow beneficently to the screen on the wall. My client narrated as I clicked through the slides.  About halfway through, I noticed that the lieutenants were sitting erectly and assiduously taking notes as my client spoke, clinging to every word.  At the time I thought this was more over-the-top flattery, but in the discussion that followed, they seemed to refer to the notes as they made inquiries.  Still, I imagined stacks of these yellow pads in a dust-riddled room labeled “Customer Relations Recycling Center”.

Afterward, we took a short limo ride to an elegant lunch.  Back at their office, we exchanged gifts, which is also a Japanese business tradition.  We had heard that their CEO was a bird enthusiast, so we presented him with a crystal bald eagle, which he seemed to relish.  We received gold Greek coins commemorating the coming Olympic games.  More head bobbing, handshakes, picture-taking, holding doors and after-you-my-dear-Alphonses as we dosey-doed our way down to our waiting limo, and we were on our way to the airport.

Considring that my previous business experiences in Texas, involved cowboy hats, steak houses with scantily-clad trapeze artists flying overhead, strip bars and line dancing lessons, this experience was refreshing. and I came away with a genuine liking for these guys.

I’ve escaped a houseful of my wife’s relatives, but I have to go to Adak, Alaska in order to do it.  I’m writing from the Anchorage airport, sipping my last espresso until Sunday, which is the next plane out of Adak.

Another thing that doesn’t work - my “r” key.  In case you’re wondering how I could even type “”r”", I copied an “r” to my Windows clipboard, and I hit ‘Ctl-V’ every time I need an “r”.  It’s a labor of love, I tell ya!  I’ll see if rebooting will cure it.

More from the island, if the phones (11 lines total to the whole island) work.

Another thing I fixed last weekend, something that wasn’t on my list: I resurrected one of my old bikes from the bike-and-parts mausoleum in my garage for my son to ride.

As I might have mentioned before, my wife and I were bicycle zealots in the 70s - we commuted to work, to the grocery store, rode bikes as our primary recreational activity.  At one time, if you were a bicyclist in Seattle and wore a helmet, you were probably among our closest friends.  I worked for a couple of years as bike mechanic, and had half-baked designs on having my own bike shop after we moved to Seattle.  We accumulated a stable of bicycles for various purposes - commuting, performance touring, racing (my wife), and in 1980 had a Rodriguez tandem custom-built for us

Then in 1981, our son came along, ending (by choice) my wife’s racing career.  As soon as we were able, however, we were back out  on the bikes, first with baby seats, then with a kid-back arrangement on the tandem.  Turned out, however, that the boy really disliked biking, either as a passenger (baby seat) or as a participant as a stoker on the tandem.  I think it was the sense of confinement of a soul that really likes to be unencumbered.  Slowly we disengaged ourselves from the activity, returning fitfully when an old friend would shame us into a ride.

Imagine my surprise, then, when he started riding to his classes at the university this summer, not only because it was convenient, but because he wanted to emphasize it as a transportation option, and even to ride for pleasure.  It immediately became apparent that his bike, a sorta-mountain bike with big, knobby tires that we bought him when he was in middle school - was not exactly the epitome of efficient commuting or touring, although it still fits him and works fine.  I considered taking him to a bike shop and buying a new, state-of-the-art road bike, but decided to wait a bit and see if this was something with legs (ho-ho) or a summer fad.

Meanwhile, he had been scoping out our dormant collection of iron, and came in one day asking about my old Fuji that was hanging in the garage.  My wife and I had discussed, briefly, letting him use one of our old bikes.  My wife has a Peugeot PX-10 that she bought in 1973, and a Guerciotti that she bought to race with.  I have the Fuji, a Swiss Super Mondia and an Erickson custom bike.

I mean, we’re Egypt and Greece.  Stick a spade in us to do something useful, and you’ll likely strike something of historical value that we have compunctions to preserve:

• The PX-10, purchased in Ohio before we moved to Seattle, was the bike Mrs. Perils of Caffeine rode to her (our) wedding, on our honeymoon (bike ride, of course) on the Olympic Peninsula, on our mega-tour from Astoria to San Francisco, etc.
  
• The Guerciotti, of course, she used to win the 1980 women’s state road championship
  
• My Fuji, also purchased in Ohio, was the bike that Yr  Ob Corres rode to HIS (our) wedding, rode his first century (100-mile) ride on, and rode on our honeymoon tour.  It’s outfitted with Stronglite cranks, Campagnolo Record steel pedals and Phil Wood high-flange hubs on wheels I built myself.
  
• My Mondia, lovingly constructed from a salvaged frame and scavenged (but outstanding for their time) parts, I rode on the San Francisco tour, and two or three TOSRV rides.
  
• My Erickson was custom-built for a friend of mine who seems to order a new bike every year or so.  It’s our most “modern” (1985) bike.  Paradoxically, it’s both my best bike and my least sentimentally-charged, so he’s not gettin’ that one.
  
• The tandem.  When we ordered it, we were on the high side of recreational riding.  By the time it was delivered, Mrs. Perils had joined a racing team and had been training for 4 months, riding 300 miles a week, and our riding styles were, to put it mildly, diverging.  Since the bike was designed to fit only me in the front (with the gears, steering and brakes) and her in the back (with nothing to do except grip the handlebars, pedal like hell and trust me uncritically), that “divergence” in riding style, which really was just code for her being an ass-kicker and me being a duffer, led to some not-inconsequential strife as we explored the exquisite togetherness of tandem-riding.  We had a coming-out party for the bike, and friends (still married at that point) who had been riding a tandem for a couple years gave us each individual gifts: to me, a hacksaw so I could cut her loose when I was driven to, and to her a velcro thumb-band with a thumbtack attached so she could, with a mere flick of the wrist (the rear handlebars of the tandem are un-hygeinically close to the posterior of the “captain”) exact vengeance for any real or imagined transgression.  Historical significance of the tandem: I rode the Bainbridge Island Chilly Hilly Ride on it with Rebecca Twigg, the 1980 Olympic silver medalist, as my stoker.  (She was my wife’s sometime-training partner while she was racing.)  Bankable bicycling moment for me, career-imperiling embarrassment for her, I’m sure.

So, to our shame, there was some reluctance to simply award the kid one of these bikes.  I finally decided I’d like to see the Fuji used.  I took it off its hook in the garage ceiling, where it had been hanging for the better part of 20 years, clamped it into my bikestand, and started tuning it up, finding long-lost tools along the way.  I felt like one of Graham Greene’s whiskey priests who had returned to his congregation and was administering communion again.  And the transsubstantiation of the bike proceeded in a workmanlike fashion.  When I was finished, he and I took a test ride down the Burke-Gilman trail, probably our first bike ride together in 12 years.  I relished every mile of it, even if I did have to chase him pretty hard up the hill at the end.

Been a while.  Summer and the lure of the outdoors is part of it.  I’ve also been spending some time trying to work through my list of broken and unserviceable possessions.  First, I mail-ordered a new mp3 player to replace my dead Archos Jukebox.  I ended up with a Creative Nomad Zen Xtra 40 gigabyte.  The price point on the unit seemed to be the sweet spot of the category, $240 from ecost.com.  I had been eyeballing the HP iRiver, but it cost $160 more, and I ultimately decided the FM radio and ability to record with a microphone wasn’t worth the extra money.

Another thing that gave me pause about the Nomad was the fact that you can only move data on and off it using the Creative software.  Windows won’t recognize it as a drive.  This is a disadvantage only if you want to plug it into someone else’s computer and copy files.  However, with the money I saved I bought a 500 mb usb memory stick which Windows DOES recognize as a drive, so if I want data from any other computer, I can copy it to the memory stick and then, if it’s stuff I want on the Nomad, I’ll use my own pc and the Creative software to move it there.

The Apple iPod was completely off my radar, despite being the leader of the technology.  They want nearly a $200 premium over similar-sized players from other manufacturers (and are apparently getting it), but the only advantages I see are 1) they’re about 1oz lighter and 2) they play Apple’s propretary AAC music format, which they use to distribute music from their iTunes online music store.  In order to use music from iTunes on another player, you have to burn a WAV format cd, then rip the cd to mp3 format.  I’ve done this with a number of purchases from iTunes, but I read recently that the music from iTunes (and the other RIAA sanctioned online music stores) is recorded at no better than 128 kbs.  I’ve experimented with various sampling rates when ripping regular cds, and even with my 54-year old ears, I can hear the difference between 128 and 192, even on uncomplicated tunes.  (I can’t, however, detect any difference between 192 constant-rate and VBR)  Though I would cheerfully pay for downloaded music, this (the 128 kbs limitation) angers me a little, and tempts me to turn to Kazaa or some other illegal system as a punishment to the RIAA.  They STILL can’t get it right, despite several years of market research they didn’t have to pay for.

Wonder if Ike would be down with having his name emblazoned on a Japanese car whose purpose was to use as little gasoline as possible.  Maybe he’d see the underlying patriotism in it.

There are moments when we stop in the midst of the hurly-burly of our lives and reflect on the current condition of our humanity.  On this particular occasion, I am sickened by the number of things I own, things over whose purchase I agonized, and then paid dearly for, things that now just don’t fucking work:

• Windows installed when we remodeled in 1981.  I wanted wood instead of aluminum, I wanted double-hung instead of single-hung so I could open the upper sash and allow circulation near the ceiling, where hot air accumulates.  Then, on one of the handful of days in Seattle when we need all the air circulation we can get, I go to open a window in the kitchen and my wife yells, “Don’t open those windows.  If you do, we’ll never be able to close them.”  In another room, a balky sash, when popped out, disclosed a broken spring mechanism that may not be replaceable.
  
• My Archos mp3 player.  Apparently dead for good after numerous attacks with a well-intentioned soldering iron have been repelled.  I was able to save all the music onto my desktop’s hard drive, but it was sad to go through my work week out of town, and the attendant plane trips, without my tunes.  I’m reluctantly shopping now, considering either the HP iRiver or the Creative Nomad Zen Xtra.  Any suggestions would be welcomed.
  
• My Dell laptop.  Now 6 months beyond warranty, I still have the maddening “wandering cursor” syndrome, which I had them fix twice while it was under warranty, as well as a dead built-in modem that I replaced with a modular card, and now a sound card that produces a maddening, rhythmic stutter that makes music playback and movie-watching unbearable.
  
• My Kyocera cell phone.  The display only works when I squeeze the phone a certain way and press one of the buttons, so now when it rings, I can’t tell who’s calling without answering the damn thing, which I often regret, and I can’t easily look up a number and dial it without furiously squeezing the phone like a teenage…never mind.
  
• Only one of the six ceiling lights in my office works.
  
• The garage door is off its hinges and won’t open without a wrestling match
  
• The house needs a coat of stain
  
• The deck needs a coat of stain
  
• The retaining wall in front is bulging further and further towards the street, and will surely maim some child or old person when it collapses sometime in the next year or two.

The accumulated weight of curing these various ills daunts and paralyzes.  I’ll get to it eventually.  But, as long as my kayak still floats, it most likely won’t be this weekend.

I have this little game I’ve been playing for a couple decades.  It’s something like jaywalking, something like Frogger.  It has its roots in the frustrations of being a pedestrian in a city whose traffic has worsened each year I’ve lived here, causing lights at intersections to cycle longer and longer, and be increasingly biased in favor of moving cars and against even the briskly-moving pedestrian.

For instance, why do “Walk” lights at intersections only come on when you push a button?  The law-abiding citizen who arrives at an intersection too late to trigger the “walk” light for traffic going his direction would wait for a full cycle of the light, which may take 10 minutes at some of the more god-forsaken confluences in our city.  Seems to me that “Walk” should be the default state when a light is green.  And why should developers be allowed to close sidewalks for construction projects, forcing pedestrians to scurry from one side of the street to the other, sometimes 2 or 3 times in the course of a downtown journey, and have to wait for 2 extra sets of traffic lights at each unnecessary crossing?

Faced with these challenges, I find myself looking for ways to cross streets mid-block instead of at intersections and the lights that confound them.  I always look both ways, just like Mom told me, guage the speed of traffic in each direction, predict when a gap will occur, and then run like hell to the other side.  Think Eddie Murphy in Bowfinger .  In my 30s, I could easily do this over 4 or even 6 lanes, but I realize that, at 54, my fast-twitch might be more of a memory than a reality.  Still, on a nice warm day, after a good night’s sleep, I might give in to the urge to play the game, either through perceived necessity or for sheer sport.

Yesterday was just such a day, and I decided, approaching the intersection of Wallingford and N. 45th and its maze-like labyrinth of crosswalks, to just zip across Wallingford before I got there.  I picked my gap and accelerated into it.  As I crossed into the far lane, I glanced to see just how well I had done and saw that the approaching traffic was led by a fully-decked-out Seattle Police car. 

Mindful that a jaywalking ticket in Seattle costs something like $68 plus the embarrassment of the streetside interview, I avoided making eye contact and feigned obliviousness to the identity of my victim.  I slowed to a trot upon reaching the sidewalk, hoping to convey that I was truly in a hurry for something, and not merely engaging in civil disobedience for sport.  I had intended to cross 45th to QFC to use the ATM, but that would have entailed waiting a the intersection while the cop car pulled alongside.  Instead, I feigned a headlong desire to enter the Wallingford Center, and bounded up the steps and into its innocent confines.  I was pretty sure I hadn’t been pursued, but to make sure, I headed to Second Story Books, where I committed further fraud by perusing its shelves with no hope of comprehension beyond the titles - I hadn’t brought my reading glasses.

After 10 minutes or so of this subterfuge, it seemed that my arrest was not so imminent, and I exited the Wallingford Center and continued (legally) across to QFC and the overdue replenishment of my wallet.  Along with the crisp $20s, I felt $68 richer and, daggummit, I can still bring it when Seattle traffic needs to be humbled by human legs.