Death Metal in a small Bar at 9pm will damage hearing.
It’s true, I learned it Friday when we went to some small bar where so and so’s boyfriend’s band was playing. Nobody told me that the venue would be a 40 by 40 ft room, with 1/5 of it taken up by the band itself. Nor was I warned that the music was akin to that I imagine heralding the coming of the anti-Christ. MegaDeath would be proud.
I do, in retrospect, wish the volume control guy would have considered the small size of the room, the nature of the godforsaken melodies, and how close everyone was to the speakers. But, the volume guy has probably done this to his ears many times before, I can understand how he needs to turn it up to a volume which he can actually still hear. http://www.abelard.org/hear/hear.htm#question
Afterwards we went to somebody’s house to play Jenga. Somehow Jenga was so fun that it lasted until 3:30. Unfortunately for me, I was the only one who had to awake on Saturday morning before 12pm. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jenga
In fact I had to meet my negotiations partner at 7:30am to review our strategy for the 9am USD negotiations tournament. So I awoke at 6:30 and drove home in the rare San Diegan Rain.
http://www.sdcwa.org/manage/sources-rainfall.phtml
Less preparation is More: The Negotiations Tournament:
A year and a half ago my roommate asked me to fill in at the last minute as his Mock Trial teammate. (Mock trial is a fake trial based upon a given fact pattern where teams compete head to head in front of judges who rank the teams). I had taken evidence but had no other experience whatsoever. With only a day to prepare, it turned out ok, we came in first for the Defendant’s side out of 19 other teams. Encouraged, the next semester we changed our ingenious strategy and actually spent a few days preparing…which was a big mistake because then we ended up losing in the finals.
Similarly, last year my other roommate and I took a few hours to prepare for the annual USD negotiations tournament. With all that preparation, we took 6th out of 28 teams.
This year, my friend Hasmik was running the negotiations tournament. I didn’t sign up. However, two days before the tournament she emailed me, asking that I find a partner and fill in for a team that had pulled out. I had a bit of trouble finding a partner, because Ean, my roommate and former partner, was out of town. I finally did find a partner in Alex Outwater and at 7:30am on Saturday we agreed to meet and prepare for the tournament at 9am.
Go figure, we tied for 1st. Lesson: In spite of everything anyone who is successful has told you, preparation is overrated and possibly will make you do worse. http://www.englishclub.com/business-english/negotiations-preparation.htm
My up and coming Honor Code Violation
…is ironic. You see last year I was elected as Chief Justice of USD’s Honor Court, which basically makes me part of a team for the students’ voice for any law student’s unethical behavior. Included in ‘unethical’ is signing up to participate in any Mock Trial, Moot Court, Negotiation etc. event and then not meeting your commitment.
The winners of the USD negotiations tournament must go on to represent USD at the regional tournament in Malibu on November 10th. Of course, the Jessup Moot Court trial competition is on that same weekend. A week ago I eagerly signed up for Jessup because it seems like a great experience to practice brief writing and trial advocacy skills. Upon signing up, I signed an ominous form that warned me that failure to compete after signing up would result in my being referred to the Honor Court.
Thus, two days after the preparation period for Jessup began, I won the Negotiations tournament…and earned a scheduling conflict. Being Chief Justice of the Honor Court myself…this is truly fantastic ; unless of course they let me acquit myself.
Lobster Hunting: Check the weather first
Saturday night Ean, my roommate set up a group to go lobster hunting in the bay. While I am of the opinion that almost everything aquatic near the San Diego/ Southern California area is incredibly overfished, I think going out late at night snorkeling for lobsters sounds like a blast. I’m a diver so I have a good idea of how many cool sea creatures only come out at night. I had no intention of keeping any lobsters I found…just touring.
As it turns out, it probably only rains in San Diego 7 or 8 times a year. For two days or more after the rain, all of the water runs off of the land and into the ocean, bringing massive amounts of sediment (sewage?) with it. This leads to very poor visibility. It rained Friday night and Saturday morning but we decided to go out anyway. Visibility, normally 10-15 feet, was about 2 feet. If you’ve ever been out in the ocean at night, with only a flashlight…it can be pretty scary and claustrophobic. Add to it poor visibility and…whoa its downright freaky. Visibility was so poor that Ean actually hit his head on a rock and started bleeding...prompting the relevant conversation about what time of year Great White Sharks visit San Diegan waters.
That being said, it was a lot of fun to get out and I look forward to going out again when the visibility is better.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
An explanation of the blogs below
Below are some blogs and thoughts from the past. They are listed by date from Oldest to newest, ie: Spring 2006, Summer 2006, Spring 2007 etc. I downloaded them here because I simply didn't want all that blank space. If you have time, and I mean quite some time, have a good read with them.
Sam
Sam
More spring break
We all have our own eccentricities that we must feed. Problems may arise when you have your own and then happen to include another's. My law school classmate floated the idea of Spring Break spent in Thailand a couple of months ago. At first it was a far fetched plan, but when he found cheap plane tickets, it didn't seem so eccentric or far-fetched. Two tailored suits, 7 tailored and fitted formal shirts, 20 DVDs (he bought 200), twenty cotton linen shirts, a bedspread, a lamp, four Lacoste imitation shirts, three cheap brandname blackmarket purses, two similar wallets (Versace, Mulberry?, and some other unreasonably expensive name) a watch, and assorted gifts for the family, 9 massages, five nights at a four star hotel, a four island snorkeling tour of beautiful beaches and coral reefs (including those seen on the movies "the man with the Golden Gun" and "the beach"), three nights at Thai clubs, 10 total days with only 7 nights sleep, and 34 hours on a plane later, spring break edges into the realm of the eccentric and excessive. But man was it fun.
I met Chinese, Thai, Cambodians, Burmese, Balese, Australians, Vietnamese, Napalese, Swedish, Norwegians, Swiss, Germans, Russians and Indians but no Americans in Phuket; where we spent most of our time. That is the first thing you'll notice. No Americans. Americans haven't really discovered Thailand like everyone else. Everything is in English, everything is beautiful and super cheap ($3 full meals, $8 hotels--$23 four star hotels, three dollar shirts, $4 massages etc) and nothing is American. And Bangkok's skyscrapers look more groovy than their American counterparts. We stayed primarily at Kata beach on a beachfront hotel that served martinis at the pool ...and banana shakes.
On the trip over we had a day layover in Taiwan (formerly called the ilha Formosa or beautiful island by Portuguese explorers--a shout out para aquela outra ilha beleza no Brasil: Florianopolis). I went down to Taichung where some family friends have been serving an LDS mission for the past year and a half. For those of you that don't know me very well, my little bro is also currently serving there in Taiwan as well (read more about LDS missions here). I awoke at 5:30 and went to explore before my hosts woke up. It is an art how the Taiwanese stack people upon people in buildings, a living artiface of planned chaos lined with streets that are designed like ours here in the US but are lined with small businesses (Costco and WalMart have yet to cross the Pacific). I visited with them and they showed me around a bit. I saw a Confucian temple. As well as some Buddhist ones. Ate a Chinese breakfast at a street vendor and saw even more motor scooters than they have in Rome, which is to say a lot. I was going to buy some unfamiliar fruit, but as I perused I happened to see a street dog peeing upon a box full of oranges under one of the stand's tables. ummm.... I thought to myself that I'd pass on the street vendor fruit, thanks.
Thailand in general
You can lay on a beautiful soft beach, scorch your back your second day out while snorkeling, go to clubs, shop the cheap markets, ride an elephant, rent a scooter and circle the island...no real traffic rules, just survival. Or you can go out on cheap diving or snorkeling trips to neighboring islands. You can get a suit custom made from the fabric up for $80 (or if you are less savvy and your name is mine you can get one for $120).
You can hit on Russian girls who don't know enough English to recognize when you've said something entirely stupid, or Swiss ones who know English really well but have no idea that one in your party speaks fluent German so they look stupid when they talk about you in German.
You might want to visit the temples but not for very long because that get boring really quickly.
Thai massages 'yu wont hoppi ending?'
Thai massages are cheap, and there are massage parlors everywhere. Some parlors are more authentic to the Thai massage than others. While many persons may wax wise upon the massage's healing virtues and soulful replenishment, in practice, on the streets of Thailand, they are easily confused with other, more sensual encounters. You gotta be careful, because when you are a young white single tourist, the Thai girls might get the wrong idea...and what isn't usually for sale here is one of Thailand's most famous and plentiful exports: Sex. In the middle of your Thai massage, if she pours oil on you, you are no longer getting a Thai massage my friend, you are getting what we in law school call an offer; specifically ,an offer for performance. She'll usually say something unintelligible in broken English and then name a price, like 600 Baht. (abou $15). When you say no, they think you are bargaining so they say something like "Ok, yu nice-a looking und I give yu special price 400 baht. Then you say no thanks, just a message. To which she replies, Ok, for you cheapest price, 300. Now, here is the kicker; when you say no again, they get mad, like you rejected them and don't like them or something. But if you say yes you'll get a hoppi ending. So I tried to explain that I've got this girlfriend back home and we're gonna get married and have twelve kids or something; but it doesn't faze them; they just ask: "she here?" I say no, she's back in California; they just look at me like.."So? What's the big deal?" So make-believe girlfriends won't be a good enough excuse. You gotta be rude.
The only way to avoid it is to go to older ladies. Needless to say, my last masseuse was probably around 55 years old. I'm not a big fan of happy endings, thanks.
Prostitution in Thailand
Basically, every girl that lets you talk to her selling something. I overgeneralize a bit. But in tourist areas it is true. They are either selling t-shirts or sex. I don't say this condescendingly. That is just the way it is for tourists. They expect that many people are there to find girlfriends. And many girls support their families this way. We only found four Thai girls our age that didn't expect us to pay them for hanging out with us and having sex. Those girls were pretty cool though.I'm not gonna lie, but I'm not a big fan of prostitution at all. There are the obvious reasons so I won't go into them. Thailand is big in the sex-slave, child prostitution/pornography market. I'm not a fan. It's too bad that is what Thailand is known for, because otherwise it is a paradise.
I met Chinese, Thai, Cambodians, Burmese, Balese, Australians, Vietnamese, Napalese, Swedish, Norwegians, Swiss, Germans, Russians and Indians but no Americans in Phuket; where we spent most of our time. That is the first thing you'll notice. No Americans. Americans haven't really discovered Thailand like everyone else. Everything is in English, everything is beautiful and super cheap ($3 full meals, $8 hotels--$23 four star hotels, three dollar shirts, $4 massages etc) and nothing is American. And Bangkok's skyscrapers look more groovy than their American counterparts. We stayed primarily at Kata beach on a beachfront hotel that served martinis at the pool ...and banana shakes.
On the trip over we had a day layover in Taiwan (formerly called the ilha Formosa or beautiful island by Portuguese explorers--a shout out para aquela outra ilha beleza no Brasil: Florianopolis). I went down to Taichung where some family friends have been serving an LDS mission for the past year and a half. For those of you that don't know me very well, my little bro is also currently serving there in Taiwan as well (read more about LDS missions here). I awoke at 5:30 and went to explore before my hosts woke up. It is an art how the Taiwanese stack people upon people in buildings, a living artiface of planned chaos lined with streets that are designed like ours here in the US but are lined with small businesses (Costco and WalMart have yet to cross the Pacific). I visited with them and they showed me around a bit. I saw a Confucian temple. As well as some Buddhist ones. Ate a Chinese breakfast at a street vendor and saw even more motor scooters than they have in Rome, which is to say a lot. I was going to buy some unfamiliar fruit, but as I perused I happened to see a street dog peeing upon a box full of oranges under one of the stand's tables. ummm.... I thought to myself that I'd pass on the street vendor fruit, thanks.
Thailand in general
You can lay on a beautiful soft beach, scorch your back your second day out while snorkeling, go to clubs, shop the cheap markets, ride an elephant, rent a scooter and circle the island...no real traffic rules, just survival. Or you can go out on cheap diving or snorkeling trips to neighboring islands. You can get a suit custom made from the fabric up for $80 (or if you are less savvy and your name is mine you can get one for $120).
You can hit on Russian girls who don't know enough English to recognize when you've said something entirely stupid, or Swiss ones who know English really well but have no idea that one in your party speaks fluent German so they look stupid when they talk about you in German.
You might want to visit the temples but not for very long because that get boring really quickly.
Thai massages 'yu wont hoppi ending?'
Thai massages are cheap, and there are massage parlors everywhere. Some parlors are more authentic to the Thai massage than others. While many persons may wax wise upon the massage's healing virtues and soulful replenishment, in practice, on the streets of Thailand, they are easily confused with other, more sensual encounters. You gotta be careful, because when you are a young white single tourist, the Thai girls might get the wrong idea...and what isn't usually for sale here is one of Thailand's most famous and plentiful exports: Sex. In the middle of your Thai massage, if she pours oil on you, you are no longer getting a Thai massage my friend, you are getting what we in law school call an offer; specifically ,an offer for performance. She'll usually say something unintelligible in broken English and then name a price, like 600 Baht. (abou $15). When you say no, they think you are bargaining so they say something like "Ok, yu nice-a looking und I give yu special price 400 baht. Then you say no thanks, just a message. To which she replies, Ok, for you cheapest price, 300. Now, here is the kicker; when you say no again, they get mad, like you rejected them and don't like them or something. But if you say yes you'll get a hoppi ending. So I tried to explain that I've got this girlfriend back home and we're gonna get married and have twelve kids or something; but it doesn't faze them; they just ask: "she here?" I say no, she's back in California; they just look at me like.."So? What's the big deal?" So make-believe girlfriends won't be a good enough excuse. You gotta be rude.
The only way to avoid it is to go to older ladies. Needless to say, my last masseuse was probably around 55 years old. I'm not a big fan of happy endings, thanks.
Prostitution in Thailand
Basically, every girl that lets you talk to her selling something. I overgeneralize a bit. But in tourist areas it is true. They are either selling t-shirts or sex. I don't say this condescendingly. That is just the way it is for tourists. They expect that many people are there to find girlfriends. And many girls support their families this way. We only found four Thai girls our age that didn't expect us to pay them for hanging out with us and having sex. Those girls were pretty cool though.I'm not gonna lie, but I'm not a big fan of prostitution at all. There are the obvious reasons so I won't go into them. Thailand is big in the sex-slave, child prostitution/pornography market. I'm not a fan. It's too bad that is what Thailand is known for, because otherwise it is a paradise.
Same Holiday, Different Christmas
And So That was Christmas…
and although it approaches sacrilege to say,
the Christ celebration is incidental.
To me, it is about coming home, in family, but more so about coming home inside.
It is the beginning of the end of another year, a winding up of another ring upon my trunk, wrinkle on my forehead, hair upon my back, change inside my me.
I notch my current me upon the wall next to all the notches left years prior…where I chart my growth as I did my height when I was a kid ( such height which stopped abruptly and rather rudely my sophomore year of high school…at 5'8.6"-at 3200 ft.)
It's about coming home to the reflection of who I was and who I've become, what I dreamed then and what I dream now, and how close or far apart the two have become. I present myself to my parents, family and old time friends. Our changes over the past year often contrast with expectations.
I came home to my family and hometown, smallville USA-Logan. Where main street is still the main drag with façades, and small enough that all social circles intersect for good and bad. Logan is a place where a reputation amongst your neighbors is a reputation amongst your friends.
Our family's traditional gift is a 50lb box of Idaho potatoes. Every year my brothers and I make the rounds to deliver to the usual suspects and perhaps one or two additions to the traditional list. This year my older brother Peter couldn't come because he had to take his wife and four children to Salt Lake City to see the Temple Square lights and sights, and my younger brother Stuart (Bouk) couldn't go because he is on an LDS mission in Taiwan. Dad had nine cases of surgery yesterday and eight today. So I took Pete's truck and made the deliveries alone, at every stop comes a face known from childhood; Houses once brimming with children, and consequently cursed with messy yards, now lie repentantly empty and immaculate—their aged caretakers usually now tending an empty nest stocked with aging toys that eagerly solicit grandkids' visits. Around here, these grandkids are frequently the offspring my old high school buddies and girlfriends. And with each stop comes updates on lives, business and events paired with queries of what I've been up to since dropping off the potatoes last year. Everyone, it seems, is trying to gauge the winds of change.
Such updates bounce off of these roots of my upbringing, etching that annual subconscious notch against old ones.
Morris, married two summers ago, just past the dentistry boards at UCLA and is applying to the top orthodontics schools. Jordan, married two years ago, has two children and is midway through his second year of Medical School in the midwest. BJ married a Fin and is now living with her in Finland and seeking citizenship there. Nick is dating his old high school girl, Addrienne, again and they plan on getting married this summer. Katie is a nurse in Salt Lake. Natalie is expecting her first child and her husband is finishing law school this year. Jenny moved back from Boise and is raising her daughter in Logan. Jesse just finished an ugly divorce. Dan died of a previously unknown heart condition etc. etc etc.
After I update each house about 'what I've been up to comes the inevitable, nonmutable and dreaded "so why aren't you married?" or "Dating anyone?" to which comes my solemn reply..."I've got a boyfriend"--no, just kidding; but really I usually just murmer something about girls not having good taste these days and someone needing to remind/teach them that I'm very attractive.
Whenever in Logan, I eagerly beg attention from ten (soon to be eleven) nieces and nephews; unremorsefully bribing their affections by buying each one a toy. I don't wrap the toys, but give each one to the kid personally and well before or after Christmas, so as to help them better associate the bribe with me and not Santa. Maggie, Grace and Navy all got princess necklaces from 'Adorn Me' because I've learned that anything princess is a sure bet. Cole got some NBA basketball shorts, Zach an NBA sweater (I think I missed the mark, they aren't yet old enough to want clothes and would still prefer toys…but then again at what age does a guy ever prefer clothes over toys?) but Quin and Charlie got hotwheels diesel trucks with accompanying trailors… the young 'uns get nothing since they aren't yet old enough to understand the terms of the bribe.
The kids make me happy because I can easily make them happy. I crave such power J.
..:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />To sum it up, my personal feeling is that Christmas' greatest blessing is its perspective. Traditional rituals remind me of what made me happy then, makes me happy now, and might sustain happiness forward. It sets the ducks in line for the New Year renewal, as I seek to come to terms with life as given, one more day, one year at a time.
and although it approaches sacrilege to say,
the Christ celebration is incidental.
To me, it is about coming home, in family, but more so about coming home inside.
It is the beginning of the end of another year, a winding up of another ring upon my trunk, wrinkle on my forehead, hair upon my back, change inside my me.
I notch my current me upon the wall next to all the notches left years prior…where I chart my growth as I did my height when I was a kid ( such height which stopped abruptly and rather rudely my sophomore year of high school…at 5'8.6"-at 3200 ft.)
It's about coming home to the reflection of who I was and who I've become, what I dreamed then and what I dream now, and how close or far apart the two have become. I present myself to my parents, family and old time friends. Our changes over the past year often contrast with expectations.
I came home to my family and hometown, smallville USA-Logan. Where main street is still the main drag with façades, and small enough that all social circles intersect for good and bad. Logan is a place where a reputation amongst your neighbors is a reputation amongst your friends.
Our family's traditional gift is a 50lb box of Idaho potatoes. Every year my brothers and I make the rounds to deliver to the usual suspects and perhaps one or two additions to the traditional list. This year my older brother Peter couldn't come because he had to take his wife and four children to Salt Lake City to see the Temple Square lights and sights, and my younger brother Stuart (Bouk) couldn't go because he is on an LDS mission in Taiwan. Dad had nine cases of surgery yesterday and eight today. So I took Pete's truck and made the deliveries alone, at every stop comes a face known from childhood; Houses once brimming with children, and consequently cursed with messy yards, now lie repentantly empty and immaculate—their aged caretakers usually now tending an empty nest stocked with aging toys that eagerly solicit grandkids' visits. Around here, these grandkids are frequently the offspring my old high school buddies and girlfriends. And with each stop comes updates on lives, business and events paired with queries of what I've been up to since dropping off the potatoes last year. Everyone, it seems, is trying to gauge the winds of change.
Such updates bounce off of these roots of my upbringing, etching that annual subconscious notch against old ones.
Morris, married two summers ago, just past the dentistry boards at UCLA and is applying to the top orthodontics schools. Jordan, married two years ago, has two children and is midway through his second year of Medical School in the midwest. BJ married a Fin and is now living with her in Finland and seeking citizenship there. Nick is dating his old high school girl, Addrienne, again and they plan on getting married this summer. Katie is a nurse in Salt Lake. Natalie is expecting her first child and her husband is finishing law school this year. Jenny moved back from Boise and is raising her daughter in Logan. Jesse just finished an ugly divorce. Dan died of a previously unknown heart condition etc. etc etc.
After I update each house about 'what I've been up to comes the inevitable, nonmutable and dreaded "so why aren't you married?" or "Dating anyone?" to which comes my solemn reply..."I've got a boyfriend"--no, just kidding; but really I usually just murmer something about girls not having good taste these days and someone needing to remind/teach them that I'm very attractive.
Whenever in Logan, I eagerly beg attention from ten (soon to be eleven) nieces and nephews; unremorsefully bribing their affections by buying each one a toy. I don't wrap the toys, but give each one to the kid personally and well before or after Christmas, so as to help them better associate the bribe with me and not Santa. Maggie, Grace and Navy all got princess necklaces from 'Adorn Me' because I've learned that anything princess is a sure bet. Cole got some NBA basketball shorts, Zach an NBA sweater (I think I missed the mark, they aren't yet old enough to want clothes and would still prefer toys…but then again at what age does a guy ever prefer clothes over toys?) but Quin and Charlie got hotwheels diesel trucks with accompanying trailors… the young 'uns get nothing since they aren't yet old enough to understand the terms of the bribe.
The kids make me happy because I can easily make them happy. I crave such power J.
..:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />To sum it up, my personal feeling is that Christmas' greatest blessing is its perspective. Traditional rituals remind me of what made me happy then, makes me happy now, and might sustain happiness forward. It sets the ducks in line for the New Year renewal, as I seek to come to terms with life as given, one more day, one year at a time.
Why We Fight
"Why We Fight"
http://www.sonyclassics.com/whywefight/
I'm not sure if I'm conservative or liberal, and don't really stress about it. However, in my opinion, this movie most accurately depicts what I have read regarding US policy and history in the Middle East ('Plan of Attack', 'Corporate Warriors', 'From Beruit to Jerusalem', 'The Lexus and the Olive Tree', 'America in the Middle East' etc.).
While i don't agree with all of it, (and would add to it the story of Colin Powell circa 2000-2004), I think that it is by far the most fair and well done film I've seen regarding Iraq and US foreign policy.
It also makes me want to hug Dwight Eisenhower.
http://www.sonyclassics.com/fogofwar/
Also interesting is "The Fog of War", a 2004 Documentary basically following the career of Robert McNamara, US Secretary of Defense during from 1961-68, perhaps the most unstable time in modern US history.
McNamara is a controversial, and in some circles very unpopular, public official. But he is not dumb. In fact, after watching "The Fog of War" it becomes apparrent that generalizations simply do not apply to such a dynamic person, nor the times in which he served his country.
The documentary doesn't seek to change minds or provoke controversy, to the contrary, it simply seeks the facts as McNamara saw/sees them. I highly recommend it.
http://www.sonyclassics.com/whywefight/
I'm not sure if I'm conservative or liberal, and don't really stress about it. However, in my opinion, this movie most accurately depicts what I have read regarding US policy and history in the Middle East ('Plan of Attack', 'Corporate Warriors', 'From Beruit to Jerusalem', 'The Lexus and the Olive Tree', 'America in the Middle East' etc.).
While i don't agree with all of it, (and would add to it the story of Colin Powell circa 2000-2004), I think that it is by far the most fair and well done film I've seen regarding Iraq and US foreign policy.
It also makes me want to hug Dwight Eisenhower.
http://www.sonyclassics.com/fogofwar/
Also interesting is "The Fog of War", a 2004 Documentary basically following the career of Robert McNamara, US Secretary of Defense during from 1961-68, perhaps the most unstable time in modern US history.
McNamara is a controversial, and in some circles very unpopular, public official. But he is not dumb. In fact, after watching "The Fog of War" it becomes apparrent that generalizations simply do not apply to such a dynamic person, nor the times in which he served his country.
The documentary doesn't seek to change minds or provoke controversy, to the contrary, it simply seeks the facts as McNamara saw/sees them. I highly recommend it.
Golfing with Jim Horstman (March 2007)
http://www.orthohealth.com/ocr/test.php
I played golf with Jim one month ago this week. He came down with my dad and another friend, Alan, for a golf trip. The goal was to play four courses in five days. It rained sideways as I drove them home that evening. Jim of course, had outplayed us all, and I told him I didn't like his golf game: hitting the ball straight and true everytime, always smartly managing the course, because it sapped all of the drama and emotion that comes with hitting into trees, water and sometimes even houses. It's boring just piling on par after par...
The rain had us heading back to the hotel early and Jim seemed tired. He didn't complain, my Dad and Alan could just tell.
"I wish you could have known Jim just two years ago Sam," whispered my dad earlier that day as we walked down the wet slope from the 8th green; "He was the most animated and crazy guy...nobody knew how to have a good time like Jim. To see him like this..." Dad didn't finish, he looked out the front of the cart to where Jim methodically put away his putter,then plodded his way around the side of the cart to sit down. Jim must have said something to Alan as he sat down in the cart next to him, because Alan nodded his head, his mouth forming something short of a smile.
Than morning when the rain began we ate an early lunch at the clubhouse and talked about Jim's planned trips to Africa other places. Tired of talking about himself, Jim asked me about law school. I told him a bit about a paper I'm writing on physician automy and HMO/MCO immunity from lawsuits. This must have hit a spot, for the next few minutes the table lit up with peppering crossfires of intellectual energy. Dad, Alan and Jim passionately deconstructed the situation just like they were uraveling the factors of a confusing medical diagnosis. After a short time, the surge subsided, and Alan looked over at Jim and then made eye contact with Dad. I was sent to fetch the car.
Jim sat in the front seat next to me as I navigated the 5 o'clock grind on the eastbound 8 toward El Cajon. Spontaneously, Jim began talking to me about his daughter.
"She's a law student in Kansas and was just offerred her dream job in Denver. It is perfect since she wants to be close to home. But her boyfriend is a musician and wants her to follow him up to Minneapolis. It will be a big sacrifice to make. There aren't any job offers in Minneapolis." He seemed to phrase it as a question at me. Wanting to say something meaningful, I summed up all my life wisdom and managed a disappointing 'yeah'.
I asked Jim how he learned to play such solid golf and if he played other sports. "I get out when I had the chance." he responded, but then added, "But you know, my son, HE'S an ATHLETE--amazing basketball player, a natural. He didn't play in college but he is one of the most gifted athletes I've seen. My wife and i agree that he is the smartest in the family. He's 23 and taking his time in college. His older sister, she just works hard and earns it. He just hasn't learned to apply himself for the next level; but when he does..." Jim looked over at me and forced a smile, there was an earnestness in the expression. "He just isn't in a hurry right now."
Once again I referenced my vast catalog of knowledge and came up with a very helpful nod.
When we reached the hotel I grabbed the bags and took them into the house. Dad and Alan stayed outside under the porch with Jim. I grabbed the camera and offered to take a picture of the three of them, close companions since medical school--the three amigos. All three now successful orthopedic surgeons in thier mid fifties, with empty nests and a chance to finally reclaim thier money for spoiling themselves and thier spouses. I took a good picture. If you hardly met Jim before, like me, you wouldn't be able to tell that the vorocious cancer inside him had, just months earlier, decisively turned the tide in the battle for his body, erasing any doubt of Jim's fate. His own cells waged a war against the host and the prognosis was one more year before the malignant mass of rebellious cells would finally strangle the remaining loyal cells' ability to carry out thier vital functions.
I hurriedly left them there at the hotel because I had class at 5:30 and told Jim and Alan that I'd hope to see them this summer at the ranch if I got the job in Boise.
Two days ago Dad called from Wyoming to tell me that Jim died of a stroke, eleven months before the predicted deadline. It was sudden, unexpected and quick. There have been few times in my life when I've heard a voice so deliberate, calm and searching. Dad has lots of friends, but few, if any, closer than Jim Horstman.
Dad has now spoken at two of his best friends funerals. Dick Caspari died of a massive heart attack at the bottom of a ski hill in 2001. I guess Mom and Dad are at that phase where life starts to play for keeps. I'm not sure who leaves and who is left behind though. At such age friends don't leave for college, careers or marriage; they may leave for the last time.
Today I found the saved draft of an email intended for Jim Horstman, thanking him for letting me tag along on thier golf trip, and letting him know how much I know Dad respects him. Its on my weekly to-do list to send; with the photo of three lifelong friends attached.
I played golf with Jim one month ago this week. He came down with my dad and another friend, Alan, for a golf trip. The goal was to play four courses in five days. It rained sideways as I drove them home that evening. Jim of course, had outplayed us all, and I told him I didn't like his golf game: hitting the ball straight and true everytime, always smartly managing the course, because it sapped all of the drama and emotion that comes with hitting into trees, water and sometimes even houses. It's boring just piling on par after par...
The rain had us heading back to the hotel early and Jim seemed tired. He didn't complain, my Dad and Alan could just tell.
"I wish you could have known Jim just two years ago Sam," whispered my dad earlier that day as we walked down the wet slope from the 8th green; "He was the most animated and crazy guy...nobody knew how to have a good time like Jim. To see him like this..." Dad didn't finish, he looked out the front of the cart to where Jim methodically put away his putter,then plodded his way around the side of the cart to sit down. Jim must have said something to Alan as he sat down in the cart next to him, because Alan nodded his head, his mouth forming something short of a smile.
Than morning when the rain began we ate an early lunch at the clubhouse and talked about Jim's planned trips to Africa other places. Tired of talking about himself, Jim asked me about law school. I told him a bit about a paper I'm writing on physician automy and HMO/MCO immunity from lawsuits. This must have hit a spot, for the next few minutes the table lit up with peppering crossfires of intellectual energy. Dad, Alan and Jim passionately deconstructed the situation just like they were uraveling the factors of a confusing medical diagnosis. After a short time, the surge subsided, and Alan looked over at Jim and then made eye contact with Dad. I was sent to fetch the car.
Jim sat in the front seat next to me as I navigated the 5 o'clock grind on the eastbound 8 toward El Cajon. Spontaneously, Jim began talking to me about his daughter.
"She's a law student in Kansas and was just offerred her dream job in Denver. It is perfect since she wants to be close to home. But her boyfriend is a musician and wants her to follow him up to Minneapolis. It will be a big sacrifice to make. There aren't any job offers in Minneapolis." He seemed to phrase it as a question at me. Wanting to say something meaningful, I summed up all my life wisdom and managed a disappointing 'yeah'.
I asked Jim how he learned to play such solid golf and if he played other sports. "I get out when I had the chance." he responded, but then added, "But you know, my son, HE'S an ATHLETE--amazing basketball player, a natural. He didn't play in college but he is one of the most gifted athletes I've seen. My wife and i agree that he is the smartest in the family. He's 23 and taking his time in college. His older sister, she just works hard and earns it. He just hasn't learned to apply himself for the next level; but when he does..." Jim looked over at me and forced a smile, there was an earnestness in the expression. "He just isn't in a hurry right now."
Once again I referenced my vast catalog of knowledge and came up with a very helpful nod.
When we reached the hotel I grabbed the bags and took them into the house. Dad and Alan stayed outside under the porch with Jim. I grabbed the camera and offered to take a picture of the three of them, close companions since medical school--the three amigos. All three now successful orthopedic surgeons in thier mid fifties, with empty nests and a chance to finally reclaim thier money for spoiling themselves and thier spouses. I took a good picture. If you hardly met Jim before, like me, you wouldn't be able to tell that the vorocious cancer inside him had, just months earlier, decisively turned the tide in the battle for his body, erasing any doubt of Jim's fate. His own cells waged a war against the host and the prognosis was one more year before the malignant mass of rebellious cells would finally strangle the remaining loyal cells' ability to carry out thier vital functions.
I hurriedly left them there at the hotel because I had class at 5:30 and told Jim and Alan that I'd hope to see them this summer at the ranch if I got the job in Boise.
Two days ago Dad called from Wyoming to tell me that Jim died of a stroke, eleven months before the predicted deadline. It was sudden, unexpected and quick. There have been few times in my life when I've heard a voice so deliberate, calm and searching. Dad has lots of friends, but few, if any, closer than Jim Horstman.
Dad has now spoken at two of his best friends funerals. Dick Caspari died of a massive heart attack at the bottom of a ski hill in 2001. I guess Mom and Dad are at that phase where life starts to play for keeps. I'm not sure who leaves and who is left behind though. At such age friends don't leave for college, careers or marriage; they may leave for the last time.
Today I found the saved draft of an email intended for Jim Horstman, thanking him for letting me tag along on thier golf trip, and letting him know how much I know Dad respects him. Its on my weekly to-do list to send; with the photo of three lifelong friends attached.
Spring Break 2007: Finding the Me I never knew I was...
at least according to the Department of Motor Vehicles of Utah. But I'll get back to that. Let me first go into how it all began:
Spring Break 2007 began with a flight to Las Vegas to visit my sister Sallie, her husband Brandon, and their four children: Maggie (5), Navy (3), Jack (2?) and Elizabeth (10 months). Upon my arrival they took me to a restaurant famous for ribs. Big, massive ribs of mammoth-like beasts. I engorged without shame, eating all of it— impressing our lovely, young waitress, Stephanie. But I don't think it really did. I think she thought it a bit odd that the guy sitting next to the newborn was asking her to take a photo with him and his empty plate of ribs….but my Brandon got her number for me anyway.
As I left the restaurant with my sister, Sallie, there were four dressed up girls my age, (ok probably quite a bit younger) in a booth. One of them caught my coddling eye and began to look me over---but then saw I was carrying the baby in its car seat seat in one hand…and quickly looked away with a twisted, disgusted look…I didn't stop to explain (note to self: no checking out girls when carrying baby behind sister. That probably only works with dogs).
After Vegas, I flew to my hometown, Logan. There I stayed with family and golfed a horrible game, losing a gigantic bet to my dad. I cannot portray the extent of my frustration with words of black on a white computer screen. I would need audible sounds and perhaps some vivid color.
The next morning I went to the Utah DMV to replace my lost license. Stupid terrorists made it so that the government now coordinates DMV records with the Social Security office. I am not sure how good that is at catching terrorists, but it caught me: my social security number didn't match the social security number listed on my license…great.
So I went and dug up my social security card, which I'd previously never seen before…and was shocked to find that on the card there was a 9 where I always thought, since getting my license 10 years ago at the age of 16, was a 4. Oh no. Oh just %&*# great.
Verdict: I've been using the wrong social security number for 10 years. Nobody, including my bank, knew. Goodbye, bank account, goodbye credit cards, goodbye Wednsday afternoon and Thursday morning. Hello phone calls to credit agencies, DMVs, tax accountants etc….not a fun way to spend ¼ of your spring break.
Later that week we had a family project to cut some trees down and clean up a property downtown, say goodbye to Friday and Saturday….I was put in the crane 40 feet up with the chainsaw to cut branches…With cutoff sleeveless shirt, orange helmet, jeans and a chainsaw I looked like a cross between Paul Bunyon and that guy on the Village People. I suffered a near death experience climbing out on a limb, 50 feet up with a chainsaw running in one hand, and ended my day Saturday driving a 1960 era dump truck to and from the Logan landfill when suddenly the brakes went soft. No brakes, no problem…that's how I roll I guess (cue MTV's Guns & Roses "You could be Mine" video...but replace Arnold and his Semi with a Village Person look-alike in a Dump truck).
At 4am this morning I awoke to rush to the airport to catch my flight home. After waiting in the United Airlines line for 40 minutes I realized that I was flying US Airways…and walked over to their booth, where there was no line. Unfortunately, they had no record of my being on the 6am flight to San Diego via Phoenix. "None?" I asked. "nope, youre not in our system, maybe you are flying United." The ticket man replied. 'Nope', I thought to myself, 'tried that already.' I then used my Blackberry to bring up the Expedia itinerary and showed it to him. He was as not impressed as he should have been (at both the coolness of the blackberry and the existence of my flight itinerary. He said, "That's odd, but you're still not in our system. I can transfer you onto the 6am for only a $100 transfer fee. But you better hurry, it leaves in 20 minutes." (cost of original ticket $90, ten less than the 'transfer fee'). With no other choice, time or credit/debit cards, and only one check remaining of the three given me upon establishing my new bank account, I accepted, wrote, signed and ran. By then it was 5:30am and of course the line for security was stretching outside the building and noone would let me butt in. So I ran to the Delta terminal where there was no line. Lucky for me, the US Airways guy who issued me the ticket also alerted security to give me an extra thorough screening, with less than 20 minutes before my flight was to depart.
After a series pleasant violations, I sprinted to the gate and made it there seconds before the door closed. "Hey 1F, cool! Front row window seat!' I thought to myself upon glancing at my ticket. But as I entered the plane I saw one of the largest women I've ever seen sitting in 1E/1F. She was an elderly Polynesian who took up every millimeter of 1E and about 2/3 of 1F. I went ahead and contracted myself to fit in the remaining 1/3 1F. During the flight she sweated profusely, probably because of her effort trying not to spill over onto me so much, so I sweated too trying to contort my body so I wouldn't be sweated upon.
I arrived in San Diego at 9am. But my bag didn't. While filling out a lost bag form, I noticed that the form pleasantly stated that US Airways was happy to compensate any of their valued customers for any items included in lost bag , but demands a receipt for all items claimed to be lost, subject to a minor list of excepted items for which they are never liable, which include: all electronics, cameras, ipods, books, documents, jewelry, watches, precious stones, purses, wallets, cash, heirlooms, art or animals. I figure that covers everything except clothing…which I unfortunately didn't think to keep receipts for after thier purchase.
Fortunately, the bag was found and arrived at my house at 10pm this evening. I am grateful for that small thing, especially after noticing that over the break somebody stole the antennae off of my car where it was parked in Nithin's complex' garage.
Spring Break 2007 began with a flight to Las Vegas to visit my sister Sallie, her husband Brandon, and their four children: Maggie (5), Navy (3), Jack (2?) and Elizabeth (10 months). Upon my arrival they took me to a restaurant famous for ribs. Big, massive ribs of mammoth-like beasts. I engorged without shame, eating all of it— impressing our lovely, young waitress, Stephanie. But I don't think it really did. I think she thought it a bit odd that the guy sitting next to the newborn was asking her to take a photo with him and his empty plate of ribs….but my Brandon got her number for me anyway.
As I left the restaurant with my sister, Sallie, there were four dressed up girls my age, (ok probably quite a bit younger) in a booth. One of them caught my coddling eye and began to look me over---but then saw I was carrying the baby in its car seat seat in one hand…and quickly looked away with a twisted, disgusted look…I didn't stop to explain (note to self: no checking out girls when carrying baby behind sister. That probably only works with dogs).
After Vegas, I flew to my hometown, Logan. There I stayed with family and golfed a horrible game, losing a gigantic bet to my dad. I cannot portray the extent of my frustration with words of black on a white computer screen. I would need audible sounds and perhaps some vivid color.
The next morning I went to the Utah DMV to replace my lost license. Stupid terrorists made it so that the government now coordinates DMV records with the Social Security office. I am not sure how good that is at catching terrorists, but it caught me: my social security number didn't match the social security number listed on my license…great.
So I went and dug up my social security card, which I'd previously never seen before…and was shocked to find that on the card there was a 9 where I always thought, since getting my license 10 years ago at the age of 16, was a 4. Oh no. Oh just %&*# great.
Verdict: I've been using the wrong social security number for 10 years. Nobody, including my bank, knew. Goodbye, bank account, goodbye credit cards, goodbye Wednsday afternoon and Thursday morning. Hello phone calls to credit agencies, DMVs, tax accountants etc….not a fun way to spend ¼ of your spring break.
Later that week we had a family project to cut some trees down and clean up a property downtown, say goodbye to Friday and Saturday….I was put in the crane 40 feet up with the chainsaw to cut branches…With cutoff sleeveless shirt, orange helmet, jeans and a chainsaw I looked like a cross between Paul Bunyon and that guy on the Village People. I suffered a near death experience climbing out on a limb, 50 feet up with a chainsaw running in one hand, and ended my day Saturday driving a 1960 era dump truck to and from the Logan landfill when suddenly the brakes went soft. No brakes, no problem…that's how I roll I guess (cue MTV's Guns & Roses "You could be Mine" video...but replace Arnold and his Semi with a Village Person look-alike in a Dump truck).
At 4am this morning I awoke to rush to the airport to catch my flight home. After waiting in the United Airlines line for 40 minutes I realized that I was flying US Airways…and walked over to their booth, where there was no line. Unfortunately, they had no record of my being on the 6am flight to San Diego via Phoenix. "None?" I asked. "nope, youre not in our system, maybe you are flying United." The ticket man replied. 'Nope', I thought to myself, 'tried that already.' I then used my Blackberry to bring up the Expedia itinerary and showed it to him. He was as not impressed as he should have been (at both the coolness of the blackberry and the existence of my flight itinerary. He said, "That's odd, but you're still not in our system. I can transfer you onto the 6am for only a $100 transfer fee. But you better hurry, it leaves in 20 minutes." (cost of original ticket $90, ten less than the 'transfer fee'). With no other choice, time or credit/debit cards, and only one check remaining of the three given me upon establishing my new bank account, I accepted, wrote, signed and ran. By then it was 5:30am and of course the line for security was stretching outside the building and noone would let me butt in. So I ran to the Delta terminal where there was no line. Lucky for me, the US Airways guy who issued me the ticket also alerted security to give me an extra thorough screening, with less than 20 minutes before my flight was to depart.
After a series pleasant violations, I sprinted to the gate and made it there seconds before the door closed. "Hey 1F, cool! Front row window seat!' I thought to myself upon glancing at my ticket. But as I entered the plane I saw one of the largest women I've ever seen sitting in 1E/1F. She was an elderly Polynesian who took up every millimeter of 1E and about 2/3 of 1F. I went ahead and contracted myself to fit in the remaining 1/3 1F. During the flight she sweated profusely, probably because of her effort trying not to spill over onto me so much, so I sweated too trying to contort my body so I wouldn't be sweated upon.
I arrived in San Diego at 9am. But my bag didn't. While filling out a lost bag form, I noticed that the form pleasantly stated that US Airways was happy to compensate any of their valued customers for any items included in lost bag , but demands a receipt for all items claimed to be lost, subject to a minor list of excepted items for which they are never liable, which include: all electronics, cameras, ipods, books, documents, jewelry, watches, precious stones, purses, wallets, cash, heirlooms, art or animals. I figure that covers everything except clothing…which I unfortunately didn't think to keep receipts for after thier purchase.
Fortunately, the bag was found and arrived at my house at 10pm this evening. I am grateful for that small thing, especially after noticing that over the break somebody stole the antennae off of my car where it was parked in Nithin's complex' garage.
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