Mrs. Linklater's Football Column Number Eleventy-One

This is about the fourth column I've written about my friends' son and his high school football season this year.  But who's counting?

Today however, instead of my usual riveting summary, I'm writing before the game. I missed the last two because I was partying across the pond.

Since I left and came back, my friends' son [let's call him JUNIOR] has racked up four touchdowns and some serious yardage. And he's just the backup tailback.

Last game his coach said he was going to get some more time than usual carrying the ball. But after the guy who starts uncharacteristically fumbled early on, the coach let them split the time, racking up over 100 yards apiece. 

The local NBC affiliate covered the game -- because at almost 100 years, the schools have the oldest football rivalry in the state -- or the country for that matter. One of his touchdowns was even on the nightly news -- a nice one too -- dragging three guys several yards, breaking tackles, running into the endzone.  A little flash and dash.

Apparently JUNIOR was a surprise to some coaches from the other team watching up in the box. They had no idea who he was. Even though he ran over everyone last year against their sophomore team. One of his sophomore coaches overhead them saying, "Who is this guy? Why don't we know about him?"  If they'd asked their own coaches, they might have known. 

The local paper did a nice job of giving both boys plenty of ink. [NOTE: After hitting SAVE, I noticed this entry has some weird artifacts I can't get rid of, and half the quotes in the article may not have posted, sorry]

It's probably only fitting that [JUNIOR] had his best varsity game for [THE] football team last Thursday. After all, last week was premiere week for most of the networktelevision stations -- and [HE] has moved up from best supporting actor to co-star in the [THE] backfield.

[THE] Incumbent tailback, a senior, and [MY FRIENDS' SON], a junior, each rushed for more than 100 yards and two touchdowns as [THEIR SCHOOL[ rolled past [THEIR] rival  45-18 in the division opener for both teams.

This wasn't just a case of the backup running back enjoying a big second half against a depleted defense. [JUNIOR'S] 118 yards in 16 carries were accumulated in prime time, as he alternated series with [THE STARTING BACK], who piled up 116 on 21 carries.

Not bad for a guy [MY FRIENDS' SON] who didn't even play football until his freshman year of high school.

[QUOTES FROM BOTH BOYS:]

"[JUNIOR] played an awesome game tonight, and he's a great athlete. He picked me up when I had a little bit of a slow start (including a first period fumble). Our offensive line did an unbelievable job for both of us."

That makes it a mutual admiration society.

"Both of the [BROTHERS] [THE STARTING BACK and his younger brother] have taught me so much about playing running back," said [MY FRIENDS' SON]. "[THE YOUNGER ONE] showed me a lot when I first started playing and [HIS BROTHER] is always giving me suggestions in practice."

Today will be another easy game I'm afraid.  Except for the team's first game, a non conference loss, 14-8 -- no excuses, but they had a chance to win that one -- they haven't had much to challenge them since.  Next week, that will change.

Time to put on my watching football in the stands outfit.  Lined waterproof pants, layers of shirts with a hoody AND a windbreaker, a hat, gloves, blanket.  Did I mention it's about 50 and the wind is blowing? Welcome to Chicago.

Fire up the hot dogs, Mrs. Linklater is going to lay down some mustard.

P.S. The team won 44 to 6. Next week is the first time they'll face some real competition -- a team that went to the state championship last year. They aren't doing as well this year, but anything is better than watching the fourth string kill time in a slaughter. 

P.P.S. If you want to read the missing quotes, drag your mouse on that weird purple bar that I can't get rid of over there left.

HE'S BA-A-A-A-ACK!!!

Jon, the Faux Cowboy, has returned to the blogworld. The talented and entertaining transplanted West Texan is an accomplished pianist AND professional writer who shares his daily suffering through life with the eloquence of a poet.  Hard to believe, but somehow he manages to create DRAMA just driving to Wal-Mart. Okay, PARKING at Wal-Mart.

He promises to account for his recent whereabouts, or at least hint about them, at his new place:

http://journals.aol.com/jayveerhapsody/LoneStarConcerto/

Money Clip Status

Over the years I've bought my share of money clips for guys I know. Silver ones mostly. In a Tiffany box if possible. They usually cost between fifty and a hundred dollars. It seemed like a useful, semi expensive, yet thoughtful gift that didn't require any knowledge of sizes or sleeve lengths. 

Naively, I thought guys used them like women used their purses. Fancy ones for night time. Something casual for work.  I imagined them swapping out one for another depending on the occasion. That sort of thing.

Later, I would check to see if my money clip was put into service and I was always disappointed. Now, having moved beyond that phase of my gift giving, I confess to still checking out what kind of money clip a man has on those rare occasions when I can get some guy to reach for the tab.

For a long time, I had it in my head that money clips were kind of like cowboy buckles in a way. Big and showy was better. Most of the ones for sale were shiny and silver. And most seemed to make a statement of sorts. With initials. Or a big coin or an eagle or some other masculine fiduciary symbol.

But that was then and this is now. Over the years I noticed a strange phenomenon that begin to emerge. Money clips became passe. They disappeared from use by the men in my world. Replaced by rubberbands. 

Heads of ad agencies, judges, doctors, SVPs of marketing -- men I knew who seem to be making a nice salary -- one after another would whip out a stack of credit cards and not a little cash all bunched up and held together with a rubberband.

Guys in Armani suits and Italian shoes. Driivng BMWs and, yes, even Ferraris. Wearing Cartier and Rolex watches. They all used rubberbands.
There seemed to be some inverse ratio of financial success and rubberband money clips.  Although I don't move in circles with people like Bill Gates and Warren Buffett, I'm thinking they're using rubberbands, too.

Usually the process seems to be to wrap the money around their cards and then use a rubberband to hold it all together.  The rubberband has to be large enough to go around twice. And it's usually one of the puke brown colored ones that you can purchase by the dozens in a huge plastic bag from Staples. Or here online: http://www.kelvin.com/ac_rubberbands.html
I'm willing to bet that the guys who use rubberbands don't check for frayed ends or nicks so they can switch an old one for a new one; they just wait for the old one to break. Then track down their stash from Staples and replace it.

Maybe it's just an upper middle class white guy thing. 

Somehow I don't see Charles Barkley and Michael Jordan using rubberbands -- besides they probably have people who take care of that stuff for them. I wonder about celebrities like K-Fed and Justin Timberlake. The president. Dick Cheney. Do you think? Wouldn't it be funny if they all do the rubberband thing too? Okay not laugh out loud stuff.

But amusing to consider, nonetheless.

Killer Mom

I watched a clip of Anna Nicole Smith's reality show six years ago. She was out of control.

Aside from the fact that she talked with the spaced out ditziness of someone on too much medication, she performed a simulated sex act in front of the cameras, hanging on to the headboard of her new bed and undulating like a stripper over an imaginary partner. Apparently her previous skills as an ecdysiast had not diminished.

Ni-i-i-i-ice.

Then they mentioned she had a fourteen year old son. "Her best friend." 
 
I remember thinking, oh no, this woman who dresses like a porn star, acts like a sexual predator and performs X-rated pantomime in her home for cameras is allowed to have a SON? I wondered how many boundaries she had already crossed with that kid.

I figured it was just a matter of time before we heard about his entry into drug or alcohol re-hab.

I guess he never made it. 

OVERDOSE

I wish I could regale you with tales of going to midnight raves and doing ecstasy with college boys or snorting coke with the local Good Humor dude, but my overdose was on Project Runway, the second season. The reason why I watched it isn't important. Let's just say I had to, for work. No, really.

I spent the last two nights watching the four DVD set that you can purchase for yourself, legally, and get hooked, too.

After settling into a comfortable spot each night, I viewed every episode from last year. From the amusing selection of the semi finalists through each and every agonizing episode of winners and losers until someone was anointed THE NEXT GREAT DESIGNER. Since I was a virgin to the show, I had no idea what would happen from one episode to the next. That may have contributed to my addiction.

Before watching these sixteen or so drama queens of both genders suffer personal meltdowns, footstomping temper tantrums, forked tongued whiplashings, and eyerolling, hands on hips disgust with one another, I had heard about Project Runway, but I only caught the opening once. That's the part that seems almost normal, when Heidi Klum gives the assignment.

But, I noticed, as I began my marathon, as soon as the contestants began to speak, it became apparent that these people were creative, yes, but also very disturbed, in an entertaining way, as opposed to say, a homicidal way.

Luckily, I'm fascinated by crazy people as long as they're safely contained in the pixals of my computer, since that's where I viewed everything. 

In fact, after getting used to the high dose of nutso behavior, I began to develop a tolerance for it.  And looked forward to my next hit with the same anticipation as any junkie. Like many high doses of drugs, the effect of one show after another after another becomes hallucinatory. I began to feel like I was sitting with or working among them. I was somehow even becoming one of them. I began to think, HEY, I could make something, too. I can do that!!  Maybe I should try my hand at this designing clothes stuff. I sewed Halloween costumes for my daughters one year. What's so hard anyway?

You think I'm kidding.
 
Here's how I know I had finally overdosed:  Last night, after I'd watched the final episode, where that megalomaniacal horse's ass, Santino, FINALLY got sent on his way, along with Daniel V, whose collection looked like he'd scoured Salvation Army for ideas -- I had a dream. An up close and personal dream about Tim Gunn.

Tim Gunn is the head of design at Parsons The School for New Design [Is that a pretentious New York name or what?]  He is a longtime fashion icon and acts as mentor to the contestants. Tim Gunn, in case you haven't figured out by now, is also gay, which is a good thing for fashion, but not for heterosexual encounters in one's dreams. Or should I say, that's the only place I could dream up an "encounter" with him.

But it made sense, if sense needs to be made. With his pinstriped suits and conservative appearance, he could almost pass for straight at first glance. Until he speaks and moves. Ooops, gay. But in the midst of the turmoil and madness of the contestants trying to meet deadlines, he offered a firm, but soothing voice of reason and encouragement, keeping them on track with good humor and gentle admonitions. He is a nice guy.

The good news is that I like that I finally like that in a man. Maturity?  Or lack of estrogen. You be the judge.

Especially considering that my relationship history includes enough men from our nation's special forces to form a platoon of trained killers.

On the other hand, I wonder who I'd dream about after watching sixteen nonstop episodes of COPS? 

These are the questions Mrs. Linklater asks the universe. 

WELCOME BACK HOME, ARMAND!!!!

Before he left for Iraq awhile back, Armand had his entire journal uncermoniously expunged by AOL.  

To say the event was a microcosm of AOL's bizarre TOS [TERMS OF SERVICE] practices would not be an exaggeration.  

Basically, if someone accuses you of violating one of AOL's Terms of Service agreements, usually porn or language -- you're guilty. In Armand's case it was a link that someone found offensive.

I was accused of uploading porn to my FTP space once, while I was asleep. I was lucky. They only put me on probation for six months because of that.  Usually you can't even find out what you've been accused of.

The link posted in Armand's journal was actually one that AOL itself had linked to. No matter. They just dumped his journal -- all of it -- without so much as telling him or investigating the accusation.

While the rest of the heart and soul of AOL journalers left over the stupid ads which we were told wouldn't be posted on paid members' blogs, Armand left because of TOS. 

Before his departure he took on the nameless faceless TOS police and won his case. He even got free AOL service out of them, even though he'd moved to Blogspot by then.

Did he get his journal back? Nope. AOL told him sorry, but his journal was gone forever, even though they'd made a mistake, and the entries couldn't be recovered except by searching Google and other search engines. You know they were lying.

To celebrate his victory -- the only one I know of over TOS -- I had this cartoon made to commemorate his efforts.

Now that he's back from the REAL war, I thought it was worth posting again.

To remind everyone nothing is safe here. On the other hand, nothing is sacred either. 

You can link to his off campus blog -- Uncommon Sense -- via my Other Journals listings.

Kudos to my illustrator friend, Chris, who whipped this up in less than an hour.  If you ever need anything from a b/w drawing to a six color poster to a book cover, he's the fastest and one of the best I've ever worked with, professionally. 

This Is A Joke, RIGHT?

Ideaology is actually spelled IDEOLOGY.  And the awards should be about excellence, nothing else.  Pimping? I don't think so.

Remember when Technorati had the top 100 AOL journals list?  Based on how many people linked to them?  Almost everybody on that list has gone to Blogger or stopped writing. They were the best of the best at AOL. 

I noticed that you can't find that list anymore.  I always wondered if AOL put the pressure on Technorati to have it taken down. 

Meanwhile, don't forget that voting for the CHROMOS will take place soon -- that's my award for the best comments in this journal.  This year there is more than one category.  Which means that every nominee will probably win something. 

I think I'll make the selections like last year.  Put all the names in a hat and choose the winners by closing my eyes and picking one during an audio entry.  It'll seem like it's almost like a real awards show, won't it? 

But FIRST, I'll post the nominees with the comments that got them the nomination.

It's That Time of the Month Again

http://askmrslinklater.blogspot.com/

It's been way too long since Mrs. L has left the comfort of her La-Z-Boy to strap on her shoulder mounted flame-thrower and aim it at the Advice Columnists of America.

But, she's in a mood, so put on your Kevlar and see who she's napalmed recently. 

Big Mistake

What are the three lies? Click here to refresh your memory: http://www.webcom.com/jrudolph/joke_3lies.html

For this entry, we'll stick with the clean ones:
I'm from the government and I'm here to help.
I gave at the office.
The check is in the mail.

To those, how about adding: It's just a shot; it won't kill you.

You probably heard the story -- three babies died because they got the adult dose of a blood thinner instead of the baby dose.  Here's the first couple of paragraphs in the story posted on AOL:

Fatal Drug Mix-Up Exposes Hospital Flaws
By TOM DAVIES, AP

INDIANAPOLIS (Sept. 23) - Early last Saturday, nurses at an Indianapolis hospital went to the drug cabinet in the newborn intensive care unit to get blood-thinner for several premature babies.

The nurses didn't realize a pharmacy technician had mistakenly stocked the cabinet with vials containing a dose 1,000 times stronger than what the babies were supposed to receive. And they apparently didn't notice that the label said "heparin," not "hep-lock," and that it was dark blue instead of baby blue.

"The nurses didn't realize. . ." because they didn't take the time to check. They ASSUMED something, without confirming their assumption. They trusted the pharmacy tech. Big mistake.

A pharmacy tech, one of those jobs you can get from those schools that advertise on TV, is not going to be a genius. Why he or she is allowed to restock medicines that can kill people without having some kind of supervision is beyond me. 

Why the nurses aren't required to double check the medications the tech leaves for them is also beyond me. There should be a rigorous protocol for confirming medications. Check the label, check the dose, sign off with a supervisor.

I thought the writer was rather restrained in his observation that the labels not only have different names, but they have different shades of blue. That's two red flags they should have noticed.

Frankly, I think the manufacturer was a little casual with their labeling and product forms.

First of all, don't have names that are so similar. Heparin and Hep-Lock look too much alike for our reading challenged workers these days. Make them different so there wouldn't be confusion.

Second, print NOT FOR INFANTS in large letters along with ADULTS ONLY, too.  So there wouldn't be confusion.

Third, coloring one blood thinner blue and the other SOMETHING ELSE might have saved three little kids. At least prevented confusion.

Third, putting the baby version in a much smaller vial would have put up a red flag, too.  And prevented confusion.

I don't work in a hospital and even I could come up with solutions to prevent future mistakes. Don't the hospitals and phramaceutical companies already have people who do stuff like this?

I understand that the families are suing Abbott Labs for not labeling the two products in such a way that ANYBODY could tell the difference.

Blaming the manufacturer for not fixing the problem reminds me of when we switched to cash registers that can tell the cashier what the change should be, because most cashiers aren't smart enough to learn how to make change. The education and intelligence of our workers is so poor the machines have to do their thinking for them.

So far we don't have the equivalent of the cash register that figures out the change in our hospitals. The people who are dispensing drugs that can kill you have to be accountable on some level. Job loss is probably all they'll get. I know I wouldn't want any of those nurses or that tech working in my hospital. Of course, they probably belong to a union so they may just get slap on the wrist and a stern warning.

Despite their mistakes, they don't have money to pay for the pain and suffering the parents are going through.

And the drug companies do.

Lessons From Lou

http://lessonsfromlou.blogspot.com/

A lovely and very smart woman I used to work with has kept a journal I didn't know about. Her husband was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor about two years ago. A few months ago, she began to write down her thoughts and feelings about their journey together to the end of his life. Sadly, he died very recently. His death coincided with my discovery of what she has written -- a moving and beautiful testament to a very special marriage.

Even cynical me can appreciate that. Here is one of her early entries.

April 26, 2006

The Lessons

Oh yes....The Lessons. I meant to START with The Lessons......a friend said these are not lessons from "Lou's brain tumor"...they are lessons from Lou, lessons that have been there all along.....maybe I am just getting them now.....because of the brain tumor....? It is true. Before the brain tumor (that would be BBT), I don't think I "saw" everything, or "heard" everything that was going on around me...I"m quite sure I did not appreciate everything. That changed with the BT. I see alot now. I hear alot now. I get it now, I do. And I appreciate a heck of alot more now too....it took THIS to make that happen? Talk about being in your own world...guess I was.... Lessons from Lou l. You can't do it alone. At some point, you gotta yell for help...the sooner, the better. 2. I can live without manicures, I CANNOT live without lattes. 3. Decorating really doesn't matter......the people in the place are what matters. 4. It's amazing how beautiful the sound of Lou's snoring is............... 5. One can live on grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches for quite awhile, especially if on whole grain bread......... 6. Your children are so much more incredible then you ever could have imagined......... 7. Your friends and family are so much more incredible then you ever could have imagined! 8. Doctors do it for a living, patients do it for life. There's a difference. Bother the doctors as much as you need to. 9. No matter how bad you think you have it, someone else really DOES have it worse. 10. God DOES answer prayers, just not always as you might like. 11. Some people just don't get it. 12. Waterproof mascara. Nuff said. 13. If you make the moments count, you will not have to worry about making memories 14. Always say "I love You" 15. There is usually an up after a down, sometimes it just takes awhile 16. Elastic waistbands really are ok......... 17. your friends don't care if you are wearing your pj's..... 18. This is NOT like Lance Armstrong. 19. This is NOT like Tuesdays with Morrie 20. Make sure you know where the lock box key is. 21. Staying home with someone you love can be fun 22. Stacks are better then one big pile.... 23. If you look hard enough, you will find the good in most things.............. 24. At some point, you just gotta laugh. 25. Champagne never hurts 26. Never take your blood pressure after watching the news 27. Pita chips are NOT a diet food 28. Be nice to the nurse who draws blood 29. It's better to go out in a wheelchair then not to go out at all 30. The best anniversary gift is.....having an anniversary. We celebrated our 25th on April 11.......that was the best gift ever! More to come, Cath

There Goes The Neighborhood

For over twenty years my neighborhood has been typical and suburban. Maple, oak and elm trees. Small, brick and clapboard houses. Third of an acre lots. Weber barbecues. Soccer moms. Nothing pretentious. We could even leave our doors and cars unlocked because burglars shopped elsewhere.

Then a few years ago everybody started borrowing low cost money so they could tear down the little houses and build BIG houses.  On the same property. With those butt ugly turrets on top and giant SUVs in the driveways. For some reason people want to live here. Probably because we have a Subway Sandwich Shop, a McDonald's AND a mall. 

Some of my neighbors fought back by adding monstrous additions of their own. Haaa, that'll show ya. But any houses that were the size of mine have been torn down. I'm the only one left. The last two across the street just got removed. The foundation for the new one has already been poured. It looks like the Grand Canyon. 

A third house on the corner has been under construction all summer. Only four or five more stories to go. Unfortunately, sitting there on the corner so big and half built, it has become a billboard for criminals.  Yooo Whoooo. There's a big house here, try to steal some stuff if you're in the neighborhood. 

Needless to say, I was not too happy to see an entire roll of yellow POLICE tape wrapped around this new, gargantuan McMansion.  Oh, great, there's been a murder on my street was my first thought. Or a rape. Or a kidnapping. Something terrible must have happened. I came around the corner from doing errands and there were two cop vans, one of which had EVIDENCE TECHNICIAN all over it and some guy with gloves on holding a flashlight in the middle of the day.

I guess there'll be no more taking out the garbage in my underwear after this caper. 

Since the crime occurred as I was about to leave town for another country, I thought I would try to find out what transpired in our formerly quiet little enclave. Not that I had plans to install an alarm system or get a guard dog. Basically I was just nosy.

I called the non emergency hotline to ask who died. I got routed to the community service officer who wasn't there so I left a message that surely convinced him I was a crazy old woman with cats. That's silly. Everybody knows I don't have cats.

He did have the courtesy to call back and leave me a message. Apparently there was an attempted burglary at the half finished house.  Somebody tried to take something that didn't belong to them. Quelle shock!!

We haven't had anything like that in the entire time I've lived here. Nothing that required evidence technicians and POLICE tape. There was one night when my drunk neighbor two doors down shot his 357 magnum through the living room ceiling into his son's bedroom, but, wisely, his son was at camp. No harm. No foul. Other than that, nothing.

But now that the houses are getting bigger, the bad guys are getting bolder. More house. More to steal.

Living here as long as I have, I can't help noticing that my house has been getting smaller and smaller by comparison. On the other hand, in a country whose motto is BIGGER HAS GOT TO BE BETTER, I'm thinking, for once, smaller is maybe a good thing.

Smiles All Around

My daughter and her husband [my SON-in-law] at one of the parties over the weekend following their wedding. I've never seen two people so happy to be married. 

VIVI Nominations

I'm not providing any links here, but if you are interested in the the VIVI nominations, click on DOCK LINES over in my other journals.  He's got a ton of links so you can read some of the journals that people think are worthy of nomination come October. 

I've read a few.

Once you get past the bad spelling and horrendous grammar, most are quite boring actually. 

English Air Conditioning Sucks, Part Deux

Every time I go across the pond, as they say, my mantra is the same:  THE AIR CONDITIONING SUCKS.

I was there in August once and almost melted like gum on a sidewalk.  That time, I had hired a car to transport me to a meeting in some distant suburb of London.  Stopped in traffic I began to notice that the temperature in the auto was rising.  "Could you turn on the air conditoining, please?" I asked.  "Sorry," the driver answered.

There wasn't any.  The car was brand new and didn't have any air conditioning.  Being American, I handled the moment in a way that could only bring glory to my country -- YOU PEOPLE ARE NUTS!!  I believe were my exact words.

WHADDYA MEAN NO AIR CONDITIONING?

And while I'm complaining [again], what's with those toilets? You have to be an engineering major to operate the things.  Press too lightly or with too much effort and they won't flush. As they say in England, ONE has to gage the pressure of ONE'S hand on the handle, which is on the WRONG SIDE of the toilet, by the way, to create the proper pressure to make the damn thing flush with a whoosh, not a wimper. Crap.

So there I was last week in London for my daughter's wedding, having forgotten about their no air conditioning way of life. Meanwhile everybody who's English is talking about how wonderful and warm September is this year -- eighty degrees some days.  They're thrilled.  I got the feeling most Septembers are fairly arctic over there. And then I remembered, NO AIR CONDITIONING.

Theirs isn't a dry heat. In merry old England all temperatures come with HUMIDITY. In fact, there is no such thing as weather without humidity over there.  Lots of it.  And if it isn't humid, it must be raining. 

So yes, our skin always felt slightly, and unpleasantly, damp. In fact, I'm convinced that the rosy shade of pink that defines the healthy cheeks of most English children is just mold. 

Needless to say, I slept with the windows wide open [no screens by the way] and a fan on high. Unlike the English, who sleep wrapped in flannel, no matter what the weather.  For them, stifling is a way of life.

Even later in the week, at the very posh country manor in the Cotswolds where we all convened for the final party of the wedding celebration, there was NO AIR CONDITIONING. 

My beautiful room had twenty foot ceilings with five twelve foot windows. I kept them all open all the time. I needed air. I also needed screens, but there's so much humidity the bugs don't fly, they walk. 

The bathroom was large enough to land a small plane. With a bathtub as big as Lake Mchigan.  And a shower stall so enormous it had an echo.

Usually a hotel shower hits me about chest level. I have to duck to get my head under. But the ceilings at the "manor" were so high that the shower was like standing under a waterfall. I even tried but I couldn't reach the shower head it was so far up. That meant the water drops gained speed on the way down and made some real dents when they landed. Giving a whole new meaning to HARD water. 

The main room, which made my kingsize bed look like a bathmat, could easily house a family of five. 

BUT despite the amenities in my room and throughout the lovely, manicured grounds -- two heated pools and a fancy spa at my service -- to go with the plasma TV, a mini bar filled with good wine, champagne, and CHOCOLATE, a wall of thick terry cloth robes, and a view to die for, there was no, you guessed it, air conditioning anywhere. 

Have I mentioned the lack of air conditioning?

But everything else, from the idyllic setting, to the rack of lamb and the delicious "squidgy chocolate pudding," along with the many heartfelt and often hysterical toasts to the bride and groom, helped me forget the hardships.

Until I went into the ladies' room. 
. 

Mrs. Linklater Has A Cosmic Moment

I have just returned from my younger daughter's wedding in London. She looked so beautiful you could hear people gasp [myself included] when they saw her, especially when she and her husband walked out of the Chelsea Town Hall where they were married. During the ceremony her happiness was apparent. She had a smile that was enormous enough to create an entire new set of dimples in her cheeks. She and her fiance were giggling like a couple of schoolkids, they were so excited.

Because it's London, they had to survive a pre-wedding interview with the people in charge of marrying folks, to ensure they weren't getting married for green card reasons.  "Does your fiance fold the toilet paper into a point when he puts in a new roll?"  "Does he drink the last milk from the carton and put it back?"  Important stuff like that.

One of the witnesses, who shall remain nameless, began to sing "Here Comes The Bride" and was very disappointed at the lack of response from the others. No, it wasn't me.  

Okay, fun's over, let's get to making me some GRANDKIDS, okay?

The cosmic moment came later. One of the guests was my daughter's oldest friend, Dana. They've known each other since second grade. She and I were staying at the same bed and breakfast together, so I had several days and many parties to catch up with her life since she went away to college in the early nineties.
 
I was impressed. That little curly haired kid who wanted to be a dancer is now a published poet and aspiring professor out in Seattle. Her father still lives back in the Chicago area. In the same town I do, as a matter if fact, but I haven't seen him or run into him in over fifteen years. Ironically my daughter spent so much time at their house he was like a second dad to her before she went to college.

Last night my plane from England landed at O'Hare at the international terminal. That place is almost as ugly as it is big. Industrial strength flooring. Hideous art. Fluorescent lighting from the fifties, even though the place is fairly new. Terrible food, too. Not like the United Terminal with Wolfgang Puck and other restaurants or the American Terminal with my favorite food court. I fly for food. Or at least the food I can get while I'm waiting to fly.

I was standing by the carousel, watching for my luggage with the dazed, far away stare of someone who has been on a plane for eight hours and doesn't know what time of day it is in real life, when a man walked up and said my name.  He looked vaguely familiar in that Did I Go To High School With You way? Which is better than Are You Someone I Slept With And I Can't Remember Your Name way.  But even though he looked familiar, I couldn't place him.

It took a moment, but I suddenly realized this was Dana's dad. The father of the daughter I just spent a week with. The man I hadn't seen in a decade and a half, even though he lives less than a mile away. The man I never expected to see for another couple of decades because our lives don't intersect. And here he was at this particular terminal on this particular night, at this particular carousel waiting for his luggage, too.

Cosmic, no? 

Weekend Assignment

Scalzi's Weekend Assignment #128: Share your thoughts about 9/11. You can remember back on what you were doing on the day or give some thought to how we think about it today. Thoughts personal, political or philosophical are all up for consideration. Tell us all what you think about when you think about September 11, 2001.


I became a news junkie when JFK was assassinated. Right after he was shot I came home from college for Thanksgiving. With nothing but free time, I spent the next seven days in front of the TV. I watched Jack Ruby shoot Lee Harvey Oswald live. In black and white.

However, the TV wasn't on when the first plane crashed into the tower on 911. I was working, doing something on the computer. I had to call someone about an assignment and they asked if I'd been watching.  "Watching what?"  "TV. A plane just hit one of the Twin Towers in New York."  I tuned just in time to see the second hit.

The rest quite frankly is pretty much of a blur. I stayed glued to the TV for days, watching everything and anything about the terrorist attacks.

A client told me she was in Washington at a big conference in a hotel across from the Pentagon when the plane hit. She happened to be outside taking a cigarette break so she watched the crash occur almost right in front of her. When she ran inside to tell everyone, there was a speaker talking to an audience of a thousand or so delegates and no one would listen.

It took a security guard to interupt the proceedings and announce there was a problem.

A friend of mine who lives in the Chicago area by way of New Jersey lost her brother.  Christopher Allingham worked at Cantor Fitzgerald.  A big Giants' fan, he left a wife and two young sons. Aside from some people I know who work at Deutschebank which was in a damaged building close by, Chris was the only one I have a connection to -- that I know of.

After the first wave of disbelief, I began reading the New York Times obituaries about each of the victims. They were wonderful tributes to the lives of the people who died. I read hundreds of them before I noticed that sadness was becoming my state of mind.

Finally in December after weeks of feeling like I'd felt when Kennedy got shot, I thought of something I could do.  

I went through the list of those who died and looked for representative people who were on the planes, in the towers, or at the Pentagon.

I not only wanted men and women, I wanted firemen and cops, military personnel and civilians, old people and babies. Finally, I chose twenty people to represent everyone who was incinerated. And almost all who died were incinerated somehow. 

Then I went to a local jeweler and chose a silver bracelet, large enough to hold ten silver disks. I had the names of the twenty people engraved on the disks, one on the front, one on the back.

After deciding to do this because I felt I had to do something for myself, I almost decided against it when I found out how much it would cost.

Whoa, wait a minute, there's got to be something less expensive you could do to assuage your sadness.

Luckily, at that moment, I overcame my notions of fiscal responsibility and had the bracelet made.

I've told the rest of the story before, but I'll tell it again.

At the end of the year I went to a seminar about spirituality given by my friend Kristine King who owns Wings Seminars [see the link in Other Sites].  Namaste was the name ofthe session I decided to attend. It ran at an interesting time of the year, no doubt on purpose -- from a couple of days after Christmas until New Year's Eve at 6:00 PM.

I was a little leary of going at first because I was worried it would be too religious. Instead, it truly was spiritual, something most religions have lost sight of.

Before the seminar started, we were asked to bring something that belonged to us, as a gift. Something we would be willing to part with to share with someone else at the seminar. Don't bring anything you can't give away, okay?

Overcome by something I still don't understand, I decided to bring the bracelet to give to someone else. However, I decided it would come with strings. In my own control freak way I hoped the person who got it would add a disk with two more names and pass it on to someone else.

Of course, lingering in the back of my mind was how much it had cost me. The fact that I wouldn't have a chance to wear it myself also bothered me. But giving it away seemed like the right thing to do.

Those conflicting thoughts are probably why I accidentally left the bracelet at home. That meant I had to have someone go into my house, find it, and FEDex it to me.

Meanwhile, on our first day at the seminar, everyone else shared the "gifts" they brought, putting each one on a special table after talking about its meaning to them. 

Kris was facilitating the seminar and she brought a wonderful, translucent green stone that looked like a piece of green quartz. On closer inspection, it looked more like melted glass from an old Coke bottle. But I knew as soon as I saw it I wanted it to be mine, Coke bottle or not.

The bracelet arrived at the seminar with a note from my friend who retrieved it for me, "Remember, you are the gift."  He had spent years studying Aikido in LA and had dozens of zen thoughts which he would impart when the occasion called for it. That was one of his better ones I thought.

I appreciated the spiritual sentiment. But by the next day, I was still thinking about how much the damn bracelet cost and why in the heck was I giving it away. That old "It's mine, I don't want to share" tug of war.

I was able to choose the Coke glass for my talisman. The person who chose my bracelet was an American Indian woman. I didn't think much about it at the time, but there are some ironic parallels between the massacre of her people and the massacre on 911.  I also thought she had other reasons for choosing it.

Mostly I wondered if this woman would just turn around and pawn it to gamble or buy liquor.  I'm not kidding. Straight to stereotypes, that's me. Nevermind that the seminar wasn't cheap, which meant she had to have a source of income.  I immediately assumed that everything I've seen on COPS and America's Most Wanted was true. Have I mentioned I paid a lot for that bracelet? I didn't tell HER because then I KNEW she'd sell it.

I was also comparing the "gift" I brought to help someone on his or her spiritual journey with the other "gifts" I saw. By out of pocket standards, it was head and shoulders above the others, which were mostly found items. Clearly, my personal growth in the spirituality area was treading water at best.   

One couple found a two dead leaves which they brought to share. I had to bite my tongue to keep from saying, "Wasn't there any dog poo in the park?"  Zen and the art of keeping one's mouth shut.

My attachment to the bracelet was bringing up an interesting thought process or two.  

Mostly my thoughts were selfish, materialistic, judgmental and controlling.  

Over the next five days I got to know the American Indian woman better. She was very kind and moved by what the bracelet stood for. Maybe she didn't drink and gamble after all.

When the seminar ended I even had her phone number and address so I could be sure my investment got a good home.

But by that time I was able to let it go. No strings. To this day I have never contacted her.

Now when September 11th rolls around, I think about that bracelet. I think about the people whose names were on it and I think about the woman I gave it to.

I also realize that if I had such a hard time parting with it, she will too, so I don't expect that she added a disk and passed it on to someone else yet.  Assuming she ever will at all. If she does, she is much more enlightened than I will ever be.
 
This year, when I re-read the stories about the people who died that day, I will also relive my angst over relinquishing the bracelet. Despite my misgivings, letting it go helped me move out of the fog of despair that wouldn't leave me for many weeks after 911.  The experience taught me some truths about myself, too.

There's still a little voice inside that says, "What were you thinking, giving the bracelet away?  You didn't even get to wear it."  It gets quieter with the passing years. But it never quite goes away.

Of course, I could always have another one made.  

It's That Time Again

I guess some folks are going to continue the tradition and have the VIVIs again. The awards that honor what passes for writing here at AOL.  I'll post a link LATER to last year's nominees so you can see how many of those blogs have gone to blogger.

That reminds me.  I have a blog over on blogger that I haven't posted in for over a month.  Ooops.

In all the categories for VIVIs there was nothing that honored what we who keep journals in J-Land value more than life itself:

COMMENTS

Honoring the most amusing commenter allows people who keep private journals to compete for a chance to win something. Obviously people with private journals can't compete to win one of the VIVIs because their journals are PRIVATE.  Ya know?

But comments are public. 

Last year the competition was close. It came down to the wire. As I recall,  in a very entertaining audio entry, I chose the winner of the only category I had -- funniest comment writer in this journal -- by putting all the names of the nominees in a hat, closing my eyes and choosing one.

I think Remo won.  But he had to beat Bosox [JOHN of Dating Psychopaths] and Swibirun [Chris of Inane and Insane].  There was someone else I believe, maybe even two more people, but I'd have to go back into the archives and find out who they were. Anna at La Vida Mommy? And I bet YAKVETTE [Root of Do I Amuse you]? I think she was one. She does amuse me. When she comments, that is, which is getting as rare as sex in the second year of marriage lately. But these are things I can check out later.  After my drugs kick in.

My awards were called the CHROMOS, since the VIVIs try to maintain a modicum of decorum and I wasn't going to fall for that shit. I don't remember why I called them the CHROMOS, but I do remember  the picture of the award looked like a chrome head on a Harley Davidson or the knob off a personal gratification device.  That was all the winner got -- congratulations and a gander at a picture of the award.  Like I'm going to spend money.

Anyway -- this year I would like to expand the comment categories. Several came to mind:  Most self serving.  Most typos.  Most annoying.  

So let's do the Writer Who Made the Funniest Comment[s] again. I do like to encourage laughter here. AND how about a new one called the the Writer Most Likely To Be Shitfaced While Commenting.

A quick review of several recent comments and you can see there is quite a field to choose from, especially in our new category.

So, feel free to express your opinion about who should be nominated -- in the comments, of course.  I will probably ignore you and choose who I want. But that's how it goes most of the time around here anyway.

I'll post the nominees two weeks from today.  If I forget, somebody remind me.

Ta Do List

If you're like me you make a list of things to do and lose it. So I thought I would just put it here. Maybe you can figure out where I'm going and why. These are the things I didn't get to last week because I was working when I thought I wouldn't be working.

DSW/Nrdstrm shoes -- two pairs of flats that would fit Shaquille O'Neal
L and T stockings -- patterns? opaques?
Pick up dry cleaning or you won't have anything to wear
Wash clothes -- or buy underwear
Pick up new slacks tomorrow
Find 85 mm lens -- Pack N70
Get batteries for cameras
Pick up digital camera from shop
Put necklace in velvet bag in black purse
Take silver purse?
Extra make up -- bronzer, brown pencil, new lipstick, gloss
L'Oreal roots
Get shampoo/conditioner in squeeze tubes
Two kinds of money
Figure out what you're going to wear for each day or else
Drop off CD to JB before trip
Call GB about party before trip

Mrs. Linklater's Football Column #3

There is a town about thirty minutes from me that is big enough to have three high schools. They all have the same name followed by their location, East, West, and South. For some reason they don't have a North. Apparently someone came up with the idea of letting kids go to whichever school they wanted to attend.  So all the smart kids go to one school and all the athletic kids go to one of the others. I don't know who goes to the third school. Hoodlums? Pregnant girls? Teachers with only one arrest for kiddy porn? 

Last year the school with all the athletic kids went to the state championship in football.

For some reason the school with all the smart kids still has a football team of its own. 

Last night my old high school played this ragtag bunch of computer geniuses. It was 21 to nothing before three minutes had passed in the first quarter.

So the coach made wholesale substitutions. The entire second team came in. By the end of the first quarter the score was 35 to nothing. 

There are over ninety boys on my alma mater's team. The other team had thirty-five kids.

They had almost as many cheerleaders as players, I noticed.  It was a good squad with cute uniforms, really snazzy pom poms, and plenty of guys to hoist the girls up in the air and make pyramids. They were a goodlooking, precision drilled group.  But it was pathetic watching them go through their cheers for a team that spent most of its time on its own twenty yard line.

Unlike the visiting team, my old high school doesn't have any cheerfleaders or pom pom girls -- even though there are over four thousand kids who go there. I think they took the feminist movement VERY seriously. 

Even though the music department is huge, they also don't have a marching band either. Instead one of the four or five jazz bands played during the game and halftime. That was cool. They were very good. They just didn't march or play marching music. There was a girls' dance team perfomance at half time. I guess a dance team is okay. But apparently, cheerleaders and pom pom girls are too 1960's. I don't know what the deal is about not having a marching band.

By the end of the first half the score of the football game was 55 to nothing. In the second half, the fourth team went in. Finally, the scoring stopped. Some people love it when it's a slaughter.  No need to worry about the outcome. But it's not fun to watch. 

I was impressed with one thing: Despite the fact that they had no hope of winning, the kids on the visiting team never gave up.  They ran on and off the field with enthusiasm. They jumped up after every play, as if the score was much closer. At the end, there were even a couple of guys who left it all on the field and had to be helped off.  I would have saved it for another day. Sitting there watching the carnage, you'd never know this hapless team was being crushed if you went by anybody's body language or willingness to go back out there for more punishment again and again. 

In about three weeks the school with the athletic kids will be coming to town. The one that's ranked among the top teams in the state. 

That will be a good game. As opposed to last night's human sacrifice.

I SAID EVACUATE, NOT EJACULATE

Today they had a practice evacuation from four big buildings in downtown Chicago.  As near as I could tell it was just an excuse for people to dress casually and leave work early.  They walked in a rather leisurely fashion from the huge buildings to a place across the river where some tents had been sent up a few blocks away.  Meanwhile two helicopters flew overhead for at least an hour, making a whole lot of noise and generally annoying everyone else who was trying to get some work done.

This drill lacked several crucial things:  there was no panic, there were no wounded, no buildings were on fire, and I didn't see anyone running through the streets carrying shoulder mounted rocket launchers.

I think only thing resembling a REAL evacuation today in downtown Chicago got flushed down the toilet.

What a Lode!

I can't believe no one is talking about the mother lode that's been found about two or three hundred miles off the New Orleans' coast. Only five miles or so down under the gulf those wacky folks who've been charging us an arm and a leg for gasoline have tapped into enough oil to double the daily output of Prudhoe Bay. When the Prudhoe pipeline is up and running that is.

We're talking billions and billions of barrels. The best quote I heard about this morning was some oil exec who said, "This will double our reserves by 50%." A classic.

Okay, you don't believe me. Well, just watch the price of gasoline keep dropping.

Social Security Eligibility Age Raised to Seventy

It could happen.

A recent study by AARP suggests that the best way to handle the Social Security crisis is to raise the retirement age from 65 to 70. 

Using nice round pie charts and a bunch of colorful graphs, the president of AARP, Arliss Chandler, presented the case for raising the age of eligibility to the House Committee on the effects of Viagra on our aging population.

"We have determined that hundreds of thousands of boomers who have reached their sixties are lying about their age on those internet dating sites, so we're going to hold them to it.," said Congressman Merv Danforth (R) New Hampshire, whose combover doesn't show in the right light.

"We catch you lying and saying you're fifty-five when you're really sixty - two, well, you can kiss your Social Security benefits good bye until you're a whole lot older," he explained.

Seniors who haven't been lying about their age in an attempt to hook up with some young stuff at Match.com or any of the other internet meeting places can claim their benefits the regular way.   By standing in line for years or remaining on hold indefinitely hoping someone will take the time to help them.

"Basically, you can have sex or you can have Social Security," explained Ellie Mae Genovese, 75, who has been saying sex is overrated for fifty years. "You want sex? You don't get no Social Security. Capiche?"

Many seniors are caught between getting on with retirement or getting off with some 54 year old nymphette. Viagra has altered the landscape for those living past sixty, if you take the time to read between the lines.

A number of senators speaking off the record say they're hoping that heart attacks from Viagra will help with attrition among seniors. "The aging population needs to die. And hurry up already. They're too many of them for us to take care of. Sex is the only thing that seems to get them to volunteer for an early death," said one official who spoke on condition of double top secrecy.

"We can't get them to row a boat out into the ocean anymore like we used to in the old days. That worked like gangbusters until Dateline started investigating. Now the wrinkled old crones all want a one week cruise first. Fine by me, but you try to find those old farts when the cruise is over and it's time for them to jump ship if you catch my drift. Our people have become quite frustrated by the lack of cooperation and take to tossing anybody overboard just to let off some steam. Lately, it's getting harder and harder to cover up the missing bodies," said a spokeperson for Disney's Big Red Boat, a popular family cruise that prides itself on limiting the number of "elderly" by getting them to dive overboard for quarters.

Fifty thousand men in their early sixties have already answered the siren song of Viagra and gone to the great hot tub in the sky.  "Only five or ten million to go," said Senator Barry Buttreau (D) Alabama, "and we've got this aging population thing knocked," claimed the legislator.

Meanwhile, NBC Today Show Host, Matt Lauer, confirmed that wearing white after Labor Day is no longer the dreaded fashion faux pas of the past.

Eating Healthy American Style

Over the years my breakfast has evolved from fried eggs sunnyside up, basted in bacon grease with two slices of the bacon that made the grease, plus a side of toast and butter, to Raisin Bran cereal with a large glass of fresh OJ, to my most recent preference, a container of peach or cherry Yoplait yogurt.  [Not that there hasn't been the occasional fall off the wagon into a pile of sweet rolls, French toast with lots of syrup, or when the craving hits, a Micky D's sausage burrito]. 

I still drink fresh squeezed orange or grapefruit juice early and often, but I switched from cereal to yogurt because I'm usually eating breakfast in the car on the way somewhere and it seemed like a better idea. Despite those convenient cereal cups, it only took one spill into the console to make me switch for good.

When I was new to the goodness of yogurt I tried a spoonful of plain and almost did a Jerry Lewis spit take before finding a napkin to deposit it into. This taste-free occasion was followed by discovering the fruit at the bottom yogurt, which still required stirring it all up to make the flavor palatable. And there was always the chance of getting a big chunk of plain yogurt without any fruit in it to cut the curdled taste. Causing me to search for a napkin to unload it.

Then I found Yoplait custard style yogurt in which everything was already blended and had a pudding like consistency. Did I mention sweet? Anything that makes an attempt to resemble dessert is okay in my book.

I even learned to love Yoplait's fat free yogurt flavors without having to resort to the custard style, just to get it down. Baby steps. Food as medicine has never been my forte. Over time I was very proud of myself for actually starting to like the flavor of yogurt. Well, America's version of yogurt. For some reason I thought it actually resembled real yogurt. Until I tasted the English version and realized that REAL yogurt, even with fruit in it, tastes muy horrible. The way it's supposed to. 

I have actually learned to look forward to my peach or cherry Yoplait in the morning. Now something even more wonderful has happened. About a month ago I discovered Yoplait Whips.

Is it possible that something they call yogurt could actually taste this good?  It has the consistency of mousse. No really, it does. And it tastes wonderful. Not a hint of yogurt taste. What could be more perfect? The first time I tried the peach I seriously wondered if you could light some brandy over the top and call it dessert.  No, I didn't go there. I'm sure there's enough sugar in there to qualify.

Well, I'm off to work. As I walk out my back door, I'll stop by the fridge and grab one of the raspberry chocolate Yoplait Whips I purchased over the weekend.  I haven't tried the taste yet, but I can't wait.  It sounds so GOOOOOOOOD. 

HE DIED QUICKLY DOING WHAT HE LOVED

I had a Princess Diana moment when I woke up and learned that Steve Irwin was dead. It didn't seem possible. What are the chances of being stung in the heart by a manta ray? Okay, pretty good when you're swimming up close and personal with them I guess. But I bet most people are like me and just assumed he would die rasslin' a crocodile.

Even though The Crocodile Hunter was a wild and crazy guy who got in trouble for carrying his baby into the croc bin, his enthusiasm and love for animals was infectious. And there was a charming love story about him and his wife, Terri.

She is American. Also a naturalist I believe. She went to Australia with a friend and they made a visit to his zoo. When the Croc guy and Terri met, they both were so smitten that Terri's friend took a picture of the two of them right after introductions.

Do you have a picture of the first time you met that special person in your life? Probably not, since photos taken in clubs are usually pretty dark. But maybe you had an introduction in the sunlight, say when you hit someone's car and the police recorded the occasion? I know I don't have a photo of the first time I met anyone I had a longterm relationship with. Except in my mind's eye. 

I also realize we all have other relationships that many consider equally as important as the men and women in our lives, but pictures of the day you brought home your favorite pet, Bowser, aren't quite the same. Ya know?

I Think I'm in Love

Actually, I've read more of DCBachelor's blog and while I love what he writes, especially about Starbucks, he's almost got more edge to him than I do -- I said ALMOST:
http://www.dcbachelor.com/2005/how-to-get-free-drinks-at-starbucks

HOW TO GET FREE DRINKS AT STARBUCKS
By DCB

 During my years frequenting Starbucks, I’ve observed ways to beat the system and get free drinks. This is dedicated to your poor schmos who can't afford an affordable luxury. I pay for my drinks but have “accidentally” stumbled on these field-tested rules.

 Rule number 1: Go the busiest store near you to capitalize on worker confusion.

 The key is to find a *$ that is busy, where confusion makes it easy to get away with things. If you go to an empty store where the person who rings you up is the same person who makes your drink, you aren’t getting away with anything.

 Rule number 2: Make it seem like your order was incorrect.

 If a barista screws up your order, they correct it and give you a coupon for a free drink the next time you come. Technically this isn’t completely free since you have to make that first purchase, but you can keep the chain alive and get free drinks forever.
 Example: “Yeah, um, this is a caramel latte but I actually ordered a vanilla latte.” Of course you really did order a caramel latte but the person who took your order is busy (you’re at a busy *$ remember?) and forgot what you really ordered.

Rule number 3: Purchase something small and then act like a patient, confused customer waiting for his coffee beverage.

 A bolder extension of rule number two is the real/fake purchase scam. You first need to order a baked good from the cash register person. After she gives it to you in a bag, mill around for about five minutes and then go to the barista and say, “Have you made a grande white mocha?” Look confused but gentle, like a puppy dog. They will look at their cups and see it was missing, and then promptly add yours to the queue.

Rule number 4: Wait by the bar like a snake and grab a drink that has been sitting there for more than 3 minutes.

 At busy stores the inefficiencies in the system cause a lot of duplicate drinks to be made. The drinks sit on the bar for a while until the baristas throw them away. All you gotta do is go up there and grab a drink. This scam has a couple downsides: the drinks will probably be lukewarm by the time you get it and like a person shopping for a home in a hot real estate market, you will never get your first choice. Most of the drinks are lattes with some wussy modification like a splash of soy milk.

Rule number 5: Greet baristas by their name.

 If you are a regular at a specific store, simply ask for the first names of the people that work there and introduce yourself. They will promptly forget your name but it doesn’t matter, for each time you go there and greet them by name you create a friendly vibe that encourages them to hook you up. It’s acceptable to be a little funny. To milk your connection indefinitely, it may be a good idea to tip them every now and then so they don’t think you are cheap. Little do they know that you are just broke because you have no skills that companies would pay for.

 There are holes in every system and if you patient enough its easy to pick them apart with simple observation. I conclude with a disclaimer: don’t blame me if your stupid ass gets caught.

It Ain't Over Til It's Over

It's nice to know I'm not alone. Here's a guy who has taken the time to classify baristas. Link to the DC Bachelor's blog:
http://www.dcbachelor.com/2005/types-of-starbucks-baristas

THE SEVEN TYPES OF STARBUCKS BARISTAS
By DCB

 Most Starbucks baristas seem to fit a universal pattern. Aged between eighteen to twenty-six, they can be placed in one of the following seven categories:

 1. The A/V Geek. These baristas were in the control room during all their high school plays because they didn’t like the spotlight — and even if they did, the spotlight wouldn’t have liked like them. Their fake-nice customer service is less believable than the last stripper who told me she liked me for my personality. You can see hate in their eyes as they make your double foam latte - against you, the world, and themselves.

 2. The Club Kid. This guy thinks working at Starbucks doesn’t bring his cool factor down a notch — in fact he thinks being a barista is so counterculture that he brags about it to the girls he meets. He often brings in his annoying friends and hooks them up with femininely colored frappuccino (they get kicked out of the mall so often that there is nowhere else for them to really go). Because The Club Kid is vain, you often see him in actual club gear, with hair gel’d back and seashell bracelet clacking away as he extra hot’s your drink.

 3. The Homely Woman. She is cheery, nice and generally welcomes human interaction. Unfortunately, the homely woman is very unattractive, doomed to nightly “Tired of all the games” postings on Craigslist personals.

 4. The Hipster. For a guy that hates corporations, it sure is ironic to see him working for the one company that has played the only major role in the McDonaldsification of coffee. You’ll often here him say, “I work there for the health benefits,” like he’s doing Starbucks a favor. Unless you go to poetry readings and art showings, you are not on his green apron wearing level. The hipster can also be a girl, who thinks her blue hair fights social conformity. She’s too slow to realize that responding to culture in any way is still conformity.

 5. The Transient. Usually male, short, and overflowing with awkward facial hair, this guy is anti-social and doesn’t fit into the Starbucks model of friendliness. He often leaves within 3 months, never to be seen again. No one notices - not even his friends.

 6. The Loser Dick. Failing miserably on the comedy circuit, this barista thinks you want to hear his unfunny, cocky statements. Dude, you work at Starbucks, just ring up my seven layer bar and shut up. He uses Starbucks customers as an audience for when he will make it someday, replacing the stuffed animal audience at home when he goes through another round of being an actor (i.e. unemployment).

 7. The Hot Girl. Chances are you will see a three-legged dog before you catch a hot girl barista, but she does make [rare] appearances. She drives up sales and tips of a particular location due to lonely guys who use Starbucks as their only social outlet, but she never dates a customer because she can not respect a guy who spends $4 a day on coffee. Instead she goes out with the studly jock who picks her up after work in his jeep, equipped with extra big wheels for cul-de-sac offroading.

 This list covers 95% of coffee addicted baristas, whose palpating hearts beg for mercy every day.

Mrs. Linklater's Football Column No. 2

Friday night football at my old high school.

Second game of the season. Second play of the game -- a forty yard bomb from the quarterback to a kid he's known since grade school. Touchdown. And I thought the head coach had no imagination.

By the end of the first half the score was 22-7. One rushing TD, two in the air. One two-point conversion. Or was it three touchdowns. Two missed PATs. And one field goal. Whatever.

Earlier in the week, my friends' son was told by the running backs coach that he wouldn't start at running back unless the other back was dead or something equally inspiring. Coaches never cease to find ways to foster camraderie among the players.

Before the game the two boys -- teammates, friends, and competitors -- pounded shoulders, banged helmets, did that thumb wrap handshake thing, and hugged each other.

During the game my friends' son played hard on defense and special teams. He even went into the backfield a few times, but only on passing plays.

In the fourth quarter, the other running back, who had been nursing a flu-like bug, suddenly got sick on the sidelines.

Hollywood moment, sort of. By that time there was no question who was going to win the game. With the starting running back too sick to continue, now was a good time to use up the clock. On the ground.

On seven carries, my friends' kid ran for 159 yards and two touchdowns, one of them a sixty-five yard sprint through the line.

Finalscore 35-7.

Yes. We got the game on video. Four cameras. One up in the stands. Three on the field.

The best part was afterward, over beer and pepperoni pizza at a local post game hangout.  What a retro place. I hadn't been there since a paddle tennis tournament ten years ago. There's a huge, dark and smoky bar on one side with pine paneling and TVs hanging everywhere. On the other side, there's another large room decorated like someone's basement, which passes for their restaurant. Coaches, players, parents, realtives, and friends all milled around enjoying the good feelings that always follow a win, especially a blow out. 

The fathers of the two running backs pulled up chairs next to each other, while players and coaches, still full of adrenaline, walked around hoovering up the pizzas that covered every single table. The dads huddled together, beers in hand, talking about how exciting it was to have not one, but two fine players in the backfield. This was seconded by the defensive coach, the receivers coach, and interestingly, the head coach.

The one dad and his wife, my friends, have only one son. He was so tired after the game he went home with a request to bring him some food.

The other dad has four sons, all current or former stars on the team. He himself is in his high school and college halls of fame. Normally laconic, he was positively effusive the other night, regaling us all with stories about the good old days.

Turns out, at one time I was good friends with a college idol of the hall of fame dad. Plus the godfather of my younger daughter was a legendary player at his high school and Notre Dame. With those impeccable credentials, he is willing to talk football with me. At least let me listen to his conversation with my friend. From time to time, I would interject with things like "Pass the pizza."  "Are there any more napkins?" "Can I get a root beer?"

One of the hall of fame dad's other sons came into the basement that looks like a restaurant wearing a basketball jersey. He's one of the starting safeties. His shoulders and arms were bright red. I asked him how he got a sunburn playing ball at night. He said it was from being iced after the game. Yes, he laughed at me for asking.

The team picked to win the league has been beaten twice already. Both non conference games. Nevertheless, they're still ranked in the top 20 in the state. All because they made it to the finals of the state championship last year. That rankles.

This week's parting cliche:  One game at a time.

Mrs. Linklater and the Barista--Round Three

No, I'm not going to continue this YOU SAID-OH NO I DIDN'T thing anymore.

For three reasons:

First it's getting boring.

Second, this "dialogue" all started when one of the Starbucks baristas thought I called all of them slackers. 

I went back to re-read what I wrote and noticed I actually didn't call them slackers, I called them "slacker wannabes."  A slacker wannabe is someone who still lives at home but has to work because Mom and Dad need the couch.

Third, it has become apparent that at its core, this spew has nothing to do with me.

I know, you were hoping I'd bring out the REALLY big guns.  But, in the end, it's no fun against an unarmed person.

Mrs. Linklater Responds to Her Critic--Part One

Let me respond to the young person who left several comments in my journal about the recent entry I wrote, concerning the unionization of Starbucks' coffee.

NOTE: I have been putting an apostrophe before the "s" in Starbucks. This is wrong apparently. Even though Starbuck was the name of the character in Moby Dick and Starbuck's would be the correct way to spell the possessive of Starbuck, upper management probably decided not to get into the whole "where does the apostrophe go?" issue and dispensed with it altogether.

Do not be alarmed by the presentation of the numbers in reverse.  I simply copied all the comments as they were left, so this is kind of like a David Letterman countdown.

COMMENT:
12) "I think what we have is a bunch of whiny thirty something slacker wannabes who haven't got a clue what real work is like."

Slackers? Do you realize this job affords NO sitting time whatsoever? You're on your feet, back and forth, at the beck and call of the general public. Service with a smile.

Mrs. Linklater responds:
From the Wikipedia definition of slacker:

The term slacker was commonly used in the United States in World War I and World War II to describe men who were avoiding the military draft.  But in the 50's it specifically referred to a variety of tendencies in the young generation -- a use popularized by Richard Linklater's movie Slacker.  subsequently spawning the label "slacker generation."  A typical slacker is characterized by a static unenthusiastic air manifesting in an apparent lack of effort. This lack of motivation is usually represented as a status of unemployment or only minor employment in the service industry. [Underline and lovely shade of red Mrs. L's]

COMMENT:
I spent six and a half hours in anaphylactic shock in the hospital one night from an albuterol treatment, and guess what? I was at work 2 hours later at 4:45 in the morning so that Joe Schmo could come get his iced quad grande sugar free hazelnut nonfat light ice extra whip caramel macchiato. Am I a slacker? I don't think so.

Mrs. Linklater:
What is it about minor employment in the service industry that you don't understand?

COMMENT:
And last, but not least.

Do not, I repeat, do NOT insult my intelligence or doubt my competence without even knowing who I am. I am that 21 year old barista who has worked herself to the bone to get to where she is right now.

Mrs. Linklater:
What are you, some kind of control freak?  I'll do what I want.

COMMENT:
Could I make your drink with three customizations right? Yes. Could the particular barista at the Starbucks you frequented do it? I don't know.

Mrs. Linklater:
Apparently you didn't understand what I said. Let me repeat it ver-r-r-r-ry sl-o-o-owly for you. I said that I stopped ordering a 1) tall  2) decaf  3) mocha frap with a 4) shot of almond. That's four things, not three.  I don't order it anymore because the baristas couldn't handle an order with more than THREE things. They kept f**king up the order. Especially the "DE-CAF" part. So the fact that YOU can do three customizations makes you about average. Being able to do four is too tough for the average barista in my experience.  Reading comprehension is apparently too tough for baristas too.  

COMMENT:
Your problem is mostly generalization and stereotypes. Your little corner of the world does not equate to the rest of the company or the individuals in their employ.

Mrs. Linklater:
I have an opinion. I don't have a problem. You're the one who is having the problem.   

COMMENT:
I understand your stance on the unionization, but your point on that could have been made without generally bashing ALL those employed by the company.

Mrs. Linklater:
You're control freaking again.  I can do what I want.

COMMENT:
I'd really love to see you try and get through just two training shifts at Starbucks and see if you think it's still just "pouring coffee".

Mrs. Linklater
Luckily I never had to.

COMMENT:
Damn, I need a caramel apple cider...

Mrs. Linklater:
Odd place for levity.  But funny.
 
PS: As far as the Barista community on LJ goes...that is our place to bitch and whine about work. This is your place to bitch and whine about coffee. Any questions?

Mrs. Linklater:
I repeat, you have not comprehended what I wrote. This journal was my place to bitch about Starbucks' potential unionization. The terrible, burnt coffee, stale food and baristas were lucky strike extras.  

COMMENT:
 7) Part-time benefits

Twenty hours a week average gets you benefits. This is not a stretch, really. We're not so different from other retail and even desk jobs. I'm sorry...if you were working part-time somewhere and they offered you benefits. I do believe you'd take them if you were in my situation. No moron in their right mind would say, "No thanks, I'm good!"

Starbucks spent more on their employees' benefits and training last year than they did on coffee. Think about that.

Mrs. Linklater:
Once again your reading comprehension suffers. Starbucks is different from other retail establishments and companies that employ people part-time. Part-time equals no benefits. I'm quite impressed that Starbucks offers benefits to employees who work part-time. I can't believe the employees would risk losing them just to have a union.

COMMENT:
8) "Only making hot and cold liquids and pouring them into containers. Or sliding a cookie into a bag."

I'm not going to go into all that goes on in a normal shift at Starbucks, but it is evident, madam, that you have not paid ANY attention at all.

Mrs. Linklater:
Sorry, I forgot about making change.

COMMENT:
9) Union stuff.

Okay. I'm not for a Unionization Movement (tm). I'm really not. I think we're given enough great benefits, partner contacts, perks, etc. So I'm not going to argue with you. I think the whole "organize now" mentality is a little overdone and unneeded.

Mrs. Linklater:
I bet you cave just like everybody else is going to.

COMMENT:
I still don't agree, however, that it's "just pouring coffee".

Mrs. Linklater:
Okay, it's brain surgery.

COMMENT:
When you look at it, most of those behind this union movement are managers, assistant managers and shift supervisors. Your typical barista, true, is not in it for the long haul. They're college kids that need some money. And what's wrong with that? But more on that later.

Mrs. Linklater:
I never said there was anything wrong with people working part-time to make some money. I asked why would anyone want to work fulltime at Starbucks? It didn't seem like a smart career move to me.

COMMENT:
10) Safety

Any food service job has safety concerns. I've burned myself at least once a week since I started back in April. I don't complain. It's part of a job. I'm sure postal carriers get sunburn, and data entry clerks get carpal tunnel. That's part of the job. You deal.

Mrs. Linklater:
Once again this whole reading comprehension thing is raising its ugly head.  I was talking about the chances of becoming permanently disabled.