Anything is possible! So why am I not happy? A great presentation by Barry Schwartz. (via kbee)

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I'm back home. In DC. We flew in last night. And even though I truly loved seeing friends and family in Dallas, I am very relieved to be back on the east coast again. I feel grounded. I woke to the familiar sounds of car horns and sirens this morning, which kind of gave me a warm fuzzy feeling. And I'm ready to re-train my legs on how to do this thing called walking.

The last few weeks have been a mixture of fun, chaos, laughter, and frustration. Because it was the holidays, I can't really say it was at all times relaxing. But overall it was great. There were many days spent catching up with mom and sis, dad and bro, which was really good and heart warming, and long overdue. There were late-night fireside chats with the Hill-Farmers - miss you guys! Let's see what else . . . James, thanks for the great chops on the grill. Yancy, thanks for the incredible lunch at Texas de Brazil. And Dave: I always loves me some Blue Goose.

I hung out a lot at Dunn Brothers Coffee in Addison, which has great coffee and free wifi. I highly recommend this place if you're in the DFW-area and looking for a place to get online and work. Just stay away from the sandwiches. They are purely there for emergency hunger situations only. Do not expect anything that tastes remotely like the ingredients described on the packaging. Or any other ingredient that might be described as 'food,' for that matter.

For Christmas weekend, my long-time best friend Paul - who I've known since I was four and who is also something of a brother to me - and his wife Erica drove up from Houston to spend a couple of days with us for what amounted to extended periods of eating and talking followed by shorter periods of silent, uncomfortable digestion.

And in between all of the festivities there was driving. Lots and lots of driving.

I stayed offline for most of last week, which means I've got a lot of catching up to do. Oh, and my new pair of jeans is telling me it's time to either get back to the gym or face up to a larger size. I'm going to opt for the former.

Bring it on, 2007. I'm friggin' ready for you.

link to this | comments (5) | File:  Dallas  DC  Family  Friends  Ho_Hum 

On the way to Dallas I met an older guy who was heading to Puerto Vallarta with his wife for the holidays. Evidently, when you're retired you can do that sort of thing.

We exchanged opinions about which DC-area airport is the best (DCA), which airline has the most legroom (American), and places to go in Texas (there's only one - Austin).

Anyway, I immediately liked him because he had a way with language. At one point, he told me that he used to 'drive truck' for a living. I had never heard this profession put this way - as an action. In singular. He didn't say, 'I was a truck driver' or 'I drove trucks.' It was 'drive truck.' Right on. I got you, brother. I used to give a similar response my first three years out of college: 'I tend bar.' For some reason I didn't like saying, 'I'm a bartender.' Because in the end, are we ever just that? I hate being identified by my job. It's much better to state your profession as an action - as something that you do. Not something that you are.

So from now on, I develop web. Oh, and write nonsense. Kinda makes me wish I were a heart surgeon. Then I would fix heart.

What do you do?

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This morning I went for an early morning walk in my mom's neighborhood. It was a beautiful, crisp morning. About 45 degrees. Slight humidity. My breath was thick and white. The moon above was still faintly visible in the early blue sky.

All seemed right. All seemed good. I followed the neighborhood road to the big road. And I walked along the big road, because there was a sidewalk next to it and it seemed okay to do this thing. It seemed okay to walk. But, as I trekked, a slight fear took hold. I'm not sure they use the sidewalks for people here. There must be some other malevolent purpose. Perhaps it's to roll out the coffins of a dying humanity. But I don't know. I'm only basing this on what I saw. And what I saw was no people.

They don't do humans in the concrete lanes of North Dallas. You know: humans. As in 'human beings.' I didn't see one on my 45-minute jaunt.

But I did see a lot of another, much larger creature. These beings soared by me feverishly on their four short, stubby legs, each one wearing big black circles for shoes. They made loud screams and drew deep menacing breaths. I couldn't understand them because their language was full of power and intimidation.

I looked, but I didn't see any of the creatures like me - the slower ones on two legs, the ones with skin and nails and hair and teeth. Not one.

It was scary and disorienting. And when I got home, I locked the door behind me.

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I'm not a migratory creature. At least not in practice. In theory, I love to move around. And once I'm doing it - once I'm in the midst of ramble - it feels good and right and true. I mean, there's nothing better than a little change of environs, right? But in practice, I'm served a good helpin' of lumpy stress right before I travel a long distance for more than a couple of days. I become possessed by an irresistible urge to tie up every possible loose end I can think of - even if it's something I've been putting off for weeks or months. Shit! I have got to paint the bedroom. Right now. If I stay up all night, I'm sure I can get it done, and still have an hour or so left over for packing. Okay, maybe the painting example is a little extreme. I mean, I'm not crazy - I'd never actually attempt anything more than a small bathroom the night before a trip.

One thing my pre-travel angst usually does include is a good tidying-up. And what it all really boils down to, you understand, is a putting off of the packing process. Because that's when things get hairy. So the longer I can find something to do that is not packing, the longer I can stay somewhat sane. And sober. Because, for me, nothing spells a-l-c-o-h-o-l-b-i-n-g-e better than an empty suitcase and a morning flight. This is the moment of truth, brother. Where you must face the cold reality that, despite all your planning, you will forget something. And, chances are, it will be the-one-thing-you-absolutely-did-not-want-to-forget.

So I will begin that journey now. I hear a glass of Dewars calling softly to me. If you're in Big-D. I look forward to seeing you soon. If you're not, I will miss you. Especially C, who won't be making the trip to Texas until later. Baby, without you, I may become a quivering lump of jello by the time you find me at Christmas.

By the way, one loose end I did tie up this afternoon, even if I didn't paint the bedroom, was a changing of the header graphic above, which has long needed rotation. I meant to change it for the fall, but now that's come and gone. So time to do something for winter which, after all, is my favorite season.

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I was talking with somebody just last week about how Apple is in a good position to make a serious move into the office. I think Microsoft and PC companies are somewhat in denial about this. Of course, the day Apple becomes a corporate machine is probably the day they lose some of their 'cool,' which is why they need to do this in just the right way, with just the right demographic. Strategy will be key. But this shouldn't be a problem, as Apple does not seem to be wanting for strategic thinkers.

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If my level of worry were a color scale, like say, this one, then I would have been at Red, or 'Severe' last Friday afternoon. Over the weekend, it subsided somewhat to Orange, or 'High,' allowing my jaw to relax just enough to put solid food in it again. And Monday it was brought down to a familiar Yellow, or 'Elevated.' I spend most of my time at this level, or at the one just below it: Blue, or 'Guarded.' I am never at Green, or 'Low' - because, you know, if things are going your way, it usually means you're just not looking hard enough.

Last week I decided I had to return this laptop I had ordered from HP. I realized it as soon as I removed it from the box: it was too big, and in this case, size mattered. I didn't want to admit it at first. In all other respects the machine was perfect. I thought maybe I would warm to the idea of this huge laptop over Thanksgiving. But as I traveled with my old laptop, which is a modest 15-inches, it made me realize that carrying a 17-incher - which was like hoisting a small coffee table on my back - was not going to be fun. Those extra two inches really make a difference. And since, when I'm not traveling, I usually plug into a big monitor anyway, the added size just seemed superfluous. It was a poor decision on my part. I'll leave it at that.

So I called HP and told them I'd like to return it. I still wanted to get an HP, but with it being so close to the holidays, and to the release of Vista, I decided I'd wait until the end of January (which is when Vista is supposed to ship) to order another one. HP was okay with that, though they did give it the old college try to get me to exchange instead of return. Their technique was subtle - the power of suggestion. I would say, "I'd like to return my laptop." And they would say, "Okay, I can help you with that exchange." And I would say, "Actually, I'd just like to return it." And they'd come back with, "Which model would work better for you." Luckily, I was on the phone, and couldn't see their hand-waving, or I might have succumb. But in the end, I was able to resist their jedi mind tricks, and they set up a return shipment with FedEx. I didn't even have to pay for shipping. HP really does have pretty good, if persistent, sales and customer support.

By the way - I know that I'm insulting all of you Mac zealots by even contemplating a PC. And believe me, I've tossed this around in my head long and hard. I played with a MacBook Pro all during Thanksgiving and was wowed by it's lightweight, silvery coolness and it's ability to play with multiple operating systems. But in the end it has come down to price, and native software availability. And so I'll be going with a PC for at least one more computer purchase.

Anyway, last Thursday, I taped up the box and headed out to a FedEx Kinkos near me. But on the way, I ran into a FedEx driver making a delivery. So I asked him if I could leave the package with him and he said, "Yeah man." And I said, "Cool, daddy." And I was thinking, How easy is this?

The correct answer is: Too Easy.

The next day I decided to check in on the package. I entered the tracking number and discovered it hadn't yet been scanned, even though it was more than 24 hours since I'd given it to the driver. This was not like FedEx. I began to question the wisdom of giving a brand new two-thousand dollar laptop to the random FedEx guy I crossed paths with on the street, without any kind of receipt, or even his name. Apparently these weren't the only things that were unwise about the decision. Upon calling FedEx, I realized the driver had been a FedEx Ground driver. Not Express. And for those of you who might be clueless, like myself, and think - ridiculously - that if a company has the same name and the same logo, that if you use the same number to call each of them, well then they must be the same company - this information is for you: Stop living with your head in the clouds. They're obviously completely different. Shall I point out that one logo has an orange 'Ex', where the other's is green? Also, and I should think this would be obvious, but one has the word 'Ground' after it, while the other has the word 'Express.' It's a no-brainer.

Basically, FedEx Ground guys are not supposed to take FedEx Express packages. They don't scan in their portable scanning devices. This was information that didn't help me at all. "Okay, well my local driver did take mine," I said. I was told that yes, this is something that happens, so the drivers usually drop things off at certain locations for one-another.

Of course, I didn't hear any of this rationalizing nonsense. All I heard was: Oh well, we do apologize, but you fucked up. Stress level: Red.

I'm of a certain temperament that finds it logical at times like these to simply impale myself on a nearby fence rather than deal with the uncomfortable knowledge that a seemingly benign decision on my part may have, in fact, just cost me two grand for a laptop I didn't want and which I don't even have possession of. But luckily, I do have a more rational side that kicks in and tells me that, no, it is probably better to continue living and face up to this harsh reality than not.

So I waited. I bit my nails. I half listened to conversations around me and muddled my way through a wonderful dinner at M&E's Friday night (sorry guys). Bottom line: I thought about little else all weekend. I did make a call on Saturday and was put in touch with a dispatcher at FedEx Express. He was nice and told me that this sort of thing happens a lot, that there was probably a delay, and it should get picked up either today or Monday. This helped somewhat.

Stress level: Orange.

Saturday I continued to check. No scan. Sunday I practiced various Zen relaxation techniques, which included a walk to the Dupont Farmer's Market and large dosages of NFL football. These had temporary calming effects, but no lasting significance. Monday, I checked again. No scan. I called. The response: wait another day. It's sure to come up today. But I had my own plan: I opened my blinds while I worked and waited to see the FedEx Ground truck out my window. I usually see him several times in the course of any given week and figured if I kept a watchful eye outside, I was sure to catch him. And sure enough, I saw him parked across the street around 2 o'clock. So I went over to talk to him: "Yo, no scanning of the package, Daddy-O," I said. (In my communications with delivery men, I like to pretend I'm in a Quentin Tarantino movie.) "No way," he said. "I dropped it off. Straight up. Check back later, Jack." So no answers yet, but his attitude put me more at ease. It quelled any fears I had that he might have forgotten about it - or worse - made off to Mexico with it (a thought I briefly entertained until I realized it would be a pretty stupid move on his part and surely not worth the effort.) He also gave me his name, which provided me with some leverage if I had to call FedEx again.

Stress level: Yellow.

Monday night, 6:15 pm. Check one more time before meeting Feetnik for dinner. Still no scan. Damn, damn, damn. Ready to call in the A.M.

Stress level: Holding at Yellow.

Yesterday morning, check tracking id - Success! -the package was scanned at 6:25 pm Monday evening. I had just missed it before heading out for dinner. If I had waited about 10 more minutes, it would have prevented one more night of worry. But whatever, I was in the clear! Crisis averted. I was not out two grand.

Stress level: Blue . . . for now.

Thanks, FedEx for making my winter weekend full of fall colors. Now on to my next item of agita: a two week trip to Texas. I leave Saturday, but I think I'll begin packing (and worrying) this morning.

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Dear Mike Shanahan - Despite the loss, sending in Cutler was a good choice. Hopefully he'll iron out those rookie mistakes and be on for next season. But what was up with that fake field goal call last night? Did you forget Elam is 36? His legs are far to valuable to be used scrambling for first downs.

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It's ironic that just after the Cowboys released kicker Vanderjagt, and Jerry Jones vowed never to spend a lot of money on a kicker again - which I think was a short-sighted remark - this weekend's game against the Giants came down to a field goal by the risky replacement: Martin Gramatica. Besides having a cool name, Gramatica has achieved temporary rock-star status in Dallas. But he's still only a backup singer to Romo.

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It took us about 40 minutes to get through the security line at Dulles last week. Not the longest line I'd been in, but not exactly short either. As we got closer to the metal detectors, a TSA agent made an important announcement. Her hands cupped over her mouth, at full voice, she shouted what seemed to be a set of instructions. And when she was finished we were all very impressed. And we knew - this was not somebody to be trifled with. These were clearly important instructions and we would follow them.

If we could only recall a single one.

"Did you understand what she just said?" asked C.

"Well, yeah. Sure I did," I offered. "Of course. She said . . . you know, for people to go over there, I think . . . and then . . ." I scratched my head. The instructions had seemed so absolute. So clear. And yet I was having difficulty bringing them to mind. "Strange," I said. "They seemed pretty obvious a second ago."

Then it happened again. More shouting. And sounds coming from her mouth, sounds which had all the qualities of speech - tone, distinct syllables, vowels, consonants - and yet these sounds brought to mind no particular words, no real language.

"Amazing," I said.

"Is that a language?"

"I don't think so."

"But I sort of understand it."

"I know."

We were witnessing a great and wonderful thing: the conveyance of meaning through lingual sounds completely disassociated from any recognizable language. It was incredible.

Roughly translated, this was the overall message:

You folks there - go over there in that line!

Okay now. Move, move, move. Let's go!

Now you folks - go to that line!

Have your boarding pass in your hand!

Only liquids in 5-ounce bottles are allowed!

Laptops out of cases!

See? We understood. We got it. The thoughts were planted in our brains. And yet when we tried to reconstruct the exact way they had arrived there, the means by which they had been rooted, we were at a loss. It was as if the barrier between language and meaning had been momentarily knocked down allowing us to look directly at the colorful lava lamp of transcendence. It gave me the shivers.

One of my favorite parts of a Cirque du Soleil performance is when the clowns walk among the audience members before the show starts, engaging themselves - and the crowd - in various acts of slapstick humor. My grandfather liked clowns, too. He collected them. And I think I know at least one of the reasons why: like my grandfather, clowns are people of few words. They're oddly fascinating, clowns. And part of the reason is that they don't speak. That is, they don't speak English. Or French. Or any discernible language, really. If they speak at all, they speak in a tongue called Gibberish, a dialect most people don't understand without the aid of expressive body movements, which clowns are great at. It's a subtle magic, what clowns do. And the spell is that when they speak Gibberish, you can understand it. You laugh. And that's all that matters.

I sometimes wish all communication were like this. Less what we say, and more how we say it. Get to the core, man.

There's a guy selling the Washington Post each morning at the corner of K and New York. He walks hunched over, and with a swaying limp, holding the papers in his left hand, one held up high over his head in his right, belting out two words: POOOOAH! . . . . AIYYYYY! Then a pause. Then again: POOOOAH! . . . . AIYYYYY! And repeat. Okay, they're not really words. More like sounds. And in any other circumstance, they might be taken for some kind of backwards hip-hop chant. (Which, if I'm honest, is actually how I like to think of them.) They echo through the morning air from a couple blocks away in either direction. Now, I know what he's saying. It's this: POOOOOst! todAYYYYY! But does it really matter? The main idea is he's holding a stack of papers and making a lot of noise. I get it: he's selling the Post. Effectively, I might add.

C and I sometimes stop using the English language with one another. We will utter strange, primal phrases like the kind you find frozen in ice in the highest regions of Mount Everest. Ancient syllables that, through the cupcake of time, find their way to our lips where they take form and quiver directly on our consciousness, tap-dancing lightly on our temporal lobe. I guess it's something married couples develop. The ability to create new languages. It's kind of like music.

Okay, I've jumped around a lot, I know. But here's the deal: Sometimes language is an obstacle. This weekend, try talking gibberish to some people. It's liberating. And you might just find people understand you. They may even understand you better.

That is all. Have a good weekend. And if you have a moment, take a look at some more San Francisco pics.

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I think I've had an epiphany this morning. Career change. I want to make clips like this for a living. This is so great. Thanks, Sparkle, for the link.

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