Further adventures in word choice

So by now you've no doubt heard about this. Let me just say that I hope that any of you who travel the Red Line are all right, as are your friends and family. I'm an Orange Line guy myself, so I heard about it after I got home.

But it's national news. 7 dead, scores injured. Large-scale activities by rescue personnel, using heavy equipment to move through the wreckage. The true scope of the damage still undetermined, not to mention the unanswered question of how this happened in the first place.

And on my way in this morning, the sagacious disembodied voice of the Metro system suggested that I might be delayed in my travels this morning due to a "disturbance" on the Red Line.

A disturbance. That was the exact word.

For the record: I'm a rational adult. I can handle the maddeningly vague language in most cases. I can grin and bear the grotesque distortion they've made of the word "momentarily" and the condescension of thanking me for my patience while I'm stuck in an underground tunnel between stations. I can even grit my teeth as the Metro Lady switches to her mean voice and sternly tells me, sans "please" mind you, to STAND CLEAR OF THE DOORS. Because clearly, in a packed afternoon metro train on a 90-degree day, I need to be barked at by a fucking Tandy 1000 on wheels.

But "disturbance"? Are you kidding me? Seven people died, and you can't even scare up the decency to call it an accident? As if there's anyone riding the train at this point who doesn't know about it, especially since just about every single person who lives near the greater DC metro system got a call yesterday from some friend or relative to see if they're okay?

Of all the ridiculous bullshit. Just when you think that WMATA, whose manager apparently won some kind of award recently (I would imagine, or at least hope, that it was for Understating Euphemism of the Year, but I doubt they're that self-aware), can't show any less regard for the people who keep them in business, they set the bar so very, aggravatingly much lower.

I'm pissed. I'm disgusted.

I am, dare I say it, "disturbed."

Fuck you, Metro. Or, in a translation worthy of your PR people:

Thank you for your service.

We kinda got a mall...

I may be the last person on Earth to have seen this by now (or at least, the last one in the DC metro area), but in the event that you haven't yet, you have to watch this. Like, right now.




Brilliant.

And while we're at it, a little something new from the man himself:


Because really? It's more fun than working.

On relative difficulty

Japanese has three distinct levels of formality, the use of which depends on the relationship between the speaker and his or her counterpart. Talking to your boss? High formality, high respect. Your kids? Different level of formality. Your peers get the third. The concern over this distinction, and the embarassment associated with the use of the wrong level in a given situation, led to the creation of a totally neutral approach to answering the phone, just to help avoid the loss of face that would occur if you answered the phone expecting your boss and got your worst enemy instead. This aspect of Japanese is often referenced when I hear people say that it is among the hardest languages to learn.

Then consider that these conversations are taking place in English, a language in which telling someone "fat chance," and then saying their chances are slim, means exactly the same thing.

Still think Japanese is harder? Fat/slim chance.

Plinky and the Brian: Worst Job

Part of the reason for my hiatus, and for the infrequent posting in general, is that I sometimes find it a little difficult to come up with a topic. Rant-fodder, if you will. I do not and will not keep this as a diary-blog (because really, I understand that nobody really cares what I do on a daily basis. Hell, I barely care), so something has to catch me a certain way in order to get the proverbial wheels turning.

Enter plinky.com, which I discovered kind of randomly in my web wanderings. Plinky is a site which basically asks questions daily, and lets people post answers on their site. In what i hope will become a regular thing here, I will pick the ones I find most interesting and answer them here.

Today's Prompt:

What's the least fun you've ever had at a place specifically tailored for fun?

The worst time I've ever had at a place intended for fun, hands down, is Chuck E Cheese. And it wasn't just one time, it was over and over and over again. There was a perfectly good reason for that, though:

I worked there.

See, I have been working either full or part time ever since I was fifteen. Never worked proper fast food, but I've done just about everything else: retail, restaurant, the works. But the summer between sophomore and junior year of high school was the Summer of Chuck.

I distinguish this job from a restaurant job for the simple reason that I didn't wait tables. No way. Not there. I knew better than that. I figured I'd play it safe and make pizzas. Safe. I wouldn't have to deal with the hordes of children. Or so I thought.

The truth us that working in that place was perfectly fine for the vast majority of the time I spent there. It was one of those jobs where you had long stretches of boredom punctuated by the frantic rush of mealtime, when the birthday parties would all show up at once. But Even so, we had a pretty decent group back there, and managed to keep ourselves entertained in those down times. All of that was just fine, and I even enjoyed most of it. There was only one thing, albeit one very significant thing, that made it the worst job I've ever had. And if you've read this far, and you've ever been in one of those places, you know exactly what that one thing is.

So the answer to the question you're silently asking (or not, maybe you talk to your monitor; I'm not here to judge) is yes, yes I did. And the answer to the question that follows is that it was both more and less awful than you think it would be. But on average, it sucked about as much as you'd expect.

They conveniently forgot to mention this little detail during the interview.

The first problem is the suit itself. It's heavy; all told it's probably an extra 10-15lbs of plastic and polyesther fur. It's tremendously awkward, considering the one-size-fits-Sasquatch gloves and boots and the instant conversion from a low-30s waistline to something closer to the low 100s. And worst of all, the kind of forward visibility that should come with sunglasses and a cane. You can't see directly ahead; you can only see upwards and downwards at about a 45-degree angle, up through the eyes and down through the tiny mouth hole (peripheral vision is for losers). It is in this ridiculous contraption that you are sent out into what could best be described as the world's largest low-altitude mosh pit to bring Birthday Cheer to some lucky kid. Have fun with that.

And then there are the kids. Oh, the kids. Chuck E. Cheese uses the tag line that their restaurants are Where A Kid Can Be A Kid, but that is somewhat inaccurate. What it should be called, really, is Where You Hyperkinetic Offspring Can Be Someone Else's Problem.

Indignities abound in this environment (the actual wearing of the suit notwithstanding), from the inability to see down in front of you well enough to tell if you're about to or in the process of running a kid over, to the random punches or kicks you get from some overly rambunctions little bas- er, tot, to my personal favorite: being told by one of these darling little angels that you couldn't possibly be the real Chucky, because the real Chucky is up there, pointing towards the stage, where the herky-jerky animatronic band is bobble-heading its way through awful song after awful song (unlike this, which is suprisingly well done). And through it all, you can't talk. Or Swear. Or howl in pain, as the case may be. And certainly not wring the neck of the kid who just leapt into the air and came down with the nose of your mask in his grubby little hands, causing the top of the thing to carve a groove into your skull. And then asked for a hug.

It's no surprise that they sell beer there. But honestly, they're giving it to the wrong people. Give it to the staff, the ones who really need it.

Start with the guy in the rat suit; trust me, he could use one.

It's not ridicule, it's ridicu-lay

Note to the McDonalds people:

Adding a French flair and pronunciation to an otherwise base-level product offering is not going to add class/panache/cachet to your brand. It makes you look like morons who fail to understand your place in the market.

Nobody who works over there has ever shopped at Target, apparently.

Oh, right, sorry: Tar-jay.

Sad, but not tragic

There's no tragedy here.

This is what my father said to me when he called this morning to tell me that, late last night, my grandfather passed away. I mean, he said a lot of things, but that's what does (and probably always will) stick out.

I know that sounds like a strange thing to say to someone under those circumstances, but it made sense to me. And all in all, he's right: it's certainly sad, but nothing about the man or his passing is or was tragic. Far from it. Nearly everything about both went more or less as well as anyone could have expected or hoped.

I've written before about my family, although all of those stories have been about the Italian side. Much of the same sentiment applies my Irish family as well, both in terms of my affection for the people and the running theme of longevity as well. Gramps was 92 years old at the time of his passing, and he packed those years full, believe me.

There would be too much to tell, and too many stories left out, to try and biography the man; but here are some things that will always come to mind when I think about my grandfather:

- His voice. Gramps had a great voice, and he used it well. The perfect mix of gravel and Brooklyn, and the man could tell a story. I have tried on occasion to mimic it, but I can't get close. Even his recording on the answering machine is guaranteed to make you smile.

- His relationship (or lack thereof) with technology. He never owned a computer, wrote many letters by hand, and was over 80 by the time he got a cell phone. Not that he ever bothered learning to use it, mind you. My mom programmed the two numbers he would need into the thing and showed him how to get to them, and that's about it. I'm not even certain he used the voice mail. He didn't' like his answering machine, either, and said so in the recorded message. "Sorry I missed your call, and I hate to make you talk to one of these stupid machines, but I do want to get your call, so leave me a message and I'll call you back." In the Brooklyn voice. Priceless.

- From the "You're Only As Old As You Feel" Department: he took flying lessons, and very nearly if not completed the requirements for his pilot's license. In his seventies.

- When we were kids, my brother and I used to jockey for who got to pour his beer at dinner. Partly, I think, because of the fizzing bubbles, and partly because, well, it was our grandfather. But later on, when it turned out his sister had a drinking problem, he quit with her in a show of support. As far as I know, he didn't take a drink for most of my adult life.

- Hard candy. He always kept a supply of mixed hard candy with him, at home and when he traveled. Think Brach's butterscotches, sour balls, starlight mints, caramels, you name it. If you had a hankering for a Werther's Original, this was the man to see.

- My desk. He and my father built a pair of desks, one for me and one for my brother. They're easily 20 years old now, and more solidly built than anything you're likely to find at IKEA.

- Eating Italian food in France. When I was in college, my cousin spent some time studying in Aix en Provence in France. Gramps took my mother and I over there for a week, to see her and to do some sightseeing. We had exactly one French meal that trip, our first. See, Gramps, being an Irishman, was very much a meat-and-starch kind of guy, and the French menu had too little of either (mostly the starch) to satisfy him. So from about our second day on, we ate mostly Italian food. In France. He did enjoy the tea, though.

- Traveling. Gramps was a customer of Cunard cruise lines for something on the order of 70 years, going back to when he would go see his family in Ireland as a kid, and continuing right up to the end. For as long as I've been aware of it, he has made multiple trips back to Ireland every year, for the longest time taking the QE2 over and British Airways back. Plus the occasional cruise to Alaska, or the Med, or the maiden voyage of the QM2 (he preferred the QE2, if you're curious). And he did all of his reservations by phone and mail, so he got to the point where he basically had friends at the various travel companies who he would call and talk to when he was planning a trip. And I do mean right to the end; he was over in Ireland as recently as about six months ago. He took me over there in 2004, to see the family estate and meet some of the Irish cousins. The picture at the top of the post is from that trip, from the original house on the land, in front of the fireplace where he spent a lot of time when he was young.

What was funny about that trip (or rather, among the funny things about that trip) was the circumstances under which I made it. My mother said to me, earlier that year, that if I was interested in seeing the family land with Gramps, then I should get to it, because he was 88 and slowing down, and would likely stop making those trips by the end of that year. So I went. And then he continued his trips for another five years. So much for predictions.

- Grad school. Gramps put me through grad school. That wasn't the intention when we started, but that's basically how it ended up. So there will always be a little tribute to him hanging on my wall.

All of this doesn't even touch on his service in the Army or for the state of New York, or any number of other things about him worth telling. Like I said, it was a full 92 years. Oh yeah, and he and my grandmother raised my mom, too, which I personally think turned out pretty darn well, myself. Perhaps the most vivid thing about the man, to me, was how he physically embodied the proverbial twinkle in the eye. Always ready with a grin and a wink, always happy to see you, that was my Gramps.

Not that everything went perfectly; we lost my grandmother to cancer when I was about 10, and he lost another partner to cancer years later. But on balance he had it pretty good, and so did we for having him around.

When his time came, I understand that it was relatively quick and painless, and my mother was there with him through the end. And now he gets to be with his wife and sister, and countless other people I'm sure he's glad to catch up with over a cup of tea.

Yes, we're sad to see him go, and yes, he'll be missed. But no, there's no tragedy here; just a large group of people who got to know and love a great man for a long time.

But I will miss talking to that stupid machine, if only just a little.

The darndest things

There have been a host of new babies and new pregnancies among my friends over the past several months, both online and off. It's all very exciting (if a bit strange for me, to suddenly have parents where my friends used to be), and I'm thrilled for all of them. If you spend enough time talking to people about kids, particularly their kids, you will hear some funny stories. Some, naturally, are funnier than others. This is quite possibly my all-time favorite, which I heard from my friend M, at lunch, the day this took place.

M has two boys, 6 and 5, and what was a then-undelivered baby on the way (who has since greeted the world healthy and happy, I'm pleased to say). One morning, M, Older Kid (OK), and Younger Kid (YK) were getting ready to head out to school and work, and were running a little late. OK asked if he could buy breakfast at school that day, which suited M fine on account of the lateness, so she said sure. YK asked if he could buy lunch at school that day as well. M replied that with what she was paying for tuition for YK, his breakfast would be waiting for him when he arrived (or it damn well better be). At which point YK inquired as to what the Unborn Kid (UK) would be eating for breakfast.

M: UK will eat what Mommy eats, of course.
YK: How will he do that?
OK turns to explain to his younger brother.
OK: There's a hose. It goes from Mommy's belly button to UK's belly button. That's how UK eats.
YK looks down, puzzled.
YK: I don't have a hose.
M (Laughing): Of course you don't, silly. You eat with your mouth. And when UK comes out, he'll eat with his mouth.

And then it happens:
YK: How does UK come out?

To me, this would be one of those parental nightmares - it's way early in the morning, you're already late getting out of the house, and your 5-year-old just asked you where babies come from. There's not enough coffee in Seattle to prepare you to deal with that. But there you are.

But then, in a way that only a 6-year-old mind can conceive, OK steps in with a glove-save that would make Grant Fuhr tear up just a little. He turns to his little brother and says,with great excitement:

The doctors have magic!