My boss was upset with herself today. She went out to lunch yesterday and "was bad," in her words. Her plan then was not to eat the rest of the day, but she said that she would up getting, and eating too much, pizza.
I was thinking, after she told me this story, that it's a definite sign of aging when you wake up regretting, both physically and emotionally, the choices you made the night before --- and they're food choices.
Lots of us have had those "What was I thinking?" mornings after. In my younger days, when I had them, they would come out of a bottle. It's definitely a sign that those younger days are gone when the source of those mornings was delivered in a cardboard box with a domino on it.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Monday, May 18, 2009
Fear of Flying
It was announced today that Tony Kornheiser is leaving the "Monday Night Football" broadcast, due to what Tony called a fear of flying.
Believe me, I can understand. I'd be fine if I never get in an airplane again. I'd much rather drive or take the train. I might have to travel for work in a couple months, about 800 miles away, and if I do go I'm going to inquire if I can drive rather than fly.
I don't like being in a plane. I don't like the take off, and I don't like the landing. You must understand, though, it's not a fear of flying --- it's a fear of crashing. The flying part is fine. It's what happens when the flying doesn't happen the way it should that I have a problem with.
The way I figure it, if I'm in a car moving about 70 mph on the ground, or in a train moving at a similar speed about 10 feet or so off the ground, and something happens, I have a chance. If I'm in a plane that has an issue a few thousand feet off the ground at hundreds of miles an hour... forget it. Game over, man.
I know the statistics. Flying is the safest method of travel, based on fatalities per hundred million miles travelled. My reply consists of two words: "what" and "so" (not necessarily in that order). It doesn't matter how long the odds are, how big the X in that 1-in-X ratio is... eventually the 1 is going to happen. (This is the same reason my wife and I spend a small amount on lottery tickets every week - we know how unlikely it is. But, eventually, somebody wins.) I'd rather not be involved when that 1 comes around, is all.
Believe me, I can understand. I'd be fine if I never get in an airplane again. I'd much rather drive or take the train. I might have to travel for work in a couple months, about 800 miles away, and if I do go I'm going to inquire if I can drive rather than fly.
I don't like being in a plane. I don't like the take off, and I don't like the landing. You must understand, though, it's not a fear of flying --- it's a fear of crashing. The flying part is fine. It's what happens when the flying doesn't happen the way it should that I have a problem with.
The way I figure it, if I'm in a car moving about 70 mph on the ground, or in a train moving at a similar speed about 10 feet or so off the ground, and something happens, I have a chance. If I'm in a plane that has an issue a few thousand feet off the ground at hundreds of miles an hour... forget it. Game over, man.
I know the statistics. Flying is the safest method of travel, based on fatalities per hundred million miles travelled. My reply consists of two words: "what" and "so" (not necessarily in that order). It doesn't matter how long the odds are, how big the X in that 1-in-X ratio is... eventually the 1 is going to happen. (This is the same reason my wife and I spend a small amount on lottery tickets every week - we know how unlikely it is. But, eventually, somebody wins.) I'd rather not be involved when that 1 comes around, is all.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Of carts and horses
It would be one thing if this had been an isolated incident. This kind of thing happens all the time, though.
At work, there's a database that my coworkers and I need to search from time to time. We access it by running a query in a program called Access. The business' IT team doesn't support Access anymore, so they're phasing out all of the Access-based tools and lookups. Makes sense so far. There are a lot of IT initiatives happening around my team right now, and among them is a program to convert all of our Access lookups to another program. Thus, yesterday afternoon they got rid of the query tool we used to search this particular database. Thing is, there's a slight problem with the replacement..... it doesn't exist. Or, at least, it hasn't been shared with us yet. Since about noon yesterday, we've had no Access, which means we've had no access. We need this database, pretty much every day (not all of us every day, but at least one of us). We can't do the pieces of our work that require it otherwise. Day and a half.
When we found out our tool was removed and not replaced, one of my coworkers said, "It's like putting the cart before the horse."
I replied, "It's more like putting the cart... where the hell's the horse?!? We have no horse. You see a horse, you let me know."
It's been a frustration of mine for as long as I've worked for this company (just over 5 years). Every single, solitary time they do an IT initiative like this, it's the same. The details change, of course, but the theme is the same. They're done at a management level. They're budgeted, designed, built, tested and implemented without nearly enough (sometimes not any at all) input from, or consideration of the actual needs of, the end users --- the day-to-day, hands-on-a-keyboard movements and tasks of those of us who have to operate these tools. Management wants X (in this case, no Access, and a new program), and IT delivers what is asked of them (the Access tool is gone, and it will most certainly be replaced by the new program). I'm sure from management's and IT's perspective's, this has all been wildly successful. Maybe I shouldn't put IT on an equal footing in that sentence. They're given a project to complete, in a particular manner, and they do it. The problem is with how they're told to do it. So I guess I should edit that to say I'm sure management will consider this wildly successful.
I'll have plenty of time to congratulate them, since I won't be losing all that time I previously spent doing my damn job.
At work, there's a database that my coworkers and I need to search from time to time. We access it by running a query in a program called Access. The business' IT team doesn't support Access anymore, so they're phasing out all of the Access-based tools and lookups. Makes sense so far. There are a lot of IT initiatives happening around my team right now, and among them is a program to convert all of our Access lookups to another program. Thus, yesterday afternoon they got rid of the query tool we used to search this particular database. Thing is, there's a slight problem with the replacement..... it doesn't exist. Or, at least, it hasn't been shared with us yet. Since about noon yesterday, we've had no Access, which means we've had no access. We need this database, pretty much every day (not all of us every day, but at least one of us). We can't do the pieces of our work that require it otherwise. Day and a half.
When we found out our tool was removed and not replaced, one of my coworkers said, "It's like putting the cart before the horse."
I replied, "It's more like putting the cart... where the hell's the horse?!? We have no horse. You see a horse, you let me know."
It's been a frustration of mine for as long as I've worked for this company (just over 5 years). Every single, solitary time they do an IT initiative like this, it's the same. The details change, of course, but the theme is the same. They're done at a management level. They're budgeted, designed, built, tested and implemented without nearly enough (sometimes not any at all) input from, or consideration of the actual needs of, the end users --- the day-to-day, hands-on-a-keyboard movements and tasks of those of us who have to operate these tools. Management wants X (in this case, no Access, and a new program), and IT delivers what is asked of them (the Access tool is gone, and it will most certainly be replaced by the new program). I'm sure from management's and IT's perspective's, this has all been wildly successful. Maybe I shouldn't put IT on an equal footing in that sentence. They're given a project to complete, in a particular manner, and they do it. The problem is with how they're told to do it. So I guess I should edit that to say I'm sure management will consider this wildly successful.
I'll have plenty of time to congratulate them, since I won't be losing all that time I previously spent doing my damn job.
Monday, April 20, 2009
You may say I'm a dreamer
In December 2005, which was the 25th anniversary of John Lennon's murder, Newsweek ran an article about the occasion. In it, musician Dave Matthews was quoted as saying, "Even if he'd written only 'Imagine,' he would have been the greatest songwriter of all time." That's a bit hyperbolic, but it shows the admiration for the song that Dave has, which I don't think is at all out of place. I don't tend to use the word "art" to describe much of what is done by rock musicians, but this song is an exception. It is (and I contend that the following statement is in no way hyperbolic) an absolutley brilliantly constructed piece of artistry.
John Lennon wrote "Revolution" in 1968. There were, of course, a lot of protest songs, anti-war songs, anti-Establishment songs being written at the time. Various people had publicly called on The Beatles, and other popular groups, to lend their voice to the struggles by speaking out. John certainly championed the basic beliefs of these crowds, but seems to have disagreed with some of their tactics and actions. And, anyone familiar with John would probably guess that he wasn't about to let anyone tell him what to say and how to say it. In response, he came out with "Revolution," with lyrics such as, "but when you talk about destruction, don't you know that you can count me out... but if you want money for people with minds that hate, all I can tell you is brother you have to wait... but if you go carrying pictures of Chairman Mao, you ain't gonna make it with anyone anyhow." This song isn't exactly related to "Imagine," but I think John did make it clear that when he was going to use his music to speak out, he was going to do so in his own way, and not simply join the crowd that was seeking changes.
The next year, he wrote "Give Peace a Chance." Not "Give Us Peace." Not "Live Peace." Not "End the War." Not "Stop All Wars." Give peace a chance. Again, John was going to use his music on his own terms. He wasn't saying, "This is how things should be," though he certainly thought so. He was just saying, "Give it a try." Look at it in a way you've never looked at it before, and see what you think. Certainly this was a departure from a lot of the anti-war songs of the era, which directly advocated the end of the war.
Two years after this, John hit what Dave Matthews and I consider his zenith with "Imagine." He had bigger things on his mind than just the war in Viet Nam, or the student protests and such that he'd been reacting to back in the old days of 1968. John had a much broader, much grander vision of a united, peaceful world. And again... and once again brilliantly... John doesn't tell us what he thinks we should do. He doesn't tell us this is how we should live. (This time, I'm not sure that even John thought that all of this was how we should live. He certainly seemed to enjoy his possessions, for one thing.) All he does is ask us to imagine it. What would it be like if all the things that we use to separate ourselves from each other didn't exist? What would it be like if the things that we used to justify our prejudices and hatreds didn't exist? What would it be like if the things that we used to categorize, judge, label, elevate or denigrate everyone else didn't exist? If all we had was ourselves, each other, and today.
Just as they never really will give peace a chance, I don't think most people ever really will imagine, not even necessarily John's vision in his song, but any way in which the world or their lives could be significantly different than they are today. Which will, of course, keep them from making any real change. The first step is to decide what change you want to make, and you can't do that until you consider the possibilities. If you start by picturing the farthest extent of where you can go, you can then work back towards today to come to where you actually want to go. Until you know where that is, you can't get there, right? I think that by setting the bar where he did, by asking us to consider an idealized, Utopian picture, John was reminding us of the first step to making changes in our lives. Not by telling anyone what they should do, but by inviting everyone to consider what we could do. Imagine.
John Lennon wrote "Revolution" in 1968. There were, of course, a lot of protest songs, anti-war songs, anti-Establishment songs being written at the time. Various people had publicly called on The Beatles, and other popular groups, to lend their voice to the struggles by speaking out. John certainly championed the basic beliefs of these crowds, but seems to have disagreed with some of their tactics and actions. And, anyone familiar with John would probably guess that he wasn't about to let anyone tell him what to say and how to say it. In response, he came out with "Revolution," with lyrics such as, "but when you talk about destruction, don't you know that you can count me out... but if you want money for people with minds that hate, all I can tell you is brother you have to wait... but if you go carrying pictures of Chairman Mao, you ain't gonna make it with anyone anyhow." This song isn't exactly related to "Imagine," but I think John did make it clear that when he was going to use his music to speak out, he was going to do so in his own way, and not simply join the crowd that was seeking changes.
The next year, he wrote "Give Peace a Chance." Not "Give Us Peace." Not "Live Peace." Not "End the War." Not "Stop All Wars." Give peace a chance. Again, John was going to use his music on his own terms. He wasn't saying, "This is how things should be," though he certainly thought so. He was just saying, "Give it a try." Look at it in a way you've never looked at it before, and see what you think. Certainly this was a departure from a lot of the anti-war songs of the era, which directly advocated the end of the war.
Two years after this, John hit what Dave Matthews and I consider his zenith with "Imagine." He had bigger things on his mind than just the war in Viet Nam, or the student protests and such that he'd been reacting to back in the old days of 1968. John had a much broader, much grander vision of a united, peaceful world. And again... and once again brilliantly... John doesn't tell us what he thinks we should do. He doesn't tell us this is how we should live. (This time, I'm not sure that even John thought that all of this was how we should live. He certainly seemed to enjoy his possessions, for one thing.) All he does is ask us to imagine it. What would it be like if all the things that we use to separate ourselves from each other didn't exist? What would it be like if the things that we used to justify our prejudices and hatreds didn't exist? What would it be like if the things that we used to categorize, judge, label, elevate or denigrate everyone else didn't exist? If all we had was ourselves, each other, and today.
Just as they never really will give peace a chance, I don't think most people ever really will imagine, not even necessarily John's vision in his song, but any way in which the world or their lives could be significantly different than they are today. Which will, of course, keep them from making any real change. The first step is to decide what change you want to make, and you can't do that until you consider the possibilities. If you start by picturing the farthest extent of where you can go, you can then work back towards today to come to where you actually want to go. Until you know where that is, you can't get there, right? I think that by setting the bar where he did, by asking us to consider an idealized, Utopian picture, John was reminding us of the first step to making changes in our lives. Not by telling anyone what they should do, but by inviting everyone to consider what we could do. Imagine.
Monday, April 13, 2009
R.I.P., Harry
There is a fair chance that you don't know the name Harry Kalas. Even if that's the case, there is still a fair chance that you know his voice. You may have heard it in commercials, such as ones for Chunky soup or his beloved Coors Light, or as the voice of NFL Films, or as the voiceover for the highlights on HBO's "Inside the NFL," or as the voice of Animal Planet's annual "Puppy Bowl." For me, Harry Kalas always was, and always will be, the voice of Philadelphia Phillies baseball.
I grew up in the Philadelphia area, and am a lifelong Phillies fan. Harry did play-by-play for Phillies games on TV and radio for literally my whole life - he started as Phillies' broadcaster in 1971; I was born the next year. From youth, through adolescence, to adulthood, Harry's smooth, resonant voice has been a constant presence. Even since I moved to Minnesota, I've been able to watch some Phillies broadcasts on our cable package, and still have Harry around some.
Usually, when sports fans talk about our team, we talk about the players. But really, the broadcasters are a closer, if not bigger, part of the game for us. Players and coaches come and go, but Harry was always there.
There's a clear separation between the fans and players, in every sense. They're the spectacle, the ones on stage. I can't do what they do. And I certainly don't live in their multi-million dollar, fame-and-celebrity world. It's different, somehow, with the broadcasters - at least with the good ones. It's like they're watching the game with you. The broadcast is like a conversation. Though they very rarely answer my questions ;-). The players are very much on TV. But Harry was in my living room, my kitchen, my car. Just talking baseball with me.
Harry Kalas died today. It seems fitting that he died doing what he loved so much, getting ready to call a Phillies game. It was a couple hours before game time. He had made his regular visit to the Phillies' locker room, and was in the broadcast booth when he collapsed. He died at a local hospital about an hour later.
Most of my memories of Phillies baseball are as much about Harry's descriptions of what happened as they are about what actually happened. Not just the big moments, but thousands of little ones. A home run just wasn't the same without his trademark, "Outta here... home run!" call. A strikeout wasn't the same without his, "Swing and a miss. Struck... him... out!" As I said to the co-worker who first told me that Harry had died, "Harry WAS the soundtrack of Philles baseball for me."
It's hard to imagine that the next walk-off home run, the next no-hitter, the next World Series championship (if you're a Philly fan like me, you can't read - or type, trust me - that phrase without inserting a mental "if") will happen without the backdrop of Harry's words and voice. It was hard for me just to get my mind around the fact that today's game would have to go on without him.
When the Phillies won the World Series (and the series before it) last year, as excited as I was watching the celebrations, I couldn't wait till the national TV broadcasts played the clip of Harry's call of the last out on Philadelphia radio. (If I still lived around Philly, I'd have had the sound on my TV off, and my radio on.) I was excited that they won because, as a fan, I wanted them to win. Duh. But I was also glad that Harry got to call the World Series win. The only other time the Philles won the World Series was in 1980. Baseball's broadcast rules then didn't allow for any local broadcasts, so Harry didn't get to call that one. He very obviously loved the game and the team every bit as much as we fans do, and I know it was a proud moment for him to be part of the championship last year. I was happy for him to have the opportunity, and that the team came through for him. Because, I thought, he won't be around forever. Little did I know...
I'll miss Harry, talking to me about my Phillies. I never met him, but it feels like I've lost a friend - someone who was always around, and someone with whom I had at least one thing... one thing we both enjoyed very much... in common. It'll never be quite the same again without him.
I grew up in the Philadelphia area, and am a lifelong Phillies fan. Harry did play-by-play for Phillies games on TV and radio for literally my whole life - he started as Phillies' broadcaster in 1971; I was born the next year. From youth, through adolescence, to adulthood, Harry's smooth, resonant voice has been a constant presence. Even since I moved to Minnesota, I've been able to watch some Phillies broadcasts on our cable package, and still have Harry around some.
Usually, when sports fans talk about our team, we talk about the players. But really, the broadcasters are a closer, if not bigger, part of the game for us. Players and coaches come and go, but Harry was always there.
There's a clear separation between the fans and players, in every sense. They're the spectacle, the ones on stage. I can't do what they do. And I certainly don't live in their multi-million dollar, fame-and-celebrity world. It's different, somehow, with the broadcasters - at least with the good ones. It's like they're watching the game with you. The broadcast is like a conversation. Though they very rarely answer my questions ;-). The players are very much on TV. But Harry was in my living room, my kitchen, my car. Just talking baseball with me.
Harry Kalas died today. It seems fitting that he died doing what he loved so much, getting ready to call a Phillies game. It was a couple hours before game time. He had made his regular visit to the Phillies' locker room, and was in the broadcast booth when he collapsed. He died at a local hospital about an hour later.
Most of my memories of Phillies baseball are as much about Harry's descriptions of what happened as they are about what actually happened. Not just the big moments, but thousands of little ones. A home run just wasn't the same without his trademark, "Outta here... home run!" call. A strikeout wasn't the same without his, "Swing and a miss. Struck... him... out!" As I said to the co-worker who first told me that Harry had died, "Harry WAS the soundtrack of Philles baseball for me."
It's hard to imagine that the next walk-off home run, the next no-hitter, the next World Series championship (if you're a Philly fan like me, you can't read - or type, trust me - that phrase without inserting a mental "if") will happen without the backdrop of Harry's words and voice. It was hard for me just to get my mind around the fact that today's game would have to go on without him.
When the Phillies won the World Series (and the series before it) last year, as excited as I was watching the celebrations, I couldn't wait till the national TV broadcasts played the clip of Harry's call of the last out on Philadelphia radio. (If I still lived around Philly, I'd have had the sound on my TV off, and my radio on.) I was excited that they won because, as a fan, I wanted them to win. Duh. But I was also glad that Harry got to call the World Series win. The only other time the Philles won the World Series was in 1980. Baseball's broadcast rules then didn't allow for any local broadcasts, so Harry didn't get to call that one. He very obviously loved the game and the team every bit as much as we fans do, and I know it was a proud moment for him to be part of the championship last year. I was happy for him to have the opportunity, and that the team came through for him. Because, I thought, he won't be around forever. Little did I know...
I'll miss Harry, talking to me about my Phillies. I never met him, but it feels like I've lost a friend - someone who was always around, and someone with whom I had at least one thing... one thing we both enjoyed very much... in common. It'll never be quite the same again without him.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
I made...
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Happy April Fools Day!!! :-P
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...you look.
Happy April Fools Day!!! :-P
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Punitive damages
Here's an idea that I've had in the past, that I was thinking about today while reading a news story.
I've got no problem with compensatory damages. I don't think any reasonable person could. And I understand the idea of punitive damages - that the transgressor should be punished for egregious wrongdoings. Since we're talking about cases tried in civil, rather than criminal, court, prison is not a possibility. The way a civil court punishes is monetarily.
Let's say Person A is wronged by B, Inc., but is then made whole by compensatory damages, potentially including pain and suffering. The judge and/or jury further decide that B, Inc. must, beyond indemnifying Person A, be punished for its wrongs. Punitive damages are then awarded... but why should they go to the plaintiff? According to Douglas Laycock in Modern American Remedies, studies have shown that punitive damages are awarded in 2 percent of civil trials? Why should those 2 percent of plaintiffs get a lottery-like payday which is not offered to 98% of others?
The purpose of the civil court system is to indemnify, to make whole, those who have suffered due to another person's or company's violation of the law. Monetary losses are restored. Physical suffering is compensated (there are tables that have been created which show a decided-upon value of, for example, the loss of a finger, a hand, an arm to the elbow, etc.). Pain and suffering is compensated. This is all as it should be. However, as I see it, once the wronged person has been made whole, they should not be made "more whole" by reaping the benefits of someone's decision to punish the defendant.
I don't think we should do away with punitive damages. I think they should become fines. They should be paid to the government. Kind of like if I were speeding and hit your car. I... well, my insurance... would pay to fix your car. But my fine for speeding wouldn't go to you. It's a fine. It goes to the state. The same should happen with punitive damages in civil trials, as I see it.
I've got no problem with compensatory damages. I don't think any reasonable person could. And I understand the idea of punitive damages - that the transgressor should be punished for egregious wrongdoings. Since we're talking about cases tried in civil, rather than criminal, court, prison is not a possibility. The way a civil court punishes is monetarily.
Let's say Person A is wronged by B, Inc., but is then made whole by compensatory damages, potentially including pain and suffering. The judge and/or jury further decide that B, Inc. must, beyond indemnifying Person A, be punished for its wrongs. Punitive damages are then awarded... but why should they go to the plaintiff? According to Douglas Laycock in Modern American Remedies, studies have shown that punitive damages are awarded in 2 percent of civil trials? Why should those 2 percent of plaintiffs get a lottery-like payday which is not offered to 98% of others?
The purpose of the civil court system is to indemnify, to make whole, those who have suffered due to another person's or company's violation of the law. Monetary losses are restored. Physical suffering is compensated (there are tables that have been created which show a decided-upon value of, for example, the loss of a finger, a hand, an arm to the elbow, etc.). Pain and suffering is compensated. This is all as it should be. However, as I see it, once the wronged person has been made whole, they should not be made "more whole" by reaping the benefits of someone's decision to punish the defendant.
I don't think we should do away with punitive damages. I think they should become fines. They should be paid to the government. Kind of like if I were speeding and hit your car. I... well, my insurance... would pay to fix your car. But my fine for speeding wouldn't go to you. It's a fine. It goes to the state. The same should happen with punitive damages in civil trials, as I see it.
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