Planet Utah

The inexplicable admiration for Che Guevara

I just went for my billionth jog today wearing my "Down with Che" t-shirt. When I was done, I walked through a park full of people. No response.

In all the times I've worn the shirt, no one has ever asked me why I don't like Che. The answer is very simple: Che was part of the communist regime in Cuba, and communists in power do evil, terrible things.

They torture, they murder, they send people to forced labor camps, they establish secret police forces, they imprison dissenters, they outlaw free speech, they confiscate private property, they establish one-party systems, they encourage personality cults, they turn families against each other, they try to provoke hostilities with the United States and its allies. Etc.

Che participated in all of this in Cuba...in fact, he was an architect of a lot of it. 

So, what's to admire?

Brief tribute to my mother

I've been blogging for nearly 15 years now, and I've got about 1,400 tweets out there, so inevitably there are going to be some repeats. This may be one of them. If so, I think it's worth repeating. 

When I was perhaps seven or eight years old, I sang a stupid little song that had the word "nigger" in it. My mother heard me sing it, and she scolded me severely. She told me that I was NEVER to use that word again. She didn't hit me, or lecture me--didn't need to. Her anger, and her simple, forceful words made it clear that what I had said was unacceptable.

I don't remember all of the details of that incident, but I remember the sharpness of my mother's response, and the abruptness of it all. One moment, I was happily, mischievously pushing a boundary--seeing if I could get away with saying a grown-up word, the exact meaning of which I did not know (though I definitely knew it was a taboo). The next moment, I was filled with regret and embarrassment, my face hot, my eyes full of tears. 

After that day, thanks to my mother, I don't think I ever used the word "nigger" again.

Recently, I've been reminded of this episode with lamentable frequency, as I've heard the word "nigger" used in polite company again and again, as in, "Well, they're all goddamned niggers to me," or, "If she wants to date a nigger, that's her business." One of my acquaintances even told me that a few weeks back he tried to provoke a guy at a bar by calling him a "half-breed nigger." No, he didn't invent a time machine, go back to a Klan rally in 1940 Mississippi and say that, he said it in a family-friendly bar in Dallas, Texas in March of 2012. 

Maybe I'm naive; I'm still trying to sort out what to make of all this. (I never had to deal with this kind of thing in Arizona.) Anyway, I just want to thank my mom for setting me straight about these matters roughly 40 years ago.

Reminder: If I stop, don't you stop, too

In the course of my daily life, whether walking, biking, jogging, or driving a car, I often find myself on a collision course with other pedestrians, bikers, joggers, and drivers. In these situations, if one or both of us doesn't stop, we will run into each other. 

Often, I and the other party stop at the same time, and one signals for the other to proceed. No problem with that.

Sometimes, though, I come to a complete stop, deferring to the other person, and signaling for him or her to proceed. And sometimes in these circumstances, the other person, having seem me stop already, subsequently stops him/herself, signaling for ME to proceed, as if to say, "No, no--you go ahead."

Oooooooh, do I hate that.

Why? If I've come to a complete stop out of deference to you, this means that I've invested the mechanical energy needed to bring myself and/or my machine to a halt, AND I've committed to investing the mechanical energy needed to start moving again once you've passed. Both of these are sunk costs for me once I've stopped; I'm going to pay them no matter what you do.

So, when you see me stop, but even so, you decide to come to a stop subsequent to my stop, you're effectively saying, "Even though I see that you are completely stopped, I'm going to stop, too, and insist that you pass in front of me. So, in essence, your decision to defer to me, along with the mechanical energy associated with you stopping and starting again, will have been completely wasted."

I don't know why that infuriates me so, but it does. (So much so that this isn't my first blog post on the subject.)

Butt dialers beware: UPDATED

A friend butt dialed me today, and then unwittingly left me a four-minute voice mail in which she and a friend of hers were talking...mostly about me.

I know the odds of that happening are pretty slim--butt dialing someone you happen to be gossiping about at that very moment--but clearly, they are not zero.

All I gotta say is, let's be careful out there, people.

UPDATE: Be careful how, you ask? It's a good question. The problem with butt dialing is that you don't know you've done it. So if you don't know you've butt dialed someone, you can't really guard against leaving an impolitic conversation about them (or someone/something else) on their voice mail, can you?

You can. Next time you're launching into an impolitic conversation, double-check your phone. Bam! Done.

Footnote: I could tell you not to launch into an impolitic conversation, I suppose, but come on...that would be like you telling me to limit myself to a single pint of lager at the pub. Not happening.

Anklenote: Many of you may be wondering whether or not I informed my friend that she had inadvertently left a gossipy conversation about me on my own voice mail. I did not. I think the mortification on her part would have far outweighed the little bit of hurt on my part.

Also, though, I realized that I gossip plenty in my life--a couple of times, I've even gossiped about this particular friend--and that I, therefore, could easily have made the mistake she did today.

And really, that mistake isn't the butt-dialing, it's the gossip. Because I've been guilty of that too, I decided I probably shouldn't make her suffer.

Shin-note: I'm not sure I've ever admired myself as much as I do right now.

A little story of corporate greed and incompetence

A while back, I got a letter from my mortgage lender (Chase). The letter indicated that my homeowner's insurance was about to lapse, and that if it did lapse, the lender would require me to buy a short-term policy to ensure that there was coverage in place until my policy was reinstated. 

This caught me by surprise, seeing as how I pay a big chunk of change into escrow every month, from which my lender is supposed to pay my property taxes and insurance premiums. So, I called my lender and said, "Did you guys pay my premium? Because if you did, then my insurance won't lapse." They said, "We tried, but the payment was rejected." I said, "What? Why would the insurer reject a premium payment?" They said, "We don't know. If you want to call USAA and talk to them..." I said, "My insurance isn't with USAA. It's with Farmer's. That's why USAA rejected the payment--I don't have a policy with them." They said, "Huh... Was your insurance ever with USAA?" I said, "No." They said, "Okay, well, it says here that your policy is with USAA. So, let's get the right information in here, and we'll get the payment made." (Did it occur to anyone at Chase to call me when the payment was rejected and say, "Hey, can you help us figure this out?" Guess not--as you'll see below, lapsed coverage means easy money for them.)

Well, a bunch of phone calls later, I confirmed that the payment had been made, no lapse in coverage, etc. 

Then, a month later, I find that a $6,300 debit has been attached to my mortgage account--basically, added to the amount that I owe on the house. The charge was for the short-term insurance policy Chase had threatened to issue and force me to buy in the event of a lapse in coverage. 

Of course, there WAS no lapse in coverage (and the only reason there was a risk of coverage lapse in the first place is that Chase had attempted to make a premium payment to the wrong insurance company). Not wanting to let that stand in the way of a quick buck, Chase charged me $6,300.

Well, another whole round of phone calls later--literally, starting from scratch, from the very beginning of the whole saga--and I get this resolved. In the course of that round of phone calls, though, I talk to one particularly dull call center worker who tells me this: "We fixed this a while back. We issued a $6,300 refund to your insurance company. So, if you want that money put back in your escrow account, you'll need to get it from your insurer." In addition to making zero sense--the insurer wasn't out $6,300, I was--this turned out to be completely false.

I also asked dull call center guy to explain to me another seeming anomaly on my escrow statement. After two rambling, incoherent attempts on his part--answering questions that I didn't ask--I say, "I'm not sure you understood my question. Let me try again..." He pauses for a moment and then says, and I quote, "That information is not available at this time. Is there anything else I can help you with?"

***

So, the main point of this little exercise was for me to vent. But the secondary point is to encourage YOU, my cherished readers, to stay on top of your mortgage lenders, your tax guy, your insurance agent, etc. These people can be far less competent than you might think, or hope, or want...and they're playing with your money. So please, just keep a close eye on them. Trust if it's warranted, but always verify.

Facebook...pretty much as stupid as I thought it would be

I joined Facebook several years ago because I wanted to see some pictures taken by a person I know. My account lay dormant for a few years after I saw those pictures, until I finally recommitted a few months back. I thought FB might help me connect with people in Dallas that I didn't know were in Dallas. It hasn't. What it has allowed me to do, though, is read lots of status updates like these (from yesterday):

• Need to iron my shirt for tomorrow.
• Don't feel like cooking...Chinese food it is!
• I'm going to have breakfast at the Victory tomorrow. Of course, I'll ride my bike there too.
• Packing for London. Finally I get to wear the cold weather gear!

I genuinely like each of the people who wrote these updates. But I do not give two squirts of freezing pee about such things. Unfortunately, this is a lot of what Facebook is about. So, much of the time I'm on Facebook, there's a little voice in my head that keeps saying, "Who gives a fuck?" (I've often wondered how fast Facebook would come unspooled if, in addition to the "Like" and "Comment" buttons, there was also a "Who gives a fuck?" button.)

Things get even worse, though, as status updates go from the trivial to the nauseatingly narcissistic. I won't give examples because I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings, but holy cow...like ourselves much?

So, I'm going to quietly disappear from Facebook until/unless someone posts pictures that I want to see. As I depart, though, I want to offer this sincere farewell: I wish my friends luck finishing that last little bit of milk before it goes bad, I hope the dog snarts again when there's someone else around to see it, and I'm sorry you can't remember your aunt's name. It will come to you.

Footnote: One of the conceits of social media is that all of us have something interesting/important/amusing/insightful to say. I'm guilty of that same conceit--after all, I have this blog, and a Twitter account. But there are degrees of the conceit, and I'm comfortable with my place on the conceit spectrum. However, if you find my stuff no more edifying than the "I just dropped my toast on the peanut butter side--again!!!" status updates, you can walk away...just as I'm doing with Facebook.

Good service and bad service (part 1)

I guess the bad economy affects every business differently, but in general, I would think that most businesses would really value my patronage these days. Apparently, I would think wrong. Some businesses seem perfectly content to give bad service, even in bad times.

The most obvious example--and the most surprising to me--is the number of home/lawn contractors whom I contact who can't be bothered to call me back or respond to my email. I'll send an email or leave a voicemail saying, "Hi, I've got some bathroom remodeling I need done...", etc., and then--I never hear anything back. This happens about one-third of the time. 

Bad service.

Now consider a good service example. I coordinate Stanford football watching parties here in Dallas. It can be a pain in the butt to find a location that's willing to put our game on, with sound. Why? We're a small group that's not going to spend a ton of money, we're from a small school so no one else cares about our game, there are always three or four competing games or events on TV that people DO care about, etc. Basically, if you're coordinating the Michigan or UT-Austin watch parties, the sports bars call you. Not so with Stanford.

But, earlier this week, someone did call me. Her name is Jenna. She works at a bar called Fox and Hound, and she wanted me to know that she could host the Stanford group this weekend and put our game on with sound. Nice! That means I don't have to drive and call all over town trying to find a venue.

Good service.

A couple of days later, Jenna called me back and said that she was terribly sorry, but because the Rangers were also going to be playing on Saturday night--something no one knew when she first contacted me--she couldn't have our game on with sound. BUT, she said, she could promise us a big screen TV, and would give us free wings and pizza for our trouble. And, she said, she would give us the same deal on food the next weekend.

Good service.

Now, let's flip back to some bad service. Before I committed to Jenna, I checked with another bar in town--a place where our group has watched four or five games. I asked the manager if they might be able to give us our game, with sound, this Saturday. "No," she said. "We're headquarters for the Texas/OU game, so that's going to take up the whole place." I said, "But the Texas/OU game is early in the afternoon. It should be done by the time ours comes on at 6:30." Manager: "Yeah, but the Texas and OU people have stuff the whole weekend--before, during, and after their game. So, that won't work." Me: "Well, then, Im glad I have a Plan B." Manager: "That's good."

Bad service.

How could she have done better? Like this: "We'd love to have you guys, but we've got Texas/OU stuff going on all weekend. I hate to turn you away, and pretty much any other weekend would be great, but the Texas and OU alums do a big, weekend-long thing here every year for this game. Anyway, if there are any Texas or OU fans in your group, this is a really fun place to watch that game, so we hope you'll come here for that, at least. And as long as you're here, do you know where you're going to watch the Stanford game a week from Saturday? I can check the calendar while you're here, and if it works for you, we can set aside some tables and TV screens right now."

That would be good service.

Two mysteries solved

Mystery #1: six-month hangover. I've written about this one a few times. Beginning during the first week of February, I spent all day every day with: (a) a headache; (b) a flushed feeling in my face; and (c) mild tingling sensations in my face and head.

After dropping about 15 hundo over the course of six months on various doctors, shamans, gurus, quacks, cranks, medicines, tinctures, ointments, preparations, unguents, poultices, and special foods, all to no avail, I was beginning to think that I might have to live the rest of my life this way.

But then, finally, I found a cure: heroin antidepressants.

How? Why? Well, the nasty symptoms started when I did the Clean detox program. Some of the other symptoms I experienced while on Clean were very similar to things I'd been through when I'd gone off antidepressants. (There's a pretty well-defined syndrome associated with serotonin withdrawal.) So, I figured that maybe somehow Clean had had an adverse impact on my seratonin levels, or on serotonin availability, or reuptake, or whatever. Based on that theory, I dug out some of my old Effexor capsules and started up again. Bingo!

I won't say that I've vanquished the hangover completely, but it's about 85% better. I can live with that. (I've already begun phasing off the Effexor again, too; we'll see how that goes.)

Mystery #2: online chicks with pics in their cars. If you're a guy and you do any online dating, you will soon notice that dozens and dozens and dozens of women have pictures of themselves inside their cars--behind the wheel, belted in, looking as if they're driving, or are getting ready to drive, or have just driven. This is so common, you will see it virtually anytime you are online and looking at profiles.

My question: Why? What is the appeal of the behind-the-wheel shot? Why do so many women think this is a good idea? 

Last night, by trolling around online, I found what I believe to be the answer.

Every car has a rearview mirror. Many cars have mirrors on the driver's-side visor. If you turn your rearview mirror toward yourself, and you hold up your camera phone in front of it to do a self-portrait, the mirror will reflect the image from your phone's screen. So, by looking in the mirror, you can see whether you are in frame, in focus, well lit, etc. (The same logic applies to the visor shot; just flip down the visor, hold your camera up in front of the visor mirror, etc.)

Next time I date a woman who's got one of those intra-vehicular shots, I'm going to ask, just to be sure. But I'm pretty sure I've got my answer.

Negotiating in bad faith

The house I ended up buying in Dallas was not the only one on which I made an offer. There was another one that I really liked, but it was a bit pricey for me. I made a low-ball offer on the chance that the owners might be desperate. They weren't. Then I made a medium-ball offer, which was also rejected. Finally, because I wanted the house, I offered $500 below the list price. This was more than I wanted to pay, more than I felt I could afford, really, but I figured I'd find a way to make it work.

This offer, too, was rejected. So, I walked away, over $500--pennies, really, compared to the total cost of the house. Nobody wants to feel like they're making all the concessions in a negotiation, and the other side is giving nothing. That's how I felt, so I walked.

From way out here in Dallas, Texas, it looks to me as if the House Republicans are like the homeowners in my example: They're not willing to make any concessions to get a debt deal done.

When you think about it, this is a pretty crazy position for them to be taking. After all, Dems control the Senate and the White House. So who are House Republicans to insist that it's their way or no way?

On the other hand, (pretty much) everyone agrees that a deal MUST get done and therefore WILL get done. By this logic, if the House GOP says, "It's our deal or no deal," they'll get what they want.

I worry, though, about what that means for the future--through 2012, and possibly beyond. At least until the next election, we're going to have divided government. How can the White House, the House, and the Senate work together if the House negotiates in bad faith?

Farewell, old friend

Regular readers know that I've had a headache since February...a constant, 24/7, unrelenting headache. It has never gone away--not even for five minutes. It's just a question of how bad it is at any given moment.

I went to a new doctor (a neurologist) this week. She threw a bunch of stuff against the wall, but this one stuck, and it's still there now: "You can never have Diet Coke again. I'm talking about for the rest of your life. Maybe we'll get you to a point where you could have a little regular Coke without caffeine. But the brain does not like Diet Coke, so you can't have it any more."

Hearing this, I said, "Let's not jump to any conclusions here, okay? I mean, this could very well be a brain tumor, right? And if it's a brain tumor, I could still have Diet Coke, right? I'm just saying, if it's a brain tumor, we just take out the tumor, and I can keep on drinking Diet Coke, right?"

Some of you understand. (The rest of you are probably coffee drinkers.) Diet Coke is and does so many things. It's cold, it's fizzy, its sweet. It's readily available. It's a perfect way to take a break. It's a perfect way to treat yourself. It's a perfect way to pick yourself up when you're dragging. And all without guilt, because it's inexpensive and it has zero calories...

All of this must have registered on my face at once, because the doctor said, "I know, you're probably hooked on Diet Coke. But look, there are a lot of good alternatives. What about bottled water? Or apple juice? Or maybe even a sparkling juice or water?"

If I had been a black woman, I would have said, "Child, please." As it was, though, I just nodded glumly, seeing the future in my mind's eye--an empty stretch of road 30 years long; a road along which there are no rest stops, gas stations, or convenience stores; a road on which I will get thirsty, will feel down, will need a pick-me-up or a treat, but on which I will never again be able to enjoy a Diet Coke.