The Chronic Curmudgeon

February 28, 2007

Goodbye, Farewell, and Amen

“I realized a long time ago that I am getting old. I realized for the first time last night that this is not such a bad thing.”

I started my first “real” post on this blog with those words. They seem appropriate to end the blog with as well.

How things have changed in the three and a half years since “Christopher’s Take” -- which would eventually become “The Chronic Curmudgeon” -- was born. I did that entry from south Florida, in the middle of a situation borne of rash judgment that would eventually prove a mistake, and working as a speechwriter who was doing good work and attracting some notice inside his company but was still an amoeba on the corporate food chain. I’m doing this entry on my last day in New York before leaving to be a bigger fish in a smaller pond, though on a bigger planet (wow, let that be a lesson to anyone trying to make a point with metaphors... they're hard to mix effectively!).

This blog, which as I’ve said ad nauseum I started as writing practice and creative outlet and nothing more, turned into the vehicle that drove my career, drove my personal life, and helped me to greatly enhance my financial status (I‘ll be making more than two and a half times this year what I was making when I started it, God bless America). Not bad for something the Doc had to talk me into doing, huh?

But just as in that first post, I am still getting older. Old enough -- or is it mature enough? -- to recognize that in some cases, it’s not always prudent to have your inner monologue or thoughts about the world out there for anyone to see. I’m old enough -- or is it wise enough? -- to know when it’s time to step aside.

There was a long time where I would have considered any nod to propriety a defeat; I was going to be me and say what I had to say no matter what the stuffier elements of the world thought of it. When I started this blog, I would have argued that the idea of shutting it down -- I mean, going on indefinite hiatus, of course -- because of the professional role I play would represent a sell-out of the most treasonous and self-betraying order.

But today I don’t; today I just feel like I have grown up to the point where I don’t feel the need to stand out in order to stand apart. I’m wise enough to have recognized that sometimes there’s valor in knowing when not to speak my mind. Is that selling out? Am I really the Man in the Grey Flannel Suit now? Perhaps. But I’m thinking of it now more in terms of acting my age.

The way you act when you’re on your way up is different than the way you act when you get there. And I’m honestly looking forward to the less rebellious phase of my life. This move I am making was done in part because I’m looking to take care of my new family -- both its existing members and any who happen to come along in the next few years. And I kind of like that feeling, to be honest with you. I wasn’t ready for it a few years ago, but I am ready for it now. I think I’m ready to leave the Curmudgeon behind, not just in the blogosphere but in life. And I think that’s a good thing, don’t you?

I am incredibly fortunate to have had this blog; few people get to have such a detailed time capsule of the part of their life where everything fell into place for them. Fewer still get to have a personal hobby turn into the rocket that propels them to places and levels they never expected to go. I got lucky. And you, every single one of you who’s been reading along with me, have been part of that for me - in a very real sense, I owe what’s happening to me now to all of you. So thank you.

To all of you who have read or commented since the summer of 2003, I am in your debt. To those who read and as a result decided to elevate and promote my career, I’m even more deeply indebted. To Doc, who today takes great delight in correctly pointing out that he not only got me into blogging but had to talk me into starting this one, I offer this public acknowledgment and a thanks for strapping the Acme Rocket Jet-Pack to my career.

As I said earlier in the week, I’ll have a more personal blog hidden behind a password to keep friends and family up on things in my new home. It’s actually set up already and is just waiting for me to get settled in and start updating. If you want to get the password and be able to keep in touch through that blog, send me a note at thechroniccurmudgeon@hotmail.com and I’ll send you the instructions to access it. Or, if you’d rather do things the old-fashioned way, send me a note to the same e-mail address and I’ll send you a “real” e-mail address and AIM ID to reach me at. If you’d prefer to do neither, I’m tempted to ask if I smell bad or have boogers hanging from my nose or something. (If you’ve already e-mailed and I haven’t yet gotten to you with the password or responded to you, I beg your indulgence while I get moved.)

Maybe Mudge will come back someday… it’s always possible that I’ll get settled into my new gig and figure out that it’s still sometimes okay to air the occasional opinion. Or maybe my fifteen minutes are closer to up than I realized and, kind of like the janitor in Flowers for Algernon, I’ll slide back into my previous levels of simplicity and anonymity and be able to say whatever I want without anyone knowing or caring. But for now, this blog -- and the wonderful run in my life that it represents and helped to generate -- is officially on hiatus. I’ll still be reading all of your blogs and will still be commenting, though -- you’re not rid of me that easily! Please stay in touch; I do consider you my friends and don’t want to lose contact with you all. And once again, thank you for reading for the past three and a half years.

Ladies and gentlemen… the Curmudgeon has left the building.

Posted by Christopher at 04:48 AM | Comments (7)

February 24, 2007

Going, Going...

I'm getting close to the end of the Best One Hit Wonders countdown. I'm also getting close to the end of this blog.

I alluded a couple of weeks ago to having taken a huge, life-changing, no turning back kind of step. The day of reckoning for that step, as it were, is almost at hand. Its arrival has ramifications for this blog as well as my real life. I've said before here that while, for the first seven of my eight years based in New York I hated it and didn't like my life here and wanted to go somewhere else (even going so far as to chase what Obi-Wan Kenobi might have called a "damnfool idealistic crusade" in warmer climates that, in hindsight, was less of what I thought it was but instead represented the strength of my wish to leave and the extent to which I let that wish cloud my judgment), in the past year I have grown into my skin for a number of reasons and have actually become happy with my life here.

I am acutely aware of the irony of choosing change now that I'm finally content; as my mother is fond of saying, "if there's a path of most resistance, you will find it... you never do anything the easy way." But that's just what I've done: after struggling for years to be happy in this area and finally becoming so, I've chosen to throw a massive monkey wrench into the works just to see what would happen.

I have accepted a new job -- a pretty prominent and visible one -- with a new employer (one of the world's biggest, actually). I start next week... more than 600 miles away from New York. After swearing that I would never again return to the midwest, that's exactly where I'm going -- and to a city that I never would have even ever considered that I might one day live in until very recently. The next week will be a jumble of corporate movers, signing papers, and changing physical locations, before starting the new job and new life in early March.

There are many good things about the move: financially the move vaults me to levels I never thought I'd ever make; professionally it represents not a huge step but a leapfrogging; the visibility and opportunity for me are incredible. This is, in a very real sense, the break I worked my whole career to get -- and at 38, I've now become an executive at one of the biggest companies anywhere in the world. I may have worked hard for this, but I'm also damed lucky -- blessed, some might say -- and I'm hoping to live up to the faith that's been shown in me (by both current and future employers).

It was probably not always appropriate for me to maintain the Mudge blog in the position I've been in for the last couple of years, even as a semi-anonymous personality. (My bosses were great about it, I have to say.) But as my position and reputation have evolved, it's become increasingly easy to connect this blog with the real-life me (witness how easily people at my new job were able to find me here). And if "the Mudge" wasn't really appropriate before, he certainly isn't as I take on this new, even higher-profile gig. And if I tempered the kinds of things I say out here, knowing that people can rather easily find me and in the interest of discretion... well, then I wouldn't really be the Mudge anymore, and that would negate the purpose for being out here. So, it's time.

I know better than to ever say "never." So I'll just say that Mudge is going on indefinite hiatus as soon as the OHW countdown is over. It won't be easy. I have come to really enjoy the "regulars" here and have been writing as much for you as for myself for a while now (or trying to). And shutting the door on the thing that has literally made it possible for my dreams to come true? It's like moving out of a house you lived in for 40 years and raised your kids in. You might be excited to head to Scottsdale or Boca Raton, but you're still terribly saddened when you lock the door for the last time, hand the key to your realtor and drive away.

It's always possible, I guess, that Mudge could be back. I've grown addicted to being him, and the name has crossed into my real life, with my friends calling me "Mudge" as often as using my real name. And there will always be things that make me want to vent or write. But discretion really must now be the better part of my valor. I think that means that I have to retire the persona that brought me to the dance.

I will be starting a new blog, but it won't be like this one. With family on two continents, friends on three, and friends and loved ones in the US scattered from coast to coast, staying in touch with everybody will be challenging -- and a blog seems easier and more personal than those mass e-mails. I'll password-protect it, so that only people I've chosen to let see it can see it... and it'll be more just a series of intermittent updates on how life is going in my new home, adventures I'm having along the way, and so on. It'll be a lot more personal and a lot less political, less oriented toward writing for a (hopefully) broad audience and more toward a "letter to a friend" style.

Regular readers here are now considered friends, so any of you who think of me as such and actually want to keep up with me are welcome to; send me an e-mail at thechroniccurmudgeon@hotmail.com and I'll send you the URL and instructions on how to access it. (Be warned that I won't be writing for at least a week due to the move.)

I'll finish the OHW countdown, and then will be back with one last post to say goodbye. Just wanted to give you a heads up that, as the guy in the sandwich board always said, "The End Is Near." Have a great weekend, all.

Posted by Christopher at 01:33 PM | Comments (5)

February 19, 2007

Bon Voyage

Just wanted to say bon voyage and send wishes for the trip of a lifetime to Curmymom and my dad, who are leaving Tuesday afternoon for a month long adventure in Africa and Europe to visit my brother. They'll be in Africa for three weeks, then will spend a week exploring Italy with my brother and his wife.

My mom's never been overseas before; my dad's only been overseas with the Navy, never on his own. I hope they're going to have the trip of a lifetime; I'm excited for them. So if they're reading before they leave... guys, bon voyage. Have the best time anyone could, and spend every last dime on it, because trips like this are once in a lifetime. Be good, and have fun!

Posted by Christopher at 10:20 PM | Comments (1)

January 21, 2007

Pick Your Cliche

Sick as a dog? Feeling like I was hit by a truck? Death warmed over? Whichever cliche is your personal favorite, it applies.

It is perhaps an inescapbable truism that, whenever you have the most going on and can least afford to get really sick... invariably, that is when you'll fall so ill that you want to stay in the fetal position for oh, about a week.

Whatever bug is going around has hit me full throttle, starting around Weds night or Thurs morning. 102 fever, stuffy head and sinus pressure, sore throat, lost voice, hacking cough... don't you wish you were me? Of course the fact that there's a ton going on in my world and that I need to be healthy right now is impacting nothing.

Anyone owning an 18 wheeler, a Stinger missile, or yet another paparazzi photo of Lindsay Lohan's nether regions ... who can thus use said items to put an end to my misery and put me down like the wounded animal I am, please feel free.

Posted by Christopher at 02:43 PM | Comments (0)

January 16, 2007

Disappearing Act

Work. Kicking. My. Ass.

No other way to put it. I've been put on a team that's doing a major project for the company, and it's involving things like being in interior conference rooms (read: no windows) from 8 am until 9 pm and all day writing and brainstorming sessions. As you might imagine, I'm in no mood to even think, much less write, when I get home.

I'm mentally spent and creatively bankrupt for the time being, kids. I will be back when things slow down... maybe toward the end of the week.

Posted by Christopher at 11:48 PM | Comments (0)

January 14, 2007

Scene From A Meltdown

A supermarket in suburban Westchester County, New York. It's Sunday afternoon, and there's a football game on TV. Few people are grocery shopping today; of those who are, precious few are men. In fact, there are only three men in the entire store, and one of those is a sixteen year old dutifully bagging groceries and doubtlessly wishing he were somewhere -- anywhere -- else.

There are only a handful of checkout lanes open, however, so there are lines despite the thin crowds. The shortest line is at Lane 7, with only two people. Enter MUDGE: a big guy to begin with, his bulk seems even greater due to his heavy black Boston University sweatshirt, and he has a cart full of items that clearly belong to a man trying to keep a new year's resolution. He eases into Lane 7 behind WOMAN #1 -- who, we will soon learn, is stereotypical New York both in accent and attitude. In front of her, WOMAN #2 is having her groceries totaled. REGISTER GIRL is busily tapping the register keys, but looks up long enough for MUDGE to pick up an unmistakable look of consternation and frustration on her face. Meanwhile, noticing what appears to be a shorter line, WOMAN #3 and WOMAN #4 each pull their half-filled carts into the lane behind MUDGE. And it is here our story begins.

WOMAN #1(turning to MUDGE): You might want to go into another lane. Princess here (nodding toward WOMAN #2) is taking forever.

MUDGE (looking behind him and seeing the other women behind him): I think I'm stuck. What's going on? She's taking a while?

W1: Just watch her. She's been here five minutes already. And she's a bitch! She's totally railing on the checkout girl and the bagging kid.

MUDGE looks up, and notices that CHECKOUT GIRL and BAG BOY both looking down to avoid eye contact with WOMAN #2, who is taking everything out of the bags BAG BOY has just filled and putting them back on the checkout counter. The kids are clearly unhappy, but they're trying to do their job. W2's voice can be heard; while we cannot make out what she's saying, she is clearly unhappy.

Two more minutes go by. W1 is by now constantly sighing and harumphing under her breath. Mudge is preturbed but not yet angry. From behind him, another voice speaks up.

WOMAN #3: What's the holdup up there?

WOMAN #1: This idiot up here. She's unpacking everything the kid just packed.

WOMAN #4: What do you mean?

WOMAN #1: Just what I said. The kid bagged her (stuff), and now she's unpacking it again.

MUDGE: You've got to be kidding me.

W1: Would I lie?

All look up to see WOMAN #2 unpacking the bags more and more feverishly. She's showing no signs of going anywhere. She's obviously berating BAG BOY at this point.

W4: Hey, come on up there!

W3: You got to be kidding me!

M: Let's go, no one has all day!

W1: Except for her, apparently.

WOMAN #2 now looks up at the growing line behind her. She scowls; while she says nothing, her face shouts "mind your own business.

Another 60 seconds go by. WOMAN #2 is still unpacking her bags and repacking them, and is muttering at BAG BOY and REGISTER GIRL. While we cannot hear the whole conversation, we pick up bits and pieces: "want to speak to your manager"... "very irresponsible and unprofessional".... "don't take that tone." Behind her, the line has about had enough.

W1: Lady, move it. There's other people here.

W4: What's the problem up there?

W3: Is there a reason we're unbagging groceries?

MUDGE: Maybe she's sorting them by color.

WOMAN #2 looks up; the lone male voice is louder and stood out, and she's heard his comment.

W2: Do you mind?

M: Actually...

W1: Yeah, lady, we mind. Let the kid pack your stuff and go; I got things to do too.

W2: Well, you picked the wrong line, now didn't you?

WOMAN 3 sighs loudly.

W4: Oh, for Christ's sake!

MUDGE now has been freed by WOMAN #2's attitude; all pretenses of understanding or politeness can be discarded.

MUDGE: She's sorting 'em by color, like Rain Man. I bet if we ripped open a bag of frozen peas and they spilled all over the place, she could tell us how many were on the floor.

WOMEN 3 and 4 chuckle at this; WOMAN 1 doesn't just laugh, she cackles as if MUDGE were George Carlin, Lewis Black, Will Ferrell and Steven Wright all rolled into one, braying like a cross between Fran Drescher and "Janice" from "Friends.". MUDGE is sure that this over-laughter at a merely mildly funny remark is designed to send a message to WOMAN #2, not because he is really all that funny.

WOMAN #2: You're not funny.

MUDGE (motioning to WOMAN #1): Well, she seemed to think so.

WOMAN #2: I will leave in just a minute, as soon as I see the manager. These pinheads stole my lighter.

(Simultaneously)

W3: What?

W4: Why would he steal your lighter?

W1: Oh my gawd.

MUDGE looks up at WOMAN #2, who glares back. She's going to try and stare him down... but she has no idea what she's just done.

MUDGE:Oh, lady. You have about two seconds to tell me that this isn't all about a lighter.

W2: It's not any of your -- my lighter is missing --

MUDGE (interrupting, now raising his voice so that not only can everyone in the aisle can hear, but everyone for four aisles can hear): You've kept us all waiting for a goddamn lighter? You're yelling at that kid over a lighter? You're unbagging your stuff for that? I'll tell you what -- there's a gas station around the corner that sells 'em for about 79 cents. If you didn't see it, I'm sure everyone in this store will be happy to tell you where it is.

W1: Or where to go.

W2 (angry now): One of them took my property. I don't care about other ones, I --

MUDGE: Lady, I don't give a (spit) if your dear sainted grandmother willed that one to you on her deathbed. It's a freakin' lighter. You shouldn't be smoking anyway. And no one else in this line wants to wait for you anymore. So go find your stupid cigarettes and buy a new lighter and be on your damn way.

W3 (behind Mudge): Ha!

W2: I'll stay here as long as I --

REGISTER GIRL: Ma'am, we've checked every bag, it's not here. Are you sure --

W2: YES, I'm sure! I had it when I got here, so it didn't just disappear. What did you do with it?

MUDGE: Lady, you have five people in line behind you, and none of us feel llike sitting here all day just because you want to smoke. Take your stuff and just go. Move along, nothing to see here.

W2: You have no right to be so rude to me!

MUDGE: Hey, I figure I have as much right to be rude to you as you do to be rude to them (pointing to REGISTER GIRL and BAG BOY.)

This remark elicits wide approval from the queue in Lane 7. WOMAN #1 cackles out loud again. WOMAN 3 laughs out loud. WOMAN 4 starts to clap, and is joined by someone in Lane 8 who's overheard the exchange.

WOMAN 2 glares at Mudge, who glares right back and goes into staredown mode. He's not planning on giving an inch of ground to anyone this rude -- but least of all a smoker. She opens her mouth to say something, then thinks better of it. Just then, the manager arrives.

MANAGER: So what's going on here? Can I help you?

W2: Are you the manager?

W1: Good luck with that one! Watch she doesn't accuse you of stealing her lipstick.

WOMAN 2 glares at MUDGE again, then turns to the manager and starts snapping off; MANAGER guides her to the customer service counter a few feet away. Meanwhile, BAG BOY has rebagged her groceries while she was jawing with Mudge, and quickly pushes her cart away from the counter. REGISTER GIRL smiles at MUDGE as WOMAN #1 takes her place at the front of the line. We can tell she wanted to say something to WOMAN #2 but was biting her tongue.

WOMAN 1 (to REGISTER GIRL): Honey, I'm sorry you have to deal with bitches like her all day.

REGISTER GIRL: No, she was pretty much the only one today.

WOMAN 3: There's always one.

MUDGE: See, you just have to stop stealing lighters.

All chuckle a little. CHECKOUT GIRL continues to routinely ring up WOMAN 1 as the other patrons smile and shake their heads. FADE TO BLACK.

End scene. How was YOUR Sunday, kids?

Posted by Christopher at 09:14 PM | Comments (0)

January 02, 2007

New Year's Resolution: Same As It Ever Was

I have only one New Year's Resolution this year.

Last year I had four. I had a mixed record this year... let's review.

I wanted to play a gig... just wanted to play with a band one more time. Well, I'll give myself an A+ on that one... got together with some friends, formed an impromptu band, and played not one but two gigs -- the last one in front of about 150 people. Couldn't have done better on that one if I tried. I wanted to finish in the first division in fantasy baseball, and stay competitive till the end of the year... I finished 6th of 15 and was in the chase for a money (top 5) finish until the season's final week. A- on that one... would have been an A if my team had won money. I wanted to write a short story last year... while I did no fiction in 2006, I didn't expect the work success that came for me, and didn't expect to be doing all the speaking and interviews I did. So I'll give myself an "incomplete" on that one.

Which leaves me with the big glaring failure from last year... and the resolution I am making again this year (like I do every year). I have to drop weight.

I did try several times in 2006 to get into a working out routine. They always lasted about 6 weeks to 2 months tops, and then something -- work travel, illness, my blown up knees -- made me quit the routine. I did real well in July-September, actually... and then my right knee decided that it didn't want to play anymore, and I haven't been able to do a full workout since. I also can run through the typical excuses, and they're all legit for me... as well as some less typical ones.

But even though I was forced out of action (stupid knees! at what age do they allow you to start thinking about knee replacement surgery??) and can't be entirely blamed for having dropped out of the gym yet again this year, I also can't let the knees be an excuse. Nor can I allow it to be an excuse that I hate exercising and always have; I don't enjoy it nor get anything resembling an endorphin high... I look forward to the gym like I look forward to a prostate exam. But... (no pun intended)...

I simply have to get back into it. My involuntary time away from the gym resulted in not only gaining all the weight back that I'd lost, but putting on even more pounds. I seem to wear it okay -- no one who guesses my weight gets anywhere close to the real number, and no one who knows me believes my weight when I tell them, until I step on a scale in front of them. But whether I look ginormous or not, I am at my heaviest weight ever right now. It's a vicious cycle -- the bigger I get, the worse my knees get... but the worse my knees are, the harder they make it to do anything to lose weight. And it has to stop. I need to drop a significant amount of weight... like 20-25% of my body weight. In an ideal world I'll get down to about 210 (remember, I'm a big guy even when I'm not fat... if I had 7% body fat I'd still be over 200 pounds), but I'll be happy if I can just get down to 225.

I was training last year for an 8k race... didn't work out so well. I don't know what I'll set as my target this year, but I have to aim for something. (Don't tell me to go swimming, by the way... no pool is convenient to me.) And while I exercise more, I'll also be watching what I eat (again), and checking into whether stuff like this works (they sell it at GNC, so how quack could it be? There has to be something to it, I'd think). All I know is, despite hating exercise like kids hate brussels sprouts, despite knees like Joe Namath's, despite it all... I have to lose a lot of weight this year. I'm pushing 40... no more time to lose.

And that's my new year's resolution.

Posted by Christopher at 09:46 PM | Comments (0)

December 27, 2006

2006: The Year In Review - Mudge Edition

Every now and then, you have one of those years where every facet of your life clicks on all cylinders. You know, those years that you look back on later and think, wow... professionally, personally, financially... vacations and home, and everything in between... in every aspect of your life, you were dealt an Ace-10 suited and then hit your Jack, Queen, and King for your straight flush on the flop.

They don't come around very often. I've only had three, I think. The first was 1992 -- and I was just way too young to appreciate it, because at that point I think I honestly believed that my whole life would be like that, and that everything I ever touched would turn to gold. Then 2003 started out great, but we all know how that turned out. (Stupid misguided Florida adventures!) And then there was 2006... which I honestly can say -- nay, have to say -- has been the best year of my life. And while I'm more realistic at 38 than I was at 24, I do have to confess to feeling slightly like Midas this year. Thankfully, this time I know that not every year is going to be like this, and so I've been able to truly appreciate the fortune that's turned up in my world in 2006.

Professionally, this was a dream year. Never could have seen it coming. Personally, same thing -- never saw it coming, but it was a wonderful, amazing year. Some highlights:

THINGS THAT KICKED ASS IN 2006:

Got profiled by a national newspaper syndicate and had my ugly mug splashed on newspapers from Phoenix to Delaware and three dozen places in between. Got to speak at about two dozen conferences around the world, even keynoting about half a dozen times. Stayed in by far the two nicest hotels I have ever stayed in -- one in San Francisco, the other in Rome. Got flown in a helicopter to a major company's headquarters to do a briefing, and didn't lapse into terrorized unconsciousness. Flew cross-country on the company jet... twice. Got to spend a week in Rome. Got to London three times. Spent a month on an assignment for work in Paris, Madrid, and London. Did interviews with the BBC, Wall Street Journal, and CNN.

Moved out of the crappy and cramped studio apartment in a run down building for a high-end townhouse rental that I absolutely love. Watched my kid brother get the job he's always dreamed of. Learned p0ker from friends and by the end of the year got pretty good at it if I do say so myself. Got several bonuses at work. Spoke at a conference in Santa Fe and got to stay in another of my favorite hotels anywhere. Watched 4th of July fireworks from the Cape May Ferry with my family, the Doc, Mrs. Doc, and their whole family.

Got to San Francisco five times, and on the last one got to attend the wedding of a very dear friend to a guy who's perfect for her. Started spending more time with a good friend I'd known for six years, and woke up one day to figure out that neither she nor I thought of each other as just friends anymore... and then -- despite my having sworn on the graves of my ancestors and the soul of Red Sox Nation that I would never be dumb enough to let it happen again (stupid misguided Florida adventures!), and much to our mutual shock and surprise -- this long-time friend wound up becoming "TG" and ended up figuring in considerations of my future. Ended the year with opportunities that I never thought I'd have.

THINGS THAT SUCKED IN 2006:

...

Um... my knees are shot? The Red Sox finished in 3rd?

At the end of 2005, I was on a roll -- and honestly didn't think I could top it. Life just isn't that good to people in general, to give them two great years in a row. As it turns out, not only was 2006 a great year, it was an astounding, outstanding, amazing year that I'm grateful as anything for. Even if 2007 doesn't quite live up to this one, it's okay... the high from the amazing things that happened in 2006 ought to keep me content through at least the end of the decade.

So to all my friends and readers, those of you who helped make 2006 the best year of my life, I simply say thank you. And if you're really nice to me, I'll let you rub my belly for good luck like I were some sort of sarcastic Buddha. I have both the appropriately sized belly for it and the good fortune to spare.

Here's to 2007. May you all find happiness and peace in the New Year.

Posted by Christopher at 08:20 PM | Comments (0)

December 24, 2006

Merry Christmas

I toyed with calling this entry "happy holidays," but then thought: "You know what? At least nominally, you're a Christian, and it's Christmas that you're observing. People of other faiths are both wise enough and good-hearted enough to recognize that it's the sentiment and not the specific observance that you're trying to convey. Stop being so PC!"

So to all of you, whichever holiday you observe, I wish you a happy and safe one. I hope you will either see family or have seen them already (or can avoid them, if you're not so fond of your family). I'll be off for the next two days doing the whole Christmas thing with TG & her family (my first Italian Christmas... TG says I should be very afraid right now!)... but I'll be back either Monday night or Tuesday morning.

Peace to you all.

Posted by Christopher at 08:26 AM | Comments (0)

December 18, 2006

Still Here (or, Merry Christmas, Curmudgeon Brown)

I didn't disappear on you, I promise. It's been a little bit of a hectic few days here; Curmymom and my dad (who I suspect would not be cool with being called anything like "Curmydad") came up to New York to celebrate the holidays and visit -- coming here together, as opposed to only one coming up while the other stays home to dogsit or enjoy a free weekend or something like that, for the first time since the tri-state area became home base for me eight years ago. So we've been doing the family thing since Thursday, and will for a little longer yet before they head back to the semi-retired peace and quiet of the Delaware shore. Highlights of the visit to date include:

-- The much anticipated meeting of the parents and the girlfriend. While I would love to build this up for the sake of the blog and turn it into a Hollywood-esque tale of nerves, knot-in-stomach anticipation and awkwardness, with hilarity ensuing... the truth is that I can't and it wasn't. I was actually less nervous about this meeting than I have ever been about introducing anyone to them, whether it was a serious thing or just a temporary thing. I knew they'd love TG and vice-versa -- and they did, hugs and smiles all around by the end of the couple of days we all spent hanging out. Dunno what it means when you just know in your gut that everyone's going to click and don't worry about it at all, but I did and it went like I thought it would. Seals of approval all around from all sides -- meaning that I get to keep both TG and my parents. ;-)

-- We did dinner together Friday night, then did the holiday gift exchange Saturday before heading to the New York Botanical Gardens and the Bronx Zoo Saturday night to see the holiday displays... and to meet TG's 4 year old, which also went well. However, I had a testosterone-sucking experience out of the whole thing. Because my car is too small to hold four adults and a child in a car seat comfortably, we decided to use TG's minivan. Because TG is nervous about driving in the city, we decided (or, shall I say, it was decided for me) that I should drive. So I carted my parents, my girlfriend, and a very excited 4 year old around... in a mini-van. Just start calling me the Eunuch Curmudgeon, I guess. Anyway, all jokes aside, the botanical gardens in particular were really something... if you are in the New York area, I strongly recommend a trip to the botanical gardens.

-- Sunday was our day in Manhattan, my parents and I. Seeing that both my mother and I are hot dog junkies, the first order of business was to hit Gray's Papaya for a couple hot dogs. (Mom committed the utter heresy of proclaiming that Nathan's is better... I almost abandoned her in the city.) After the hot dogs, we hit the Bryant Park holiday fair, then wandered over to Times Square, up Broadway, and then over to Rockefeller Center to see the tree and the shop windows along Fifth Avenue. (Curmymom would harm me if I neglected to mention that she went into Saks and made a purchase, pretty much because I virtually dared her by saying she would never buy anything in that overpriced store... she was prouder of that Saks bag than new parents in a neo-natal ward.) We ended up the afternoon by heading over to Virgil's near Times Square for barbecue. Yeah, I know it's touristy. Shut up -- it's really good barbecue!

In the end, it was a good chance to have my parents visiting New York together (finally!) and to connect the two halves of my familial world. We had great, warm weather in New York this weekend for it, and couldn't have had a better time. So... I'll be back a little later in the next day or so. Just wanted to let y'all know why I've not been blogging lately. Have a happy Monday (oh, by the way I have the day off for my parents' visit, so... have a really happy Monday, all you working people).

Posted by Christopher at 07:36 AM | Comments (0)

December 14, 2006

The End Of The Curmudgeon

No, I'm not quitting the blog (although I have been considering it). So you can just cut short the celebratory parties and congratulatory high fives and other displays of glee and testosterone. However, I've been noticing lately that, outside of silly lists, I have been finding it much harder to find things to vent write about. And I'm sure that you've all noticed, as I have, that even when I do write, I've kind of become... well, boring. This blog is losing steam, and I can tell.

I've had occasion in the last couple of weeks to really do an assessment of my little corner of the world. And the conclusion that I reached in that self-analysis is the same one that, I think, is really hurting my efforts on this blog.

I'm not a curmudgeon anymore.

For three-plus years I've based the persona on this blog on the concept that I'm usually cheesed off about something and need to vent. In real life, that's not a concept... I've had a metaphorical chip on my shoulder about any and everything for most of my adult life -- and my caustic, sometimes-humorous, always-individual takes on whatever's ticking me off at the moment have become as much a part of my personality as stubbornness or any other attribute. When blogging surfaced, it gave me not just a vehicle but an audience for these rants and vents. I used this blog as not just an outlet, but as an extension of my personality.

But I can't do it anymore. My personality -- or at least my persona, or my outlook -- has changed. The truth is, some time when I wasn't watching in the past year or so, I stopped being a curmudgeon. I stopped being ticked about life in general. Somehow, I ended up (shudder!) ... happy.

There's a lot of factors involved. Foremost among them is TG, of course. I'd be embarrassed to admit it on this blog, except that I cannot hide it from anyone who knows me in real life, so I'll just say it. In the parlance of the movie Bambi, I am twitterpated. So that's a big part of it, no doubt.

But just about everything else that could possibly go right in life has gone so this year for me. 2006 has to go down as the best year I've had. Beyond the social developments... I finally moved into a place I like, which means no more coming home from work to resent the world for the crappy tiny apartment that New York prices forced me to live in. Professionally, this year has gone beyond anything I ever imagined; as a good friend pointed out last night at the company holiday observance, in the past year I've genuinely achieved "international recognition" as an expert in what I do... and let's face it: being recognized is fun. Feeling comfortable and confident in your job instead of feeling like you have something to prove... well, it goes a long way toward making you happy. I have had good friends up here in New York, but in the last year or two I've really both expanded that circle and become much more comfortable with them... I have a lot of good friends here now, people who watch out for me and enjoy having me around... I like that part of my life. Actually, right now I like every part of my life.

So how does one maintain a blog based on always being ticked off about something, when nothing about life ticks you off anymore? I've gotten fat and happy (in both the literary and the literal sense) in the last year or two, and one of the end results is that I just seem to have lost steam in the blogging department. The vents and rants have dried up. Sure, conservatives still piss me off, but this isn't entirely a political blog and I've no desire to make it one. (Then I couldn't go on delirious rants about Britney, for example.) But for the most part, I just don't have much to get negatively worked up about right now. Rage and incredulity have always been the motivation for me to sit down and write... and I just don't have much rage or incredulity left in the tank, kids.

So I apologize for the lackluster nature of this blog lately. I've gotten boring, and I know it. I'm confident enough a writer to think that I will get "it" back and be able to find a new motivator and a new style if need be... but it's going to take me some time to find my way. I will be compelling enough to read again at some point, I promise you -- without relying on cheap tricks like lists (though I do have a "59 Best One Hit Wonders Ever" list on tap and ready to go, once the boredom from the last one has worn down). All I ask is that you bear with me.

I don't know what stride I'm going to find. I just know that -- at least for the time being anyway -- that when I find it, it will not be the "lovable Oscar the Grouch" persona I've carried in the blogosphere for 40 months and in life for at least 150 months. I'm just not angry anymore.

The Curmudgeon is dead. Long Live The Curmudgeon!

Posted by Christopher at 08:07 AM | Comments (1)

December 11, 2006

Isn't It... Wait, Alanis Used That One Already

One of Dictionary.com's definitions of irony is:

1. Incongruity between what might be expected and what actually occurs: "Hyde noted the irony of Ireland's copying the nation she most hated" (Richard Kain).
2. An occurrence, result, or circumstance notable for such incongruity. See Usage Note at ironic.

My definition is much simpler: it's just that thing that is kicking my ass right now.

Posted by Christopher at 11:02 PM | Comments (2)

November 21, 2006

Over The River And Through The Woods...

Was in transit to my family's place today, had no time to blog. Will be back on tomorrow morning, I promise.

Posted by Christopher at 10:22 PM | Comments (4)

November 14, 2006

Learnings Of Anatomy To Make Benefit Glorious Nation Of Curmudgeonland

Take care of your knees, kids. That's my message for today. Take care of them, because they're the only ones you get.

You'll miss them when they're gone.

Posted by Christopher at 12:38 AM | Comments (3)

November 11, 2006

Cheating

I am supposed to be doing a blog post per day this month. But I helped TG hang siding on her house all day, and I can't keep my eyes open. So I'll write more tomorrow. Yeah, I know this is cheating. No, I don't care. :-)

Posted by Christopher at 07:50 PM | Comments (0)

November 09, 2006

E-Mail Issues

For those (like my brother in Africa) who were hoping for or expecting an e-mail from me... I worked late tonight (gave a keynote in Manhattan) and then came home to find out that my personal e-mail account company is having issues. I can't get to it, in fact. So I am declaring temporary e-mail bankruptcy -- I owe more than I can catch up with.

I'll write y'all later this week, I promise.

Posted by Christopher at 12:21 AM | Comments (0)

November 02, 2006

Well I Love That Dirty Water

It's not often that you get to take a cab ride into your past. I got to this morning.

I got my Masters degree from Boston University in January 1999. I loved every moment of my 16 months in Boston; I literally cried when I left -- while I was thrilled to have a job offer waiting for me, I had really wanted it to be in Boston. Instead, it was in New York. I made promises to myself as I left town -- promises I have repeated many times over in the ensuing years -- that I would go back often, several times a year. I've been breaking those promises consistently since graduation; I think today's conference marked the fifth time I've been back since commencement.

In the years since, I have convinced myself that Boston wouldn't be the right home for me -- partly by reminding myself that my ever-decreasing tolerance for winter would be epically tested were I to move northward again, and partly by trying to convince myself that the reason I loved the city and my time there was because I was a student, and the student experience anywhere (but especially in Boston) by definition cannot compare or compete with the "real-life" experience of an average office Joe. it wouldn't be the same, I tell myself; the city deserves to live on in its idealized form in my memory, growing more amazing and exciting with time as age diminishes my actual recall of the events of those 16 months. You were a student there, I remind myself; it was never home.

But damned if it didn't feel like it when I got into town yesterday. From the moment I got off the MassPike and into Boston itself (though I stayed in Cambridge, the conference was in Boston proper), the city felt like a long lost friend. And this morning, when I caught a cab from my hotel in Cambridge to the site of the conference downtown, I wasn't just going through Back Bay. I was going back in time.

We passed Crossroads Pub at the corner of Beacon and MassAve... and I swear I expected to see my Rat Pack walking out the door. Damian and Dave and Steve and Hamish and Stover and I spent countless nights in that pub (and more afternoons than I care to recount). The delis and corner shops nearby were familiar, and as we got closer to the swanky part of downtown near the Pru, the restaurants and bistros of Mass Ave and Newbury Street looked more inviting than ever. And for a few minutes while I gathered my thoughts before going up on stage, I wished I'd never left.

Before I headed home this afternoon, I drove through the old BU neighborhood -- down the street I'd once lived on, on to CommAve and through the urban campus... and again, it was 1997-98 all over again. The Communications building would be full of people I knew if I'd gone inside, it felt like. But the old Star Market is a Shaw's now, and the new Agannis Arena and the Student Village (rather luxurious student housing, if I do say so) stand where the old Armory used to. Time has obviously passed... so why did I feel like a grad student going home again?

The Citgo sign in Kenmore Square used to be the beacon, the homing device for us... no matter where we went out or what condition we found ourselves in, we knew that home was where the Citgo sign was; it was on the roof of the building across the street from grad student housing. (There were nights where if not for the Citgo sign, I think we might all still be wandering the streets of Boston trying to get home.) And as I looked at it again today, I got an odd sensation of homesickness -- even though I only lived there for 16 months almost a decade ago. Today, I remembered that home isn't just a place, it's a time and a state of mind.

I drove home this afternoon and passed back into 2006 somewhere on the MassPike before crossing into Connecticut. But I love that Dirty Water.... oh, Boston, you're my home. If only for a little while, anyway.

P.S. As a side note, if anyone is traveling to the Boston area, I had a fantastic experience at the hotel I stayed in -- the Hotel Marlowe in Cambridge. Tremendous customer service, and a very unique boutique hotel (how many other luxury hotels are pet-friendly and have welcome water dishes out at the front door with the valets for the dogs and cats who are going to be staying with them?). I really can't recommend it strongly enough - one of the best hotel experiences I have ever had in all my travels. 5-10 minutes by cab from downtown Boston, it's convenient to whatever you're doing in town. Yes, I'm blatantly shilling them; my experience was that good.

Posted by Christopher at 07:42 PM | Comments (2)

More Later

Sorry for the not-posting last night thing ... am in Boston to do a panel at a conference, and between travel and the conference activities themselves (plus trying to do the day job), time's been tight the last 24 hours or so.

I have a few things I think I'll post about tonight when I get home: self-indulgent ruminations about being back in the town I went to grad school in... a quick report on my first excursion taking a child trick or treating... and of course, the next Curmudgeon's List: The 59 Worst One Hit Wonders. (Why 59? Because that's how many egregious violations I found in the rolls of one hit wonders. And I like the idea of having a list that no one else will ever do; what are the odds that VH1 will do a special one day on the 59 Worst One Hit Wonders?)

Ever get the feeling that "anonymous" and MUHoop are going to someday regret saying that I should do "a list per month?"

Anyway, I'll be back tonight. Have a good day.

Posted by Christopher at 07:45 AM | Comments (0)

October 18, 2006

Scenes From A Life: Homework

The scene: a living room in exurban New York City. Having in the past casually mentioned being willing to help with homework, I've been taken up on the offer, the young man now sits opposite me on the sectional with notebooks and textbooks stacked next to him. This will be good, I tell myself; you've always been a good student, and working with him on homework will be a good way to continue connecting with the young man whose mother you're smitten with. Yes, this will be a good thing.

"All right," he says, "the one I have the most to do is math."

There is a brief moment of silence while I soil myself. While I always excelled at school at every level and in almost every subject, I have a kryptonite-like weakness; when confronted with any math that involves higher function than long division, I become Special Ed. But this is a big moment; he's trusted me and asked for my help, and by God I am going to rise to the occasion. Never let them see you sweat, right?

"Okay. Whaddaya got?"

He pulls out a textbook roughly the size of an unabridged dictionary. "We have to do 20 problems from this book." I look at the cover. I cough. Intro to Trigonometry. I become aware that suddenly my IQ has dropped 54 points. I look out the front door to see if the short yellow bus has arrived to take me home yet. He opens his notebook and begins copying the first diagram from the book to his pages. I decide honesty is the best policy.

"Okay, I'll give this a shot. But I'll tell you the truth: I suck at math. My grades were good in high school because we only needed one year of it and I quit math after geometry."

He smiles. Teenagers can smell fear, after all -- and he knows he has me. It's Round One, and he's weakened me with two stiff jabs; my guard is dropped, and he moves in for the knockout punch.

"So for this one, we need to find the sine and cosine for A, B and C."

I'm on my back, looking up at the lights and smiling at all the pretty birdies. The referee is surely counting ten by now, but I don't hear it. I am Apollo Creed in the ring with Ivan Drago. I'm dead. For me, sine means autograph, and cosine is something your parents do for your first car loan. "Trig" might as well be some random Norweigian guy, for all I know of it.

There are a few seconds of silence while I stare at the diagram he's written on his page. I flip through files in my head that are more than 20 years old at this point, trying to remember formulas. Suddenly, the right answer comes to me.

"I think the Mets game just started. You wanna watch it?"

He grins, and proceeds to give me a 15 minute lesson in introductory trigonometry. But while he's having an amusing time explaining the formulas to his mother's exapserated and confused boyfriend, he's getting his homework done. He's got to understand this stuff to explain it to me. By the 3rd inning, he has most of it done.

Ain't gonna be no rematch. Don't want one.

Posted by Christopher at 06:30 AM | Comments (3)

October 11, 2006

Stonewall Jackson's Midnight Ride (aka Adventures In Fermentation)

I had an eerie experience the night before last. I came face to face with Stonewall Jackson, up to no good, in the middle of the night. No, this wasn't some chemically induced vision, nor were there ghosts paying me a visit. It was all just part of an adventure in fermentation that provided me with a most definite "I've never seen that happen before" moment.

Two summers ago, my parents took a long weekend driving through Virginia. Among the things they discovered while on this soujourn was a vineyard (Virginia, like New York, likes to believe that it has a wine industry) -- Stonewall Vineyards. Knowing that I'm a wine fan (but not enough of a connoiseur to be so discerning as to turn up my nose at a Virginia wine), and knowing that as a history buff I'd probably be mildly amused by possessing a wine themed after a civil war general, they decided to pick me up a bottle to give as a gift whenever they next saw me. They chose a bottle of "Brigade," which the vineyard's Website describes as "a light semi-dry wine designed for those who want an easy to enjoy red wine low in tannins."

Unfortunately for both the Brigade and for me, they chose to store the bottle in their trunk. In the summer. And then forgot about it when they left. Two days later, Mom remembered it and retrieved it, mildly miffed at herself for having spaced it and almost certainly ruining the wine. But when they bext saw me a couple of months down the line, she mentioned it to me anyway and showed me the bottle, laughing as she admitted that it was the thought that counted. Still, the bottle's label intrigued me, and Mom and I thought that perhaps if I needed some red wine vinegar in a recipe I was trying, perhaps I had a quite sizable amount now at my disposal if the wine hadn't gone completely rancid. So I accepted the wine, and it's been sitting on my wine rack ever since. And even though I had yet to need red wine vinegar in a recipe in the two years hence, I opted to bring it with me in the move this past spring.

Fast forward to October 2006. My wine rack sits atop my refigerator (the new place is much nicer than the old, but let's face it, it's still a 1BR townhouse-style apartment, and space is at a premium... so the fridge does double duty as the home for my wine rack), with the necks of the bottles pointing out to the kitchen, which has an open design facing out toward the living room.

It's 4:00 in the morning. I'm sound asleep, coming off of a four hour band rehearsal and dreaming of visions of being a rock star, of groupies, or of both... or something like that. There must have been a noise in the apartment, though I do not consciously hear it, being asleep. But I gradually fade into consciousness; something's awakened me.

As I lay in the dark grousing about having awakened and yet still only half-conscious, I vaguely become aware of a noise, a trickling, something that sounds like one of those small home zen little rock fountains that you plug in. The problem is, I don't have one. Then I think that it sounds like the cat's automatic waterer, one of those motorized deals that allegedly keeps a fresh, aerated supply of water for the animal going at all times. But then I realize that I have never before been able to hear the waterer from my room before. Confused and groggy, I stumble to the kitchen/living room area to see what's making the noise.

In my kitchen, it is immediately apparent that ol' Stonewall's been up to no good, choosing to torment a Yankee by depriving him of sleep and messing up his kitchen. There's a steady, if weak, stream of purplish-red fluid dripping down the white front of the refrigerator, collecting in a grape pool on the floor below. Splatters of purple dot the white countertop five feet away across from the fridge. And atop the fridge, there is a now open bottle of Stonewall Brigade oozing what's left of its innards. The glass is amazingly intact... not even a chip, and I'm not in danger of stepping on a shard of something. But where is the cork?

I'm mildly bemused at this point, realizing that the bottle of wine that turned when my parents left it in their trunk and then sat on my shelf for two years has finally fermented to the point of achieving explosive power. (I should point out here that everything that happens in this story is a result of the actions of the buyers/recipients of the wine, and not the wine or the vineyard itself; I am sure that Stonewall makes fine wines that don't explode.) But I now am wondering where the cork is, even as I right the leaking bottle and place it in the sink, and start tearing paper towels off the roll to sop up the puddle on the floor. I step out of the kitchen toward the closet to gather the cleaning fluids I'm going to need for the fridge and counter top, and look toward the living room.

And see the cork. On top of the coffee table. 15 feet away from the fridge. I wander into the living room to explore this discovery, and realize that there are small puddles of wine on my brand new, several-hundred-dollars-spent-on-it coffee table. Before I can freak out about this, I also see the trail of purplish red splatters all over the beige carpet that I don't own -- as in, if it's stained, I will end up paying for it whenever I leave here. Two books sitting on the table literally have small puddles of vinegar-wine on their covers, and their pages are already pruning from the drenching. And I suddenly become aware that my entire living room smells something of vinegar.

Long story short (too late, I know), I was up for the next 75 minutes cleaning up the mess and desperately trying to unstain carpets and protect the finish on the table, mopping the kitchen floor and cleaning the countertops until 5:15 on a weekday morning. But while I was grouchy about the lost sleep, I was more grouchy that I'd missed seeing the display. I mean, how often does a bottle of wine gone bad ferment so intensely on your own shelves that it spontaneously explodes, launching its cork on a 15 foot joyride and its contents in a contrail across two rooms? I have to think that would have been something to see. (It would also have been much less funny if it had happened on Friday night, when the guys were over to play cards; one or more of my friends would have taken an unexpected vinegar shower.

And I suppose that if the pressure was that great inside that bottle, if gas had built up to a level sufficient to force open the cork and send it fifteen feet, had I actually ever tried to open it, I might have gotten not only a face full of cork, but an exploding bottle in my hands. So maybe it was better this way.

All I know is that Stonewall Jackson rode again in the early morning of October 10, 2006 -- still fighting, and still trying to mess with a Yankee as best he could.

Posted by Christopher at 07:21 AM | Comments (7)

October 08, 2006

39

(Editor's note: this post is a day late... I hope it's not a dollar short.)

Thirty nine years ago on October 7, 1967, a 28 year old Navy man and a 20 year old city girl got married in Reading, Pennsylvania. For the time being he was stationed at a shore post, which is how he met her. But they both knew that he'd be heading out to sea again soon enough. And since Vietnam was raging, there was little question as to where his ship would be heading. They got married anyway. (I'm kinda glad they did, seeing as how I came along about nine months later and would never have come along at all if they hadn't gotten married.)

39 years later, they're still married. Their military life took them to New York City (well okay, Jersey City is where they lived -- and where I was born -- but he was stationed in Manhattan), then to Pearl Harbor and Hawaii, and then to Minnesota of all places (Navy juggernaut that it is). When he retired from the Navy after spending the last four years of a 21 year career there, they stayed in Minnesota for another 22 years to raise their family. Today, they're on the east coast living near the beach in Delaware; following the defections of their older son (in 1994) and their younger son (in 1997) to the east coast, they packed up their bags and memories in 1999 and followed us east -- returning to the time zone in which they both grew up, and ending my immediate family's 25 year+ stint as Minnesotans.

They endured lengthy war-induced separations (Dad having to be away while his infant sons were growing up, and Mom having to be 23 years old, her husband off the coast of Vietnam, living 5000 miles from anyone she knew, and having two infant sons under the age of 3 to deal with). They endured getting plowed into by a drunken driver with both of us kids in the car. They endured second shifts and teenaged mouths -- both feeding them and hearing them. They raised two kids who never got into any serious trouble. They had three dogs over four decades, all of whom lived to at least 15 years and all of whom were the most beloved dogs who ever belonged to a family. They watched their sons grow up, get the family's first college degrees, and move away. They retired together. They dealt with -- and still deal with -- divergent personalities that make Dad happy in small town America and miserable in cities, and Mom happy in cities and miserable in small town America.

Anyone watching the world knows how hard it is for any couple to make it 39 years, and how relatively infrequently it happens. Hell, I know from both observation and unpleasant experience that most couples don't go that long; my own record-length relationship of any kind is about one tenth as long as their marriage, and I've failed miserably at what they've succeeded at. So I know as well as anyone what an achievement 39 years is; the fact that they happen to be my parents merely adds a personal touch to the respect I have for what they've done.

Their lives have settled into the routine of retirement now, to an extent; the nightly Scrabble games, the occasional dinner out. They both have things to do on their own -- Dad doing extensive volunteer work four or five days a week, and Mom working in a bookstore a block from the ocean -- so they don't drive each other nuts with togetherness. They're planning a visit to Africa next year to visit my brother, and each of them still manage to get up to New York about once a year to say hi (though admittedly, Mom comes more frequently because she's visiting the city too and not just her son, while Dad wouldn't be caught within 100 miles of anyplace this big if I weren't here). They babysit their grand-cat when I'm traveling the world for work. They roll with whatever punches life presents to them or to my brother and I, no longer even batting an eye at things we do or that happen with us. It's all good to them; they raised us right and know we'll handle life just fine. They've graduated to enjoying life and just wanting us to be happy. They made it.

So Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad. I'm proud of you. I love you both.

Posted by Christopher at 09:01 AM | Comments (3)

October 05, 2006

Happy Birthday

My brother is 36 today. My brother lives far away. I sent him but jack, but know he comes back, To this blog, so here's where I'll say!

In case you dropped by today, bro, happy 36. You're old now. Wow.

I mean, if you were a car, you'd either be sitting in a junkyard or, having had your odometer rolled back, you'd be rolling down the streets of a small town in Mexico or Bolivia or something, dodging goats and having an inch-thick coat of horse manure and mud on your tires.

If you were a song, you'd be relegated to "classic" stations by now. Of course, since you don't have the wild side that I once had, you'd probably be like a Carpenters' song, or maybe somthing by Lobo. Yeah, that's it -- you'd be "Me And You And A Dog Named Boo."

If you were a movie, you'd be in Technicolor and have mono sound. And you'd have really cheesy special effects, too -- people would be able to see the costume lines on your aliens, and your spaceships would be hung up with fishing twine. They probably wouldn't have a DVD of you yet. People would be selling really bad VHS copies of you on eBay.

If you were a house, you'd need a new roof, new heating, and you'd still have orange-rust shag carpeting and faux wood paneling in the "rec room." In fact, you'd look like the Brady Bunch house.

So happy birthday, my younger-but-not-really-young-anymore brother. And when you get back to a country that actually allows alcohol, the martinis are on me.

Posted by Christopher at 06:38 AM | Comments (4)

October 02, 2006

Home Again

Had a very nice weekend away from the pressures and stresses of regular life... the weather sort of cooperated (well, we had a few hours of sunshine anyway, and the rain held off for most of Saturday). Neither of us had been to the Berkshires before so there was a lot of exploring to do. Among the highlights were the Norman Rockwell Museum (I've never really been a fan, but it's always interesting to check out art galleries and museums dedicated to a single artist's works), newly discovered outlet shopping, some pretty good Greek food, and a long hike through Mount Washington State Park and Bash Bish Falls (see below). The only lowlights were the all-day rain Sunday and an unfortunate incident while we were hiking that ended up with my knees going out from under me and planting my chin into the dirt and moss beneath me.

It was kind of weird being out of touch for 48 hours; we didn't have computers with us, we didn't watch the B&B's TV, we listened to no radio... so getting home Sunday meant a lot of trying to catch up on the world.

Best of all, we seem to have weathered the "first trip together" dynamic pretty well. No spats, no arguments, no disagreements on where to go or what to do, no getting on each other's nerves in the car... it was just fun. So with that, my hiatus from the Curmudgeon blog is over and it's time to get back to business. Thanks for indulging me the silence.

Posted by Christopher at 07:04 AM | Comments (3)

September 29, 2006

Back Sunday

I took the week of July 4th off -- two holidays and ostensibly three vacation days -- but then I did work for at least a couple of hours on each of the three 'vacation' days. And while I was in Europe this June, I took a couple of days to see the cities I was visiting... but mostly that was on weekends, and on the weekdays while I was there I always at least logged on and did a little work.

So today, Friday September 29, is the first day in 2006 where it's a work day and yet I will not be logging on or doing any kind of work whatsoever. I guess that makes this my first real vacation day of the year.

The Girl and I are taking a long weekend in the Berkshires, to do a little hiking, a little dining, and to just get some alone time away from the madding crowds of home. So I'm done blogging until Sunday night (which is just as well, as once again I am approaching bandwidth limits anyway). I do have a lot to say about the Terrell Owens situation (and especially his jackassed idiot publicist!), and of course about most of everything else going on in the world... but it'll have to wait.

Because as of right now, 9:42 am.... I am on vacation. See you crazy kids in 60 hours.

P.S. Don't forget to support BoobieThon -- with a donation of money, a photo, or both. The charity is the Susan G. Komen Foundation, the cause is fighting breast cancer, and the idea is fun.

Posted by Christopher at 09:35 AM | Comments (0)

September 27, 2006

RockStar: Curmudgeon

So now that everyone's had their fun at my expense after seeing the photos of the big show the other night... how was it for real? It was doggone fun, man. I'd forgotten how much I love being on stage -- not to talk about business, but to rock out and have some fun.

I'll admit, before we went on I was... well, nervous isn't the right word. "Mortified" might be more like it. I spent the day trying to talk as little as possible in order to preserve my voice, but when I did speak, words like "unmitigated disaster" frequently came out. I was concerned about my voice -- a five hour rehearsal on Saturday kind of made mincemeat of it -- and concerned about playing in front of people I will have to work with. (If you're playing a bar, the crowd is anonymous; if you suck, you'll never see them again, so there's less pressure.) But after an excruciating wait and a sound check/short rehearsal, it was time. Now or never. As we were being introduced, I slipped on my shades and leather jacket, going for the Bono look and figuring that it would be easier for me to do this if I were in character as a rock star... and we went on, to the empathetic cheers of our colleagues (who I think, despite not knowing what to expect, certainly appreciated the extent to which we were putting ourselves out on the line). I went through our rehearsed stage banter to open, still shaking like a leaf inside -- I don't remember this being so hard! -- and then we kicked into the opening number, Neil Young's "Rockin' In The Free World."

The band was tight -- we'd rehearsed this one a lot and they were "on" -- and as I started the first lines, there were a few cheers from the crowd, cheers that you could hear really meant "hey, these guys don't suck as bad as we thought they would!" I couldn't see a thing past the front row; the lighting for the stage was pretty much in my eyes and I couldn't tell how the audience (about 40 people, less than I'd thought; fewer people stuck around after dinner to hear us than I thought would) was reacting. But I was starting to have a little fun... and then... I stepped on the mic cord, and it came unplugged from the mic. Dead air. Me singing and not even being able to hear myself over the band. I just kept on singing, and grabbed down for the cord, plugged it back in, smled and shouted "Live TV!" and then went back into the song right in time...

And the audience went nuts. (Well, as nuts as 40 people can get, anyway.) We'd had an accident less than 45 seconds into our first song, and just plugged through it... and our colleagues recognized that we were up there to play, not to goof around. And they started to get into it. I couldn't see, but I could hear -- and people were shouting and "whooo"ing and "yeah!"ing -- and all of a sudden the butterflies were gone. All at once. And in my head, I no longer looked like a desk jockey in a costume, and I wasn't straining to hit the higher notes; in my head, I was back on stage at age 20, thin, in tune, and in command of my audience. And the switch flipped in my brain and the performance was ON from that point. The audience weren't my friends and colleagues... they were just 'the audience,' and they were digging on it. This was going to be fun!

We finished "Free World" and went into the opening strains of "Sweet Child O'Mine," and the audience roared again -- surprised we were tackling tougher songs and not just playing derivations of Johnny B. Goode ("three chords and the truth" as Bono once sang). And when the lead guitar intro ended and the rest of the band came in behind him, I think that was the moment when I just let go and really got into character, hopping around and 'dancing' (to the extent that anything I do could ever be called 'dancing') and acting like a front man. The audience ate it up, too - they were really cheering us on.

After Sweet Child, we did "I Will Follow" by U2 -- probably my strongest song because it's wholly within my range and I don't have to stretch for any of it. By the time it was over, I was having the time of my life. "I Wanna Be Sedated" came next, the audience was having fun, and even when I couldn't hit the long note at the end of our next song, Cheap Trick's "Surrender," it didn't seem to bother anyone. We did an extended version of "All Along The Watchtower" that really set the audience going, because we let the guitarists run with that song -- and the lead guitarist in particular -- my card playing buddy -- can really shred. We left the stage for 20 seconds after that, playing at the whole 'encore' thing... then came back on to do "Red House" by Jimi Hendrix. I turned up the growl in my voice on that one and did my best to sound like a grizzled old blues man... and the audience roared. I never saw it, but I am told that through the whole show, there were people standing in the back of the auditorium and dancing -- and never so much as when we did our last song, "I Saw Her Standing There" -- which is really fun because it lets me do a little call-and-respond with the audience.

When we finished and I did the traditional "Thank you (town)! You guys have been great - drive home safe, good night!"... the audience was actually shouting for more; they didn't want us to leave the stage. We had to explain "we've been a band for two weeks, we only know 8 songs." And then they all came up to the stage and shook our hands and raved and told us they'd really had fun. And wow, did that feel good. Were we great? Not even close. But were we better than anyone -- including ourselves -- thought we would be? Absolutely.

Three notes that made me feel really great about the night: one colleague, a former manager of mine from back in the day, sent me a note to say that she's been going to company meetings for 25 years and has never had so much fun. Cool. Then another good friend wrote to tell me that he'd been surprised to be impressed -- "you can carry a tune, have some genuine stage presence, and really seemed to be having fun while knowing what you're doing." Even cooler -- this is one of my closer friends, but he wasn't saying it to be friendly; he meant it, and I knew it.

And finally.... our boss's boss's boss left a big meeting long enough to come over to hear us -- the Big Cheese himself was in the house. When we saw him afterwards and asked him how long he'd been there, he remarked dryly, "Long enough." Which was funny, if unnerving. But Tuesday morning when I came in to the office, his right hand person pulled me aside... turns out, there's another big gathering on October 11, and the boss has asked that we play that event too. Obviously, he doesn't think we'll embarrass him or ourselves.

We really were all right. And we have one more show to do before we sleep.

All I can say is, rock and roll, man.

Posted by Christopher at 07:39 AM | Comments (5)

September 15, 2006

Through A Lens, Darkly

Warning: self-absorption and navel-gazing about blogger's own life ahead. Turn your boats away now if you don't want to be smashed upon the rocks of Mudge ruminating about his own little life. Seriously, remember that Sesame Street book you had when you were a little kid, with Grover warning you that there was a monster at the end of the book, and every time you turned a page he was exhorting you ever more urgently not to turn any more pages so that you wouldn't run into the monster at the end of the book? Yeah, it's like that. There's a navel-gazing monster at the end of this paragraph. Okay, I warned you.

I had a first-ever experience the other day (made all the more surreal by the fact that I was still recovering from the flu). I was in the city with a few work colleagues having publicity photos taken. Not only do we use them to drum up interest/show who we are when we're speaking somewhere... but soon, kids, if you know who I am "in real life" and what I do, you'll soon be able to see my Colossus-like mug on iTunes, in the channel where my work-related podcasts and those of my colleagues will be stored. (If you know me, you'll know where to look. If you don't, I have to protect my super-secret Clark Kent-like identity and not tell you where to look. Sorry.) And after that experience, all I can say is that now I know why supermodels rarely smile. It's hard work, smiling for 30 minutes and trying to look natural.

First of all, while I have worn makeup before (TV game shows, 80s hair band singing), it's still a very odd experience as a guy to be plopped into a chair by a professional makeup person to have her make you presentable -- especially after you've spent the morning doing your usual grooming routine to try and become presentable. And every time she spends more than a couple of seconds in one spot, you become very self-conscious about your complexion. Why has she been plastering spackle below the lower left corner of my mouth for the last 20 seconds? Do I have a zit? Oh geez, I'm gonna get my picture taken for the world and I have a huge zit on my face -- it's just like prom! Wait, what if it's not a zit? What if I have a rash? Or what if I just have bad skin? Oh my god, I'm ugly. I have hideous skin and need more makeup than a Star Trek alien to look good on camera! Can my skin breathe under this, or am I about to die a horrible death like that chick in Goldfinger?! But when she finished, I have to say that she had successfully eliminated every blemish or flaw that I usually notice in my face (well, you know... other than my face itself!), and I looked pretty decent -- almost passable.

You get out there into the studio, and immediately the staff begins to try and banter with you "to put you at ease" and make you "not remember that the camera is there." Which is pretty much impossible, seeing as how you're standing in a studio with tens of thousands of dollars of lighting equipment in front of you, a man with a camera the size of Kansas telling you to move "just a scooch" to your right, an art director checking test shots on a computer, and her assistant director sitting in front of you telling you to be natural. They were all genuinely nice people, I enjoyed bantering with them... but it's still out of your element and you're still very aware of the camera. You can't help it.

And after about 3 minutes, you start becoming very aware of your smile, and your hand gestures, and everything else about yourself... you become very conscious that you probably look like you're posing, or making exaggerated gestures... and that smile on your face either looks put-on, or you think you've got one of those six-year-olds-saying-cheeeeeese! looks going on, teeth bared in some half-smile, half-primeval gesture of warning grimace... plus your cheeks start to get tired. I'm not kidding... it sounds simple, just smiling, but if you doubt me then I suggest that you try smiling for 30 minutes straight and see how your face is feeling after Minute 19. And then start wondering if you've given that same smile four minutes earlier and whether you look dorky or whether your hair's been messed up by the fan, and so on... it ain't easy. I have more respect now for models -- seriously! -- than I did before Wednesday; it's harder than I realized.

So what else can I tell you about my roller coaster little life, besides that paid professionals spent Wednesday morning trying desperately to fight nature and make me look good? It looks like I will be traveling again soon... I have a gig in San Francisco in late October, two in New York and one in Boston before Election Day... and from the sounds of things at work, I will spend most of November on the road and overseas again. I've been home just long enough now that the travel bug has begun to bite again, and the idea of being in Europe again, and then Asia this time, has begun to become appealing once more. It'll make Thanksgiving planning a little more challenging this year, but I'll tough it out.

I have a two hour presentation this morning at work; a major company from Europe has asked for my "expertise" (ha!) about blogging and podcasting, and they're beaming me in via Web conference to teach them all about it. Senior management-type folks in the room, I hear. It'll be my standard conversation, I'm not worried about going two hours (believe me, I can rant for two hours on almost anything, especially when the audience is asking questions that keep things moving), but I am concerned about holding an audience's attention at a Web conference (meaning I won't actually be *in* the room) on a Friday afternoon from 3:30 to 5:30 their time. Because frankly, if it were me in the audience, by Friday at 4:00 I would have started to turn off and tune out, thinking about the weekend. If I was in the room, I could at least count on politeness to keep the eyes on me... but over the Web, I have no control over it. And while through sheer repetition and experience I am immeasurably better in front of an audience now than I was when I started this gig, I still rely on being able to make eye contact with people in order to anchor my "performance." So today oughta be interesting.

And finally... as both a test I'm conducting of how many people actually read my "all about me" posts, and as a reward to anyone who actually made it this far without falling asleep, I'm going to let you in on a little secret, as long as you promise not to tell anyone who didn't read this far. It'll be just between us.

There's a Girl.

I don't know how the hell it happened, since I have not had time over the past seven months to recall my own name, much less see any friends or have a social life. (I have inadvertantly been ignoring sooooo many people in 2006, many of whom could be excused for thinking that it was deliberate and I was ignoring or avoiding them.) There were a few dates with wonderful people who just got caught up in the riptide of me never being around all spring and summer long, and I feel bad about that. But however it happened despite my schedule, and for whatever reason that this one is "sticking," it's happened. I said it wasn't going to again, but it is. And you know what? I don't mind so much after all. And since I've finally seemed to break the 20something, decade-younger than me streak I'd settled into, perhaps the prospects here might be a little more realistic. Who knows?

All I can say is, there's a Girl. And Mudge is kinda happy. Stay tuned.

Posted by Christopher at 06:47 AM | Comments (6)

September 11, 2006

Where'd That Truck Come From?

You know, the one that must have hit me some time in the last two days?

I don't know the origin of the phrase "sick as a dog" -- most of the dogs I've ever been acquainted with haven't been sick. Nor do I understand how someone might look like "death warmed over;" death is not warm even once, much less "over" or a second time. And it's not really possible for any of us to know how it feels to "feel like shit." Perhaps your social lives are more adventurous than my own, but I've never had the experience of being excreted, so it's not really a parallel I can draw; I have no idea what shit feels like.

But whatever inappropriate or inaccurate metaphor or descriptor one uses, it applies to me today. I started coming down with something Friday night into Saturday morning; I had a restful Saturday and managed to stave it off for 24 hours. Saturday night I could tell it wasn't going to go away if I ignored it, and by Sunday morning I was decidedly under the weather (speaking of silly metaphors that make no sense). So of course, I went to an amusement park for the company picnic all day on Sunday and ran around for seven hours. No one has ever accused me of being a smart man, have they?

This morning I woke up feeling like there'd been a monster truck rally on SUNDAY! SUNDAY! SUNDAY! all over my head; I was running a 102 fever, my head and sinuses were stuffed up to the point of uselessness (god, it's fun being a mouthbreather), my head pounded like there was a forge inside it, my throat burned, and my muscles ached like I'd just played six hours of football without pads. I am usually one of those annoying people who goes into the office even if death itself is dripping from my nose -- I will not miss work for much of anything, and it's people like me whom you have to thank for the spread of the flu every season -- but I knew the moment I woke up that I wasn't going anywhere today.

Usually when I (or most of us, I suspect) am sick, I'll at least drag myself into the living room and watch television or something, which would usually give rise to a post on this blog about how disgusting daytime television is. Not today. I laid in bed all day, surrounded by Sudafed, Advil, Chloraseptic, kleenex, a somewhat disinterested cat who nonetheless managed to instinctively know when I was feeling worst and chose those times to cuddle himself up against my ribs and start purring, and orange juice. So I have no reviews of today's maudlin TV coverage, or anything like that.

Instead, I was left to ponder the wonders of the universe from my sickbed. Like, how wonderfully Freudian it is that there is a controversy involving Maria Sharapova and a banana. Or like how there is a primary in Rhode Island tomorrow that involves the extreme right wing of the Repuiblican party going after a sitting Republican senator for not being extreme enough, and yet there are barely any stories in the conservative media (spoon-fed by the Republican Party) about how Republicans are eating their young as the extreme wing of the party takes over -- despite very similar dynamics as the Connecticut race last month. (I said then and I will say again now, the major dynamic at play for either party is a rather militant strain of anti-incumbency.)

Or how amazing Ryan Howard's season has been for the Philadelphia Phillies, and how no one is making a big enough of a deal about it -- perhaps because we're afraid to get burned again -- and how he's presumed guilty... and how that may be McGwire/Sosa/Bonds' biggest legacy to the game: anyone who excels is simply assumed to be on steroids. I hope he hits 62 or more; if he does, then frankly he is the all-time single season home run leader in my mind. Screw the 'roided up numbers of the turn of the millenium; Bonds cheated and we all know it. So did McGwire, and so did Sosa. Go Ryan... and please, for the love of the game, be clean of performance enhancers.

I had a few other ruminations today... if I can stay awake long enough, I'll share them. In the meantime, if anyone saw the license plate of the truck that clobbered me, I'd be mighty obliged.

Posted by Christopher at 07:08 PM | Comments (2)

September 09, 2006

Requiem For A Heavyweight

A post that my friend Corey did last week really got me thinking.(And yes, despite our vehement disagreements about baseball, I do consider the man a good friend and am looking forward to meeting him in person the weekend of the Philadelphia Marathon and 8K.) The father of a good friend of Corey's recently died, and Corey wrote about it. But it was his last sentence that really caught my eye: I'm looking forward to helping him celebrate his father's life this weekend. It was a fun ride.

"Celebrate his father's life." Now there's a wonderful way to look upon a wake and funeral. It reflects everything that I believe about life and death, and I think is a wonderful sentiment. And that statement really has had me thinking and being pensive since I read it. (Thanks, Corey, by the way.)

I don't expect to die any time soon. Since late July I have really started taking the whole gym/training thing seriously... and while I have inexplicably gained 8 pounds since I started hitting the treadmill three or four times a week, I can definitely feel an improvement in my energy levels and cardio performance. So I'm getting healthier. I'm 38, and even though that sometimes feels very old, the truth is that I should be able to hang around for another 40 or even 50 years yet, if I'm smart about it. I've had some brushes with scary things (Barrett's esophagus, a heart scare, and as we all know I'm not right in the head ;-) ), but despite all of this I expect to be around for a while. Even so, Corey's line about celebrating life rather than mourning death really got me thinking -- and not in a morbid way at all -- about what I might want after my own death. So while a blog is not a legal document, this entry does represent my wishes; if I were to die any time in the unforeseen but near future, this is what I'd want. (And to those of you know know me in real life, if you don't do this for me when I go, I will come back and haunt you like a thing from a Japanese horror movie!)

First of all, you will tell others and tell yourselves that I "died." Oh, how I hate the euphemisms we usually use, like "passed away" or "passed on" or "went to his rest" or "we lost so-and-so"... like the final triumph of death is our inability to accept the finality of the word, so we must come up with something a little less scary to say, almost as a way of denying it. I didn't pass anywhere; you pass kidney stones or those jerkface slow drivers who aren't driving in the right-most lane of the highway. I ain't resting either. I died. I'm not coming back; it's not like I went to sleep and am gonna wake up next week and freak you all out and say "just kidding!" Whenever I die, I want the respect from people to acknowledge that the run is over, not pussy-footing around the event. Please, for the love of God, when I go, say it out loud: Christopher died. Thank you.

Don't bury me. The idea of a headstone is nice and all, but cemetaries really are a terrible waste of land, especially as humankind continues to populate itself closer to the tipping point every day (we really are like the viruses in the famous soliloquoy from "The Matrix"), and we could use the land for farming or housing... I don't want to contribute to the too-many-people-not-enough-space problem by continuing to take up six feet of land when I'm clearly not going to use it anymore. Besides, those who survive me and have direct memories of me might have at most another 80 years to come visit my grave, and then the headstone becomes little more than historical morbid curiosity. So even though it might be really fun to hook up a motion detector to a digital recording inlaid in the headstone so that I could yell at people walking by for stepping on my head, I don't want to be buried. Creamate my behind (and the rest of me).

With my ashes... if the Boston Red Sox allow it, I want to be scattered into the dirt behind home plate at Fenway. In the likely event that the Sox don't fancy the idea of their catcher digging his cleats in a fan every time he takes the field, here's a couple of other ideas. I've always loved the ocean, so any ocean setting would be appropriate. Maybe take some of my ashes back down to the Turks & Caicos and set me free in the Caribbean breezes. Or, a little closer to home, maybe go to Assateague Island National Seashore and find a nice place right along the shoreline or near the salt marshes to let me fly. Or maybe even haul my ash all the way over to Spain, and find someplace in the Spanish countryside or along the Mediterranean shore to free me to the winds; the added benefit of this plan would be that it would get all my loved ones and friends and family and all to get to my favorite country in the world to kick back and finally see just what I love so much about Spain. So - any of those three places would be fine with me.

Oh - and one more thing about the physical remains issue: if god forbid I should die in an international incident of some sort, a terrorist thing or some bizarre fated wrong-place-wrong-time thing, please for the love of everything sacred to me do not make a big deal about the actual physical ground I died on. There's no such thing as "sacred ground" with me; sacred ground is Fenway Park, or an undisturbed salt marsh wetland, or the ocean and beach with protected dune grass. The physical spot I died can be built on, says I; please, no unbecoming and embarrassing standing in the way of the recovery for the living by arguing about how my death-spot has to be kept pristine and untouched for perpetuity. I'm telling you now: if there's pieces of me on some site somewhere that have never been recovered, and someone says 'it's time to rebuild," I want them to rebuild. If the only way to remember a person is to leave the location of their demise bare for eternity, then there's about a zillion hospital beds that should never be laid in again. So for god's sake, let 'em build over the top of me. I won't be able to use a memorial footprint by then anyway, so just let life go on.

Now... on to the wake. Celebrate, dammit; that's an order. I had a rough mental stretch for a few years, and it took me a long damn time to get to a point where I actually enjoyed the whole being alive thing like I do today. So honor the fact that I finally got here by having some fun. Anyone not smiling at my wake should have to be the first one sitting at the dunk tank. Yeah, I think I want a dunk tank at my wake -- would be fun to have a carny sideshow element to it. Understanding that those might be hard to rent, I'll forgive you if you can't find one... but if you could, I'd be laughing somewhere.

The whole thing should be a party and celebration. Not even of my life -- those tend to get into maudlinity pretty quick. Just have a party. Find lots of good music -- check my 80s list for a few ideas (especially that top 11 or so); consult with Tim about some good blues to put on the stereo (Tim being my most knowledgeable blues co-afficianado); and maybe throw some good country in the mix as well (if "It's Five O'Clock Somewhere" isn't played at my wake, then someone dropped the damn ball). I want a tiki theme, too -- no suits from those attending. I wasn't a suit guy in life, and I sure as hell don't want to be one in death, or to have anyone else being one. No, I want people showing up in their best camp shirts, cargo shorts, halter tops (hubba hubba!) and flower print skirts, wearing sandals and shades and sunblock. (I don't care if it's January and 19 degrees out; I want a tiki wake, dammit.) There should be lots of tropical drinks available (make sure the bartender knows how to make a good mojito!, as well as pina coladas, hurricanes, daquiris and other Caribbean-styled concoctions), and if you're really gonna shoot the moon, have a steel drum band.

There should be a TV somewhere in the room or building, and on that TV should be shown a recurring loop of the DVD of the 2004 World Series. Yankee fans attending my wake must be made to sit and watch the replays of the 2004 ALCS at least once during the party.

Since the women are all going to be in halter tops anyway, there should be at least a few cases of flashing the Mudge's photo, girls gone wild style. What, like I'm gonna remember what I saw at that point anyway? Quit being so damned modest and flash 'em. Moon me too, if you feel the urge; I always loved a good caboose. (Guys are allowed to moon if they really feel they must, but I draw the line at sharking me.) I was always highly appreciative of the female body, so why not give me one more show for the road?

Anyone speaking about me in front of the gathered assembly will not -- I repeat, not -- tell some Chicken Soup For The Dead Guy feel-good stories about how I once saved 19 kittens and cute puppies from a burning building, or gave a homeless man a $5000 bill in his change cup. I did none of those things, and I was no angel. Neither was I a devil, but my point is that I don't want those "he was such a nice guy" stories popping up. If you didn't think I was a nice guy, you probably wouldn't be attending my wake, so that part's a given; plus, those are the things that make people cry stupidly when I want a fiesta.

So... anyone wanting to talk about me should simply recount the stupidest, funniest thing they ever saw me do or heard about me doing: the time I was photographed by a Washington Post photographer talking to God on the big white phone after an evening of enjoying Dewey Beach a little too much; the night I sang "I Am Woman" at karaoke after losing a bet to Mrs. Doc; my misadventures on a Rome side street; the fact that I could never remember the rules to "Perry's Murder" when playing cards and must have lost a combined total of more than $100 from making bets that, while smart in other card games, were playing dead in Perry's Murder; how embarrassed I was at the Jolly Green Giant newspaper photo that ran with my first profile story last January; how I could never seem to play the company softball tournament without hurting something or shredding some part of my anatomy; or any of another hundred stories of dumb stuff I did that made you laugh, or some only-to-Christopher situation I got myself into, or whatever else it might be. The only requisite is that it be a story designed to get a laugh -- either laughing with me or laughing at my expense, either is okay -- and not to reflect "what a good guy he was." Again: I'll take your being in attendance as proof that you thought I was a good guy. What I want when it's your turn is for you to use something about my life to make others laugh.

All that, and Jello. Lots of Jello. You can't have a party without Jello.

Posted by Christopher at 12:32 PM | Comments (7)

September 04, 2006

What's Next? A Forced Break

Hey all. Would love to write more, but... first of all, the local electic utility has proven in the last weekend why they call it Con Ed (a more incompetent local utility, I have never been forced to live under... Ernesto was a freaking tropical depression and they couldn't keep the lights on... and now after 36 hours of beautiful sunshine and 74 degrees, there is still a tree on the lines behind my place and I am forced to go to Starbucks to log on... I hate Con Ed, and I hate monopolies, and I hate insipid bimbos who hog the electric outlets at Starbucks charging up their cell phone... get a car charger, you clueless Westchester harpie, and quit keeping me from charging up my laptop!). Also - the countdown is done, which means it is long past time to take this computer in to Best Buy and get it fixed and not burn my apartment down.

And since I've yet to be able to track down a user name and password, that means this blog is temporarily off line. I will be back as soon as possible, I promise, so please keep checking back or watching your RSS readers.

Thanks to everyone who followed along for so long with the 80s thing.... it was nice to have everyone playing along and to have a lot of readers paying attention. I'll be back as soon as I can.

Christopher

Posted by Christopher at 11:25 AM | Comments (1)

August 05, 2006

Boys' Night Out - Literally

Among the things I missed out on for much of the last few months while running all over the place was the weekly card game (still ridiculous that I can't say the name of the game we play, but it rhymes with "poke her"). Last week, I finally got the chance to play again for the first time in more than two months, and came home with almost double what I started with. Last night, we played again, and I came home up a signiicant amount once more. Maybe I should take two month breaks more often, because I've been on a roll.

We tried something different last night, and I have to say that it worked out splendidly. Given that the temperatures finally broke here in New York on Friday, and that the high of 86 felt downright autumnal compared to the heat indeces of 115-120 we'd sweltered through all week, we decided that the weekly game should be held outdoors. So we packed up the chips, the table, and some coolers and headed out to a private beach club that one of the guys has access to, along a narrow spit of land that juts out into the Hudson River just north of the Tappan Zee Bridge -- the widest point of the river, where the Hudson is more than a mile wide. (Someday I am going to have to figure out why the engineering geniuses of 1950s New York chose to build a bridge at precisely the widest point in the river.)

Anyway, we arrived around 8:00, and the setting could not have been more perfect. With a picturesque sunset disappearing behind the hills alongside the river opposite our table, and a strong breeze coming in off the river all night long, we couldn't have asked for a better summer night to be playing cards outdoors. And once the sun went down, it got downright comfortable outside -- temps somewhere in the 70s, that river breeze keeping things cool, and plenty of soda on ice. (For real, none of us drink much beer when we're playing... we all have to drive home -- and besides, too much alcohol dimming your wits is a real good way to lose your money.) Other than having to use chips to hold the cards down and keep them from blowing away in the wind, you couldn't plan out a better boys night.

Well, except for one thing. Apparently one of the YuppieDads in the neighborhood has watched "Parenthood" one too many times, and decided that the way to become popular with your offspring is to spend gads of money on elaborate social to-dos that make a royal wedding look shoestring by comparison. Thus, we shared our card night with a gaggle of bleating 9 year olds... and a karaoke machine. Karaoke is a dangerous tool in the hands of even most adults; placed where children can easily access it, it quickly becomes deadly. And I don't know what was more disconcerting: listening to small children butchering "Vertigo" or "I Am The Walrus," listening to prepubescent girls sing "Don't You Wish Your Girlfriend Was A Freak Like Me" and having their parents think it's cute, or listening to said parents -- wealthy, conspicuous consumption Caucasian Westchester yuppies, all of them -- take their turn at the meatgrinder by trying surreally to rap Tupac.

I think I am scarred for life.

But karaoke aside, outdoor cards was a great idea, and one of my more enjoyable and relaxing evenings of this hectic summer.

Posted by Christopher at 07:45 AM | Comments (0)

July 31, 2006

Friends

One of the only drawbacks to being on the road and on the go so much is that it's very easy to fall out of touch with one's friends. I've found that happening this year; between my friends in DC, New York, the Bay Area, and south Florida, I have done a lousy job of staying in touch. I've pretty much dropped off the face of the earth -- as some of them have recently been reminding me.

To all of you who I've been neglecting recently, I offer a public apology. I'll try to do better in the coming weeks.

Posted by Christopher at 09:15 PM | Comments (1)

July 27, 2006

Co-Ed Naked Dirty Hangman

Among the scarier realities of my little world is that some of the members of our little blogging community are also professional collagues of mine. Take Beav, for instance. We're work collagues who have legitimate cause to work together on occasion; we're also blog friends, and have become friends in real life. Since I have about a decade on her and have been navigating the corporate ladder waters for a while, we occasionally get into career development kind of discussions -- she once publicly referred to me as her "pseudo-mentor dude" (a higher compliment having never been paid?) -- and we take the occasional opportunity to get together to bond over food that's bad for us and snark about things.

Last night was one such occasion. Sure, we did talk careers for a little while, but it was also a chance to get together with a friend -- and since I have been about as socially interactive as a bear with an abscessed tooth lately, it was especially good to combine business with degenerate-ness. By the second dirty Grey Goose martini, we'd cast aside the talk about that silly work stuff and had gone on to much more amusing fare.

Like Dirty Hangman. On bar napkins.

We quickly discovered that the fun of the game is not seeing who can come up with the sickest, most Larry Flynt-worthy words or phrases -- although we both did indulge our inner juvenile to come up with some doozies. No, the true fun of dirty hangman is hearing the bizarre and inexplicable crap that comes out of people's mouths when they're trying to guess at dirty words and only have a couple letters as clues.

One of the milder examples (and about the only one I can share here): Ass Rack. I have no idea what an Ass Rack is, or how one would use it exactly. But at the time, it seemed a perfectly legitimate answer to what she'd drawn up, and I was confident I had it right. So, out came "ass rack" from my confused mouth... and half a second of stunned silence later, she just said, "what the hell is an ass rack?" I said, "I think it's that insurance company with the duck. You know: (mimicking duck's voice) Ass-Rack!" We both burst into hysterical schoolgirl giggle fits, and for the rest of the evening any time there was a lull in the conversation, one of us would spit out a ducky "Ass-rack!" and we'd start chortling all over again.

There weren't many lulls in the conversation; we managed to come up with all sorts of guesses of bizarre things that might not exist yet but probably should somewhere. None of them are things I can share on this blog, but trust me when I tell you that I haven't laughed that hard in a long while... I mean, I had Jack Nicholson-Joker-like noises eminating from me for a while there... sore-stomached, catch-your-breath, embarrass-the-neighbors kind of laughing. I think everyone should laugh that hard now and again. I think everyone should play dirty hangman every now and again. I think y'all ought to help us define just what the hell an ass-rack could be.

Thanks for the belly laughs and a perfectly immature evening, Beav. We gotta do that again some time.

Posted by Christopher at 06:36 AM | Comments (3)

July 22, 2006

Fortune

He extends his hand to me, a soft smile on his face and the kindness in his eyes that we extend to strangers when we first meet them.

"I've heard a lot about you," he says, surprising me. I have no idea who he is -- haven't even ever heard his name in the professional circles that I've been running in lately.

On the conference circuit, we're all beginning to know one another pretty well: the small but growing group of those who have been deemed "experts" in blogging and the evolution of what they're calling "new media." Everybody wants to talk about how business will use blogs, and there's only a relative few of us who can speak with any authority to that... so we end up being invited to do panels or give presentations and speeches at the same conferences. After seeing each other at events from San Francisco to Toronto to London, we're starting to get to know one other socially, friendships are forming, and the names of those in the "inner circle" of the circuit start to become familiar, even when you haven't yet met.

But this gentleman is different. I've not heard his name, never heard of his blog. Then again, this conference is not like the others I've attended. In any way.

"Nice to meet you," I tell him, shaking his hand warmly. "I'm looking forward to hearing you speak this afternoon."

He wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead; it's July in Washington DC, and unfortunately for us the building in which we're holding the conference is having air conditioning issues this morning. "Thank you," he says with that slightly British accent that so many foreigners who've been schooled in English as their second language have. "I hope you'll find it interesting."

"I'm sure I will." I pause, stuck in that awkward moment when you meet someone new and you can't decide whether to continue the conversation or find a reason to excuse yourself. Something makes me want to keep talking.

"Do you speak at these things often?" I ask. There's still something about this man -- an inner strength that radiates from him, but tempered by something more, an emotion I can't put my fingers on. "No," he says. "Or, not in these circles, anyway."

I've just flown in to Washington, having survived weather-related delays and airport insanity to arrive in town 24 hours after I was scheduled to, having been placed on seven separate flights from four separate terminals in two different airports on three separate airlines before finally winning the lottery and getting a shuttle to National a couple of hours ago. I had time only to check in at my hotel and drop my gear off before getting a cab to the conference. And for some reason, despite the theme of the conference, I assume that the other speakers don't live in DC either; I assume that he's had to fly to get here too and might have similar travel nightmare stories. Since I am in the mood to vent about my own, I decide to push that button to see if he'll join me in complaining about flight havoc.

"So how long are you here?" I ask him. "When are you going home?"

A look crosses his face that betrays emotion stronger than I expected; it takes me aback and for some unknown reason I feel like I have just said something wrong. He looks at me but through me, and for a moment he barely seems to be in the room despite his physical presence.

"It looks like I will be here a long time," he says quietly. "I think it will be a long time before I can go home."

I don't know how to respond to that. I am suddenly acutely aware of the theme of the conference and its location, and realize that my sense of "home" and his are different -- and that the definitions of the "hell" we each went through to get here are likely so opposite in scale that they're not comparable.

We talk for a few more moments, mostly in the pleasantries that speakers on the same agenda extend to one another. We're seated at the same table, so there's no chance for me to sneak a quick look at his bio and find out just how much of a faux pas I've just committed. But in the ensuing conversation as others join us at our assigned seats, his story becomes clearer to me.

He is a dissident. In his home country, the media are controlled by the state; blogs and e-mail and text messages are among the only tools the people have to speak freely -- and after being initially caught off guard, the government has caught on and monitors blogs, especially looking for anything written by known "agitators." Blog the wrong thing, and you can count on a visit from the secret police. Blog the wrong thing again, and you are probably headed to jail for a little while. Blog the wrong thing a third time, and you can probably expect that you probably won't get the chance to blog the wrong thing a fourth time. He's blogged the 'wrong' thing one too many times; he's in Washington because he needed to find someplace else to go when the police came looking for him one last time.

As I listen, I compare his life with mine. I started a blog upon which, among other things, I frequently criticize my government; so did he. I was eventually promoted when my bosses became aware of my efforts; he was eventually exiled when his government became aware of his. My reward has been to become 'famous,' speaking at conferences all over the world and being interviewed by the BBC, Wall Street Journal, and a hundred others; his reward was perhaps permanent exile from his homeland, and the kinds of treatment you'd expect when the police are showing up to "discuss" something you wrote on your blog.

I suddenly realize that I have no idea at all of what the word courage means. Not next to him.

And later in the conference, when it's my turn on stage and it's me who's fielding questions from the audience, I feel something that I have not felt in months (to my shame): humility. Today, I'm not the expert, not the one they've come to see; today, in my mind, I am the least of those in the room. They're asking me questions, and even though I am giving my best answers, throwing in my well-practiced one-liners that always get a laugh when every new audience hears them, and sounding for all the world like the expert they've brought me here to be, I still can't help but feel like I am the one with so much to learn from them.

To be periodically reminded of one's fortune in life is a healthy thing. To have it thrust into your eye like the Biblical beam to where it cannot be ignored is a sobering, altering experience.

When the day is over, I go back to my hotel, sit down on the edge of the bed, bury my face in my hands, close my eyes, and remind myself of how truly small I really am. And how truly lucky I have been.

Posted by Christopher at 09:48 AM | Comments (4)

July 12, 2006

I'll Be DC-ing You

Heading down to my adoptive hometown of Washington DC for the next few days... believe it or not, the government is holding a conference on blogging and its use in promoting democracy, and li'l ol' me is one of the speakers (I continue to be amazed every damn day at the turns of fortune that have come my way just because I started this blog a few years ago... I'm speaking as a featured expert at a government conference on promoting democacy through blogging. Unforkingbelievable.).

I'll be back over the weekend. Until then, keep thinking of 80s tunes, karmic seagulls, Barry Bonds going to jail, and other happiness. Blog atcha soon.

Christopher

Posted by Christopher at 03:35 PM | Comments (2)

July 10, 2006

My Old Man Is A Television Repairman, He's Got This Ultimate Set Of Tools. I Can Fix It.

One of the hazards of driving back and forth between New York and southern Delaware is that you have to actually share the road, so there's lots of other cars heading to the beach or back while you're driving. Some of them are driven by normal people; others are driven by complete chuckleheads; and still others are driven by people who are usually normal but are capable of the occasional chuckleheaded manuver. It's that last set you really have to watch out for. The full-time chuckleheads are easy enough to avoid and wish painful, fiery intestinal conditions upon; it's the part-timers who catch you off guard.

In Delaware on Highway 1 on the way home, I got rear-ended by a kid who looked like he hadn't yet been born when I graduated from high school. Traffic was stop and start due to a red light a good quarter mile up the highway; it was very easy to think traffic was moving again, when all of a sudden everyone would just stop for some reason. Only this time the kid didn't stop, and plunked into the back of my car. (As he and I exchanged information, he was despondent and said he was having a very bad day; he'd gotten a ticket not more than an hour before our little encounter. Yay.)

Everything with the car is fine; my bumper's scratched a little but seems to have come out no worse for wear. And I figured all's well that ends well; it was a minor incident, my car seemed unhurt, I seemed unhurt, and the kid seemed nice enough... I've been prepared to just let it go. The thing is, starting a few hours after the incident, my back started really bugging me, to the point where I didn't sleep much last night because of back discomfort.

There's nothing worse than the accident milker, in my book. (Well okay, social conservatives ae worse in my book, but this isn't a political post.) I keep thinking of Uncle Fester's guest shot on The Brady Bunch as the guy who exaggerates a neck problem after a minor dust-up with Carol. And you know, this was a minor bump, he couldn't have been going more than 10-15 mph, and my car isn't even dented, just scratched. I certainly don't want to make problems for the kid, who was sufficie