River Road

Usually on our anniversary we take the day off and do something cultural and eat something lavish.  The romantic escapade ends with last minute shopping for Christmas.

Since our work schedules prohibited this interlude on the appointed day, we planned on doing all of that today.  That is, until the 60" water main broke in Potomac/Bethesda and washed away our best laid plans.  Thinking we would be without water (and we were, as the faucets featured a trickle), I ran to Safeway to stock up on some H2O.

We still went out, shopped, ate, and even looked at some tile for the kitchen before coming home to the kids, who had their Christmas vacation bonus of 2.5 hours, as the County shut down all schools due to the broken water main.

But we got everything done that we wanted to, and got to spend some time with each other.  Double bonus--I'll take that whenever I can.

Hoping that both of you have a merry Christmas...

Happy Anniversary

Tonight marks 18 years of marriage. 18 is quite a number--the number of years before the passage to adulthood, as it is hard to believe that some kid is now allowed to vote after existing for as long as we have been married. On an completely non romantic and non reflective note, it is the jersey # of one of the best base stealers in the '80's MLB (who happened to have an 18 year career), the number I wore playing baseball in my glory days. I would be remiss to not mention that, while 18 is not a prime number, it is close in its coolness. And marriage is quite a cool thing, especially this one. Without Karen I can confidently say that I wouldn't be where I am today.

Little did I know 18 years ago tonight that I would be playing Christmas carols with the entire fam while sitting around our suburban enclave...on a guitar, no less, an instrument that is slowly becoming less unnatural to me, after wasting 8 years of my parents' hard earned caiiish on piano lessons when I was a non-practicing imp. K and S on the piano (duet), A on the sax, and me strummin' along. On the last run through we actually sounded decent, but we're not (and never will be) the von Trapps.

Great weekend of getting things ready for the Christmas cavalcades. We went to the annual party at Mike and Diane's place, a party that has morphed into a showcase of musical and lyrical talent. It's become a tradition that more and more people perform, and we and our neighbors did our annual butchering of some Christmas carol in the manner of relating to local life and times, and it was well-received (so well-received last year that the evite poll required us to create a new song). Hanging out with our friends, kids running around being kids and teenagers, and plenty of good stuff flowing. It was, as usual, a great time.

When Mike turned 40 a couple of years ago, he had an "Open Mike" (get it?) night party, where all of us were to perform some sort of musical number. Paul and I decided to "explore the space" since we "had a fever" and that was that. Another great party. They're all memorable, especially when kids break their arms at them.

These are the parties that we went to when we were the kids, watching our parents let their hair down a little while we were hanging with our buddies and trying to figure out how this all fit together. Then we started having them as teenagers while our parents were in the inner recesses of the house, venturing out only to show that they were still boss, but trusting us enough. Then of course the group house parties where the neighbors call the cops because we're too loud, or the beast from the hills stalks one of your housemates because he gave him the hairy eyeball. Then parties turned into "soirees", when we were young and sans kids, but less raucous and more mellow because we were more "mature." And then we didn't have them for awhile because the house becomes the domain of the napoleonic tyrants who don't care that your're no longer cool, since now it's ALL ABOUT THEM. And then they get older and we can let our hair down again, although some of us don't have any of that anymore. And the cycle begins anew.

Sad anniversary

I was cleaning out my garage yesterday and wrapping up some final trim work with Hank, the contractor, when I saw some rare activity across the street.  Our neighbors who had left their house mysteriously a couple of months ago were getting their mail and checking up on some things.

I ran across the street to greet them.  We exchanged warm hugs, handshakes, and Christmas greetings.  I asked them where they went, and what's been up, knowing that the answer was directly related to the tragedy they experienced last year.  As Laura started to speak I could tell that the words were not coming easily, so I told her to say no more and we redirected the conversation.  David is working at Dulles Airport now, so they've moved to be closer to family and work.  Their grief is still raw, and staying in that house is no longer an option.  We exchanged phone numbers and promised to keep in touch, but after they sell the house I'm afraid we won't see them again, as we're a part of that sad memory too.

Green thoughts

Earlier today, driving back from a meeting in Elkridge MD with one of my co-workers, we were discussing non-business stuff as it's as good a time as any to get to know people better, especially those you spend 40 hours a week with.  Somehow the conversation turned to '80's music, specifically the Smithereens, a late '80's/'90's formulaic garage style group that cranked out AOR radio fodder (is that repetitive?).  I saw them at the Fairfax County Fair in 1991, and missed them at the Herndon Fair last year.  No matter; see them once, and that's all you need to see, though they were definitely solid.  And grim, too, in their lyrics about relationships and memories.  And Pat DiNizio--check out the Mavic cap.

Their album Green Thoughts is in heavy rotation in my playlist even now, as a 43 year old guy who tries to see the approach of the latter years through the eyes of a 23 year old...music has that way of staving off the inevitable ageing process.  The title song is all about envy, an emotion that I would say is my Achilles Heel.  There's something about that insecurity of greed that highlights many memories of life, as bad memories can stand out as boldly as good ones.  It's always a puzzle to me as to why jealousy exists when I'm, simply stated, a pretty satisfied person.  But it's there, as green thoughts that cloud my judgement and color my views from day to day, without pattern. 

Don't know how or why, just it's there every once in a while...

//Green thoughts come around

every now and then

When they bring you down

Run away while you still can//

Great song, especially the harmony on the the last chorus.

Polly wants a cracker

The day ended well, with belly full of great catered Asian fare. Caps win again (Varlamov the young 'un stoned the Blues in the net), and it's Thursday, just days before we take a break from the grind.

The day started, though, with what could have been a confrontational meeting with a client who specializes in micromanagement. A couple of nights ago I logged into my work email (first mistake) to take care of some minor business. I had to respond to an incendiary email from this client, though my finger hovered over the SEND button for a while since I'm no proponent of email wars and pissing contests. I've always believed that email is a prop for people who can't say in person what they really want to say, and is often the refuge of chickens. At that point I didn't care, and knew I would be seeing this guy today and tomorrow, so I sent it anyway, knowing that I may regret it later.

Didn't regret it, and let's just say that this person was chastened. Everthing was cool today, though the meeting was longer than anticipated, and everything is backed up at work again. By the time I got back to the office, I was a real grump, and was reminded of some Christmas office shindig that I was invited to by my partner. Didn't wanna go. Too much work. Just chill out and go already, he said. So I did. And had a very relaxing evening. The food was awesome, catered by Raku, and enjoyed by all. As it turns out this was at a consultant's office who shares a connection beyond work.

About 3 years ago, while I was cuising back through Kensington on the N2 with the usual suspects, I was talking with Mike D about work and life, the small talk that fills in the gaps after a decent base mileage ride. He's a pretty strong rider, and a good guy too. Small world moment, as we found out that his wife was the same person I had been dealing with on a very successful project in which she was the landscape architect. Since then her company has provided us services for landscape design, and it's pretty sweet work. Enjoying some holiday cheer with some other professionals in my field is yet another benefit of this relationship.

One last thing that indicates a return to some sense of normalcy: I literally dusted off my guitar (construction dust is still everywhere), tuned it, and started learning "Polly". Just a bunch of power chords, and I've always wanted to learn it, so there's no time like now. I just need to get back on the bike and everything'll be crackin'.

Tapped out and ramblin' on

So my buddy asked me today why I haven't posting much lately.

I'm pretty tapped out.  All of my visceral moments have been exhausted in the past two months at work.  We're juggling demanding clients, a dwindling economy, skittish job prospects, unyielding bureaucracies, and cashflow that is more of a trickle than a, well, flow.  Couple that with clients who are holding on to their money instead of paying us for services rendered, thus continuing the domino tipping that forces us to delay paying our consultants for services they've rendered in good faith.  Non-profit developers, while noble, are not liquid.  Their visions are often not congruous with our need to stay in business.  But they're our clients, so we work with what we've got.

On the upside, we were humming like a well oiled machine for the deadline we just wrapped up today.  For the first time in many moons we generated a synergy that has made the process not only bearable but somewhat pleasurable.  We're ultimately paid to make instructions for contractors to build buildings.  Boiled down, it's graphic communication to be understood by all.  Too much nebulous information, and it's obtuse.  Too little useful information, and it's useless.  Too much useless information, we're just filling up paper and covering our asses.  The key is to synthesize the information in a way that the plans are transparent in their ability to communicate.  A good set of plans is worth umpteen times more than the fee required to generate them.  And therein lies the rub--a good set of plans looks like anyone can do it.

Kinda like racing a bike (or not, as has been my MO of late).  Looks easy.  How hard can it be?  They're just pedalin' and yakkin'.  Some morning radio guys were raggin' on us this morning--one of them lives in Kensington, near Beach Drive, the place where "the freaks in lycra turn into their own personal Tour de France" and "take their lives into their own hands".  This all stemmed from the news release of the NYPD copper who assaulted the Critical Mass rider this past July--if not for YouTube the cyclist would have been in a heap of trouble, not the cop (who really put himself in a heap of trouble).  Ask George Allen what he thinks of YouTube.  If not for viral video he may have been the prez.  But I digress--the point of this paragraph is that we're hated on the road by more people than we think, and many people probably think the Critical Mass rider got what he deserved just because he was riding a bike.  It doesn't help that Critical Mass flaunts its "subculture-ness" and doesn't apologize for it--it just sucks that we become the objects of scorn, derision, and sometimes violence because of it.

I'm done.  I'm also too lazy to link to that video.  It's there on YouTube.  While you're there check out the video that prevented yet another good ole boy from possibly becoming our next pres...

Affirmation, baby!

Monday night football is on, and as I watch the talkers go on and on, I think back to the days when Tony Kornheiser's radio show was at its best, when the listeners riffed on whatever was on TK's mind that day.  One of the best examples of this was when he mocked Stuart Scott's unflappingly self-aggrandizing story of playing pick-up ball with none other than Michael Jordan.  After dishing MJ a (so says Stu) sweet assist, Jordan points at Stu as they go back up court, acknowledging the play.  To which Stu Scott says "Affirmation, baby!"  This became fertile ground for endless humorous mockery, as the more talented listeners to TK's show riffed on this one for weeks on end, finding ways to crow "affirmation, baby" any way they could.  So much so that some dude started a Tony fanboy blog with this title.

I guess we do this blog thing to feed that part of our yearning, to be recognized by others, especially those more skilled than we are , in our particular endeavor.  In my own egomaniacal way I had an affirmation baby moment when I received mention in this guy's blog, an incredibly prolific writer and relentless rider, a dude who captures the visceral nature of racing, training, and the camaraderie that accompanies it in prose that flows.  

In his description of the cyclocross scene, I'm one of the many he thanks for making his season a memorable experience.  Life got in the way yesterday, preventing me from getting out to Reston for my second favorite race of the 'cross calendar.  I made a donation to the cause with my entry fee, but my new kitchen and dining room needed to be cloaked with 3 colors.  It looks great.

Glad to be a part of that bigger picture, Jim.  It's been a pleasure seeing you out there, so keep on keepin' on and we'll see you on Super Sunday in College Park for the last gasp of this 2008 season.

Shapers

Here's an opportunity that I don't indulge too often..a little bit of appreciation for the mentors in my life.  I'm amazed at how much I learn about other people and ultimately myself just by watching how they do things and how they react to the daily grind.  What they say or don't say, how they react, how they lead, how they follow, and how they communicate.  There's no magic bullet here--I guess it's how I receive their leadership or choose how to listen to them.  

Since most of what I get paid to do relies on graphic communication, I've spent the last few weeks and especially the last couple of days honing my craft of conveying the details of how the skin of a building cloaks its frame.  Mundane stuff, to be sure, but the personality of the designer is often transmitted through the steel, concrete, bricks, and mortar in ways that are amazingly subtle.  Buildings can speak volumes, especially if they're well-conceived, efficiently executed, and contextually solid.

We are who we are by the way the people around us affect how we change our own lives.  On a daily basis, that makes for some pretty rich livin'. 

Bombs away

I'm glad I don't feel the need to be tethered to office e-mail.  The constant use of handheld devices to access e-mail, while very much a part of our lives today, is one thing I feel the need to rail against, should anyone care to listen.

If I had read the bomb in my in-box moments after it was sent, I would have been a basket case all weekend.  It was sent on Friday morning, Day 2 of the National Eating and Shopping Weekend of Excess (US NESWE, for those keeping track at home).  My naps throughout this special holiday would not have been so fruitful.

As it turned out, I read it on Monday morning.  The net effect was an increase in my already high heartrate, since the first day after any relaxing long weekend is stressful in itself.  Set the tone for the day.  Much angst was expended in anticipation of resolving this small situation, which essentially was well-placed criticism of some drawings that didn't quite meet the expectations of the client. 

The resulting meeting that I had today regarding said e-mail was surprisingly pleasant and cooperative, once again corroborating my thoughts that electronic correspondence written in haste does nothing to lubricate the wheels of communication, rather has a negative effect, even though this is not always intended.

Just goes to show that a new day is just a turn of the page, and always a chance to start fresh.  Things are never as bad as they seem, especially after a nice snooze.

At least I didn't accidentally shoot myself in the leg at a nightclub, like this guy.