Good dog...really

Sunday night I dropped of some food at a friend's house.  His wife is very sick and we figured that this is a small way to support their family.  K cooked up a storm.

They have this beautiful brown dog named Indy.  Only problem is that Indy wants to eat me whole every time he sees me.  So after spending some time visiting, I cautiously planned my slow, deliberate moves toward the door so as not to startle the good boy.  

Silly me.  He had his wary eye on me the whole time he was chewing his rawhide bone.  I wasn't even able to lift my arse 3" off the chair before he was upon me.  I figured that this was a perfect opportunity to take a series of photos of what it may feel like to be a rawhide chew toy.

Not much to say about bikin'

I started this here blog as a result of reading other cycling related blogs, figuring that it was a good way to write about something that was mildly interesting.  My only internal caveat was that I wouldn't bog any readers down with details of my "training regimen".  Other thoughts:

Race reports?  Why bother?  I hardly race anymore.

Architecture and criticism?  Too esoteric.  

Detailed diary of my boring life?  Too personal and too, well, boring.

The music I listen too and try to play? God help us.

Family chronicles?  Too much potential for being a long drawn out and insufferable Christmas letter.

Angry vitriol about the complaint du jour?  Tiring and ubiquitous.

Politics?  Come ON.  We're in Washington.

Caps, Redskins, Nats, Bullets?  OK in doses, but I don't think I've ever written about Les Boulez.

Back to the bike, though.  Not much to say because I've ridden less these last couple of months than usual, and it hasn't been bothering me too much, other than the weight creeping back on the bones.  That will change soon.  Always does.

In the end this b-log is once again a vehicle for me to chronicle what's going on, and is a broad mix of the list above, which is OK.  This doesn't have to be about anyTHING in particular.  And with all of my friends coming out of the woodwork through FaceBook and LinkedIn lately, as well as getting calls and texts and emails every once in awhile, I can use this thing to tell some stories in an indirect sort of way.  With people I haven't seen in a long time, I reckon that they barely know me anymore in the same way that those who stumble upon this one do.  

The power of music

In the inauguration proceedings today there was a musical interlude between the V.P.'s swearing in and that of our new President.  It was a simple instrumental involving a piano, clarinet, cello, and violin, by well-known musicians.  Except for the first of this list, I never had any interest or education in these instruments.

Maybe it was the moment, but as they played this simple piece I realized just how beautiful these notes sounded and just how moving this moment in time was.  There are times when sentiment overcomes me, like the time that my sister's future father in law, at their rehearsal dinner,  showed slides of my sister and her future husband as they grew up.  I don't remember the music, but it was exactly appropriate.  On an anniversary of John Lennon's death, I happened to hear Garrison Keilor sing a rendition of "Imagine".  There is something about the intersection of time and music that can strike a chord within me that opens the floodgates.  This doesn't happen often--when it does, though, it's burned in my memory forever.

 As today's performance ended I realized that my face was awash in happy tears.

A few minutes with Kent

"Is anyone from out of town?"  A pretty boy reporter from Channel 4 (or 6?) in New York saw us just south of Union Station as we made our way back to the Metro on Sunday.  We had spent the afternoon hanging out on the Mall, taking in a couple of museums, the concert, and the pre-inauguration atmosphere with my cousin from NYC and her family.  Karl and Lyd were approached by this younger version of Kent Brockman and said they were from Brooklyn.  Kent then asked them if they were at the concert and if they felt any "energy" in the city.  Just checking out the Mall, hangin' out with family.  Clearly this was not "newsy" enough for young  Mr. Brockman, who dismissed them disdainfully with a "We're done here, thanks."  

Weak.

What they should have said was:  It was a unifying event...we felt at one with the crowd...I'm full of hope and promise...the crowd galvanized us...we're witnesses to history...this is bigger than us...once in a lifetime...insert cliche here...blah blah blah

That's what they're looking for, these hackneyed quotes, and then they tell us what we're supposed to feel.  I know they're doing their jobs, but there have to be more significant stories to follow.  Just enjoying the day with people close to you just isn't news to them, and thankfully it shouldn't be.

The wall

It's an imposing wall, that which defines the edge of Union Station and 1st Street. Thousands pass through it every day as they trudge to the various office buildings just west of Union Station. There's a portal at the street level that leads Metro riders from the familiar brown hex tiles of the subway to the granite curbs of DC, a passage from darkness to light which is rote to many.

When I go through that opening I am always reminded about why I'm there--most of the time it's to go to DCRA, just a few blocks away, to meet with someone regarding a building permit or resolve a problem or negotiate or beg and plead. The only time I tend to get involved with permit processing is when there is a snafu of some sort. It's a delicate process, as I find myself schmoozing, cajoling, and being humbly deferential to people who have a certain degree of ability to make or break someone's day or week or year. Sometimes the task at hand is as imposing and seemingly impenetrable as the wall. Sometimes the portal yawns wide open and I'm successful in my task for the day.

I was a highly paid permit runner this week. There nothing like the unyielding intransigience of an entrenched bureaucracy to illuminate an otherwise dreary day. And cold, too. The wind was cutting through me as I walked (glad I wasn't on a bike) toward DCRA in my quixotic quest to procure building permits for this project that is about to close on its construction contract. I spent a lot of time in the waiting room, hoping to catch a glimpse of one the reviewers; getting an audience with a supervisor to move the permit along; making just enough small talk to get what I need to done. Acting like a vulture and really speaking my mind with this workforce, however, will only result in achieving little--they can give me the proverbial finger by simply ignoring me, and there is no recourse on my end.

The way these things work is that building permits are just one of the many items that lenders require for this gateway to open--until now everything we have done is on paper, and once these closing docs are signed we can start watching the construction unfold. Which is why this whole process is fraught with irony. These are existing buildings that require major interior alterations and very minor exterior work. Permits have taken over 6 months to go through the various agencies, and this is with the involvement of a third party peer reviewer, a development "ambassador", a permit service, a civil engineer, an Owner's rep, and the cherry on top, me. I got tons done this week--after spending 3 days at DCRA and many other billable hours writing letters and securing deals, we still aren't out of the woods. I've done everything that I can do.

As I passed through the portal to get back on the Metro, I figured that things should come together tomorrow, assuming everyone involved does exactly the right thing. If they don't, the project could tank. And it would be a shame if it does go belly up due to bureaucratic shortcomings, given the fact that I've put over a year of work into this thing. Hopefully we're able to climb over this wall. Tomorrow will tell.

Permit service

A current misnomer in my business is the term "permit expediter".  By hiring a company which purports to "expedite" building permits, one would think that there is a secret passageway through the horrific caverns of municipal building departments that is only known to the expediter.  Paying the fee will unlock the secrets and illuminate the path, and projects with such benefits will have their ticket stamped so contractors can then build them.  

For financiers of affordable housing projects in a shaky economy, building permits are proof that the borrower is in a position to make good on their commitments to spend the lenders' money.  No building permit = no financial closing = no project = I don't get paid.  So it's in my best interest to make sure those permits happen.

Based on my experiences of the last 10-12 months, however, I have determined that expediters should change their description of their work to "permit babysitting", or the more proper business usage of "permit service", as they fill out forms, stand in lines, and monitor progress.  That's about all they can do, as cajoling reviewers to move their piles along is as effective as pushing on a rope.  Some are better than others, and some are less ethical than others, and some are outright liars.  Their business is based on trafficking speculation of when other people beyond their locus of control will finish their work.  It's a step short of insanity.

Despite these shortcomings, we're at the tail end of a permit process that is on the cusp of being successful.  It's been an amazing pain in the ass, and one that is making me re-think how we do business with these regulatory agencies.  Talking clients down from ledges is not my idea of fun, as millions of bucks hang in the balance when Jack Permit Reviewer lets things pile up and the Public Space fiefdom doesn't agree with approvals from the water authority who insists on looking at drawings only on the third Tuesday of a month with 27 or less days in it...unless you happen to be Nationals Stadium, and the whole building department flops like Willie Stargell trying to steal second base.  No problems getting a permit there.

But I ramble on because I received quite a shock today on a job whose permit I'm monitoring through a development company that offers permit services (not expediting).  When I called to speak with my main contact there, an older dude who I've worked with the past 4 years, I expected the usual bantering and exchange of Christmas and New Years good wishes.  He was always interesting to speak with because he answered questions with questions and had a particular cadence and tone of voice that reminded me of what a real life Jedi would be like.  I got used to his style after awhile and we established a good working relationship.

I am referring to him in the past tense because when I asked to speak with him the receptionist said:  "I'm sorry, he's deceased."   WHHAAT?? I asked why, how, when, etc.  Didn't get much info, spoke with his associate who is handling my project, and didn't really care about the project at that point.  He was an older guy, private, had a family, and just got sick and never got well.  He died sometime in mid-December.

Rest in peace, Carl.  

Wasted weekend

Actually, it was quite productive.  I spent virtually the entire day with Hank plumbing the waste lines in the downstairs bathroom, which involved tearing out much more plumbing than I had originally anticipated.  But working with him is an exercise in efficiency--he knows just exactly what needs to get done and does it.  And I know just enough to do the menial stuff while he's doing the heavy lifting--as a result the old water and waste piping came out and we installed the new stuff  by dinnertime.  The rest of the evening was spent with Susanna watching the Caps drop one to the Habs with :21 in the game while Adam was jamming with his band and K was at a play with her friend.  Boudreau's quote:  "He (Jurcina) should have hit him instead of looking for the puck between his legs".  I love this coach.  To be fair, Jurcina was the filling in the screw-up sandwich, as Alzner let the Hab by him and Johnson let the shot trickle through his pads...

We should have a working johnny and sink by the weekend when my cousins join the rest of the world in overrunning our fair city for the inauguration--the shower tile work won't quite be done.

Here's some of the old stuff:

And here's the new configuration...

So no ride on Saturday--it was crappy out anyway, and Sunday morning was wet and I had to go to work to put out a small fire and help Mom move some furniture.  The rest of the fam visited extended fam in Herndon, so as is my custom I joined them later in the day by riding out there, a process that includes a destination rather than an out and back, which is more palatable when time is tight.   And those 35 or so miles today may have well been 135, since I've been off the bike most of the winter now and have the legs of a withered old coot.

The road back to the routine is slowly becoming smoother. 

Impenetrable

I just bore witness to one of the most outstanding goaltending performances that I've ever seen in hockey, and I didn't even watch the whole game.

Steve Mason of the Columbus Blue Jackets stoned our Caps 3 nil.  NOTHING was going in, and when they beat young Mr. Mason honestly, the pipes had his back.  After Stecks missed the open net wide left, his next check was one of frustration--I'm sure the CBJ defenseman on the wrong end of the hit is still feeling it.  Even K, who normally doesn't pay attention to any of the sporting events that her husband and offspring watch, looked up from whatever she was doing to comment on the ferocity of Steckel's check.

It was bound to happen--only their 2nd loss at home this year.  They're not the SJ Sharks, but they're getting close.

I love watching hockey during the winter days...

1 point 2 tons

That's about how much weight I gained over the past few weeks.  Didn't do much riding over this Christmas/New Year's vacation.  Didn't really want to either, a form of ennui that strikes me every once in a while, when I feel that riding is an indulgence rather than  something that can actually contribute to eliminating such tendencies.  When I'm in this state the inertia is huge--overcoming it becomes a workout in itself.  But I did get out a coupla days, though, and I can feel the routine settling back in.

One of the major (though unintended) activities that I attribute (rationalize) to the lack of road time was the demolition of our downstairs bathroom.  A tiny space, 4' x 7', laid out such that one's knees are about one's ears when sitting on the throne.  When we had 3 amazonian au pairs in 3 years, I often wondered how they fit in that tiny space, but they managed.  

I started busting out the ceramic tile shower surround on New Year's Eve Day.  My hands were sliced and diced by the time I was preparing the New Year's Eve feast.  Note to self:  do not prep food with garlic, lemon, and salt after such activities.  Walls came down the next day, and I was able to get huge hunks of tiled wall out and barely avoided a hernia.  By the time Hank and I loaded, hauled, and dumped this pile of rock wall, plaster lath, plaster, ceramic tile, mudset, and the associated rotten framing members, we weighed in at 1.2 tons.  That's 2400 lbs of debris out of a 180 cubic foot space.   

Now it's opened up, and Hank will re-plumb, reframe, and re-wire the space while I'm at work this weekend, and then I'll hang/finish the drywall, tile, paint, and install the fixtures over the next couple of weeks.  Then we'll be back in business with a 2nd bathroom that actually works and I can actually shower down there after coming in from rides rather than scaring everyone away in my schwadey costume.  Excellent.