BlitzBlog

I'm a Mac Person. You know, one of those people who believe the Apple
MacIntosh computer is the pinnacle of human achievement. I'm not truly
at the Apostle level, raging missionary-like in effort to convert the
masses (PC Windoze users) to the computer “for the rest of us.” As a
matter of fact, generally speaking, I'd rather Apple remain a bit
exclusive. It helps me feel a bit different or maybe even a bit
superior. Plus, as a general rule, once anything gets converted to
mass-market use, it's usually a watered down version of its former
self. I'd hate to see that happen to Apple products.

But this is not about Macs per se. This is about Time Marching On. You know, about getting old.

1974.
It was me and Kenny Jamititus hangin' in my room, listening to George
Carlin and Cheech and Chong's pivotal Big Bamboo comedy albums. We got
to laughing so much, even after the tenth or twelfth time, that we got
out my cassette recorder (remember those?) and a microphone I'd bought
at Lafayette Electronics (remember those?) and started mimicking the
skits we'd committed to memory. It was, in retrospect, completely inane
and useless. But it was fun.

2005. I'm watching my 13 year old
son lay down a 5 track digital recording of himself and 3 of his
friends playing Green Day's “Time of Your Life.” Zac is on acoustic
guitar with a pickup. Victoria, the virtuoso, on cello. Casey plays
sweetly on her violin, with Victoria's 11 year old brother Robbie
plugged in on bass. They're sitting in my playroom, on my 4-year old G4
iMac 800, taking turns putting on the headphones, while the rest of
them, and I, sit around, shooshing each other for quiet while they each
lay their track down.

They've rehearsed this song together a
few times. They played it for us adults earlier in the evening, and
they sounded beautiful. Now, with a week left before performance time
at Victoria's Bat Mitzvah party, they're making this recording into the
iMac's built-in microphone so they can each take home a CD to rehearse
separately.

It's a long way from the Hippy Dippy Weatherman and Sister Mary Elefant.

I often ruminate on the cars I see along my daily commute. I recognize the many “regulars” whom I seem to see, if not daily, at least a few times a week. Some are nondescript—the only reason I notice them is by plain old repetition. Others have particular driving styles that make
them stand out from the rest of us, in ways both good and bad.

One of the oldest of my road buddies is a guy I call Joe. He’s just an average guy in an average early ‘90s red Japanese sports coupe. His car appears to be in perfectly average shape for a 13-year old car, and I would guess mustachioed Joe is around 40 years old. I suppose this makes him of average age.

Joe leaves his house in Monroe (his bumper stickers give his hometown away) usually a bit earlier than I do. I know this as I usually pass him along Route 17 between Route 208 and the Harriman tolls but have occasionally caught him as far away as Allendale in New Jersey. Joe toodles along smack-dab at 55 miles-per-hour, every day, no matter how light the traffic or how nice the weather.

As any Road Warrior knows, 55 mph may have been an actual speed limit in some bureaucrat’s mind, but on the cool morning tar of the NYS Thruway, 55 constitutes a traffic jam. Double-semi’s blow by Joe at 80mph. Heck, old ladies in rusty Plymouth Reliants blow by Joe.

While driving at 55mph is certainly no badge of machismo, I give Joe his due in that he does his toodling in the most proper manner. That is to say, he only toodles in the right–hand, or slow lane. He doesn’t seem to care about us speed freaks (read: everybody else) whizzing around him, and staying in the right lane makes him just fine with us. As the saying goes, “If you can’t run with the big dogs, stay on the porch.” If Joe wants to party like it’s 1975, as long as he stays to the right, like the Law says, he’s a good and proper upstanding member of the Road Warrior community.

There are, however, those toodlers who feel the need to venture Left. Those folks who believe that it is their duty to make sure everybody obeys The Law. And tailgaters be damned, these members of the Anti-Destination League will stay glued in the left lane with a mile of aggravated Road Warriors behind them. The Road Warriors, with teeth a-grinding, are all trying to time a middle lane pass that will slingshot them past the moving roadblock ahead. In a very real sense, these Anti-Destinators, with the very act of trying to slow everyone down for safety’s sake, actually make the roads more dangerous.

This middle lane passing move brings up the question, “To flash or not to flash?” In Europe, where lane etiquette is well observed, flashing one’s brights at another driver is an accepted way of saying, “Pardon me, I’d like to get through, please.” In America, no matter how well-intended, it is universally taken as “Get the @*&%$! outta my way!!!” which is usually responded to with a single digit salute and a resolute pace with no change of lane.

There are ways of flashing one’s brights that people can tell the difference, however.

The proper method of the “Excuse Me Flash” is done while approaching the slower car ahead. The earlier you flash, starting roughly 1/4-1/8 of a mile back, the more likely the driver ahead is to pull over. Flash twice, maybe thrice, and quickly. Repeat after about 5 seconds as you approach. Should you wind up at tailgate distance, give up and make your pass, carefully, in the next lane. Never, ever expect a good response if you go flashing your lights like a strobe. You might as well just be leaning on your horn, because at that point you are saying to the driver ahead, “Get the @*&%$! outta my way!!!” which is only an invitation to Road Rage. It is no more your job as a Road Warrior to rid the world of the human roadblocks than it the  roadblock’s right to slow you down. Consider it a standoff; leave them in your rear view mirror, safe in the notion that you’ll be there hours before they are (no matter where “there” is).

Of course, all this is assuming the toodler in question actually uses their rear view mirror.

If you, dear reader, are not a habitual speeder, and one day should look in your rear view mirror and see some one politely flashing an “Excuse Me,” do what your mother taught your to do—mind your manners and, put on your right blinker, and say, “Why of course, go right ahead.” You’ll feel wonderful in your smug politeness, knowing you’ve just made the roads safer for all humanity.

I’m sure Joe would appreciate that.

From afar, the car ahead looked perfectly ordinary, but as I
approached, it started to look, well… crooked. I couldn’t really figure
out how a car could go down the highway crooked. I’m sure in trying to
understand, I even cocked my head like that little RCA dog. I mean, the
car was pointing about 5 degrees left, but was rolling straight! I
wasn’t even sure how to pass this car, as I was sure it would suddenly
veer “straight left” into me. Now I’ve seen how those NASCAR guys have
their seats slanted left, but they’re driving around a big circle to
the left.

That makes sense. This, however, didn’t.

I wondered if the driver even noticed that their car pointed left. Did
their steering wheel need to point right to make the car go, uh,
straight? Were their back tires being dragged sideways or was their
rear axle actually adjusted to crabwalk down the road? And just exactly
how did their car get that way? Pothole? Accident? Was the car was
specifically adjusted as a personal statement by the owner? I tried to
think of a special situation where this setup would come in handy— you
know- task-specific vehicles like the Postal Jeeps with the driver on
the wrong side so they can reach the mailboxes.

That makes sense. This, however, didn’t.  

I imagined a possible physical-need scenario. Perhaps the driver has a
spinal problem, so that she needs to adjust the world around her. 
After thinking about all the Chiropractors I’ve been to, none of whom
ever made suggestion so drastic, I dismissed this as a remote
possibility.

I wondered how different it must seem inside the car, and do the
driver’s friends notice anything different when they get in the car. If
they do, do they mention it? (“Uh, Jane, you know we’re pointing that
way, but going that way.) What must it be like to parallel park this
car? And parallel to… what?

I can only assume the saddest possibility—that this person knows about
the problem and can’t afford to fix it. I imagine this sort of fix is
expensive and can only be done at a special “car alignment shop.” I’ve
seen many wheel alignment shops, but I’ve never seen a sign that read
“Cars Straightened Here.”  It must be a repair done only by an
elite group of highly-trained De-crookeding Technicians.

Ultimately, I wondered how this car makes it through State Inspection.
Which of course is subject, not just for another column, but perhaps a
Special Journalistic Investigation.

As I passed by, I tried to flag the driver down to ask her a few
questions, but she was too busy looking straight ahead, out the
passenger side of the windshield.

Katrina blew through Nawlins last week and a half ago. What a horrible scene. Here's my take on the whole mess.

First
let me tell you that the famdamily and I were visiting relatives at the
beach in Plymouth, MA from Friday to Sunday. There's no TV at the beach
house so when we finally walked in the door Sunday night, I turned on
the tube to see that Katrina was just about to make landfall just east
of New Orleans. It was after midnight, so I went to bed.

The
next day, we continued our vacation with a couple of days in NYC. Took
the kids to Coney Island, stayed at the Times Square Hilton, went to
the Empire State Building- the whole NY Tourist thing. It was great to
see my kids get a taste of the city I grew up in and around. As much as
I love living in the sticks, and the semi-bucolic life we lead, I DO
worry my kids are growing up as such bumpkins.

Anyway, we were
so wrapped up in our travels, we were kind of in our own media
blackout, so I didn't hear anything about the damage Katrina had done.
When the USA Today showed up outside the hotel room door on Tuesday
morning, it pretty much said that N.O. had been spared, and had headed
through Mississippi. I'd even joked to my wife when she asked later
that morning what had happened with the hurricane, I told her it went
through Mississippi and tore the state apart causing over $300 in
damage. (well, it was funny at the time).

It wasn't until we got
home on Tuesday and I switched on SportCenter at 11 o'clock, and all
they were talking about was the Superdome roof and the flooding and
which teams were going to have to reschedule games and find new places
to play. I thought, “Whoa! Something more than minor damage has
happened. I quickly switched to The Weather Channel and began to see
what Katrina had wrought.

I was heartbroken to see the city in
ruins. Although anyone who'd ever been to The Big Easy could tell you
it was a disaster waiting to happen, now that The Big One had finally
happened, it made it no easier to witness.

I have been to New
Orleans twice in my life. The first time was when I was 15 on a summer
teen bus tour. I remember thinking the architecture was very pretty,
and that it was weird that they buried their dead above ground in
mausoleums because the city was below sea level. Also, the Superdome
was brand new at the time, so I thought it extremely cool. At 15, I was
still too naive to appreciate the whole Mardi-Gras Bourbon street scene.

In
the years since, my love of music had grown to a point where myself and
my good buddy Dave, also a music lover, had planned a trip to N.O. and
then on up through the Mississippi Delta and on into Memphis. We called
this 5 day trip our Blues Cruise. So in late July 2004, we spent 2 days
on Rue Bourbon enjoying the whole music scene. We walked the French
Quarter and the Garden District and took in the Riverwalk. while the
temps and the humidity were unbelievably unbearable, the “to-go” cups
of liquor-enhanced many-flavored Slushies kept the discomfort at bay.
Plus we were enjoying one band after another in one bar after another,
so the heat never truly bothered us.

In those 2 days, and the
subsequent journey to the Delta, I came to appreciate the
quintessential New Orleans, and its place in our culture. It is one of
the cradles of Modern American Music. it is the place where Jazz was
born and grew. it is one of the places where the great Mississippi
bluesman went when they left the Delta- those that didn't headed to
Memphis, Chicago, St. Louis and Detroit. But New Orleans was a great
spawning ground for Jazz, Ragtime and Blues- all with a
Cajun-influenced sound that is an undeniable link to everything we hear
musically today- from Rock to Funk to Hip Hop and Motown.

When I
see the destruction that has occurred in New Orleans, I am saddened not
only for the human toll, but for what may have been lost. The spirit of
New Orleans was built on that fatalistic silt, just waiting for The
Flood. It was a mindset that made people enjoy what they had a the
moment, for tomorrow may never come. and now, tomorrow has come, and
the city's new mindset must be “We Shall Overcome.”

Maybe the
wound is still just too fresh, but I fear that fatalistic laisser-faire
attitude may never return, even in a newer and freshly rebuilt New
Orleans. I fear that New New Orleans may become a sanitized parody of
its former self, much as Beale Street in Memphis has. The real,
authentic Bourbon Street that I had a chance to see, may be forever
gone. And for all it's putrid teeming drunken faults, it was what it
was, and it made no pretense about itself. it was Real, and I fear that
may be lost forever.

I think back to September 2001 in Manhattan. The country poured out its
heart to hardbitten New Yorkers, with money, with volunteerism I'd
never seen before. There were people flowing into the region within
days to help on in any way they could. There were at least half a dozen
food trucks from out of town- some as far away as Texas- who parked
their rigs at Ground Zero to help feed the rescue workers digging
through the rubble. Some of these folks stayed through Christmas,
hundreds of miles away from their families, their jobs, their lives. It
was something I'll never forget, of how proud it made me of peoples'
humanity and spirit of giving of themselves.

While the victims
of Katrina need our contributions of cash through the Red Cross and
other organizations, what is really needed right now is something that
we as ordinary citizens cannot give- a massive airlift of food, water,
generators with fuel, clothing, makeshift shelter, anything to keep
these poor people from dying on their rooftops and rioting en masse
from lack of pragmatic practical actual H-E-L-P. This is, so far, a
massive failure to mobilize the manpower at hand that is necessary. If
people want to blame Bush, fine.

The fact is that all he has to
do is give word to his cabinet, “Do whatever it takes” and the army can
use all its resources. Maybe he has said those words and the folks at
the top are just not up to the task, I do not know- I don't think
anybody does- but right now is not the time to start politicizing and
throwing blame. Now is the time for demands for action. Blame can come
later after all the commissions have handed in their 12,000 page
reports. By then the waters will have receded and we'll be on to
something else that interests us.

But right now, there should be
thousand-acre farms in Mississippi and Louisiana and Texas being
commandeered by US National Guardsmen in the name of POTUS and there
should be hundreds of tents being erected for the victims, and where
volunteers can show up and offer their services. Every bus company with
equipment within 500 miles should be sending their rigs to get those
people to the camps, where they can be given food, shelter, clothing,
medical attention and counseling to help them get on with their lives
in some fashion or another.

So far FEMA and the military have
failed the victims of Katrina. They have had years to plan and no doubt
have had contingencies in place for just an event like this, and they
have failed to either plan properly or follow through on those plans
they had with any success. I find this appalling.

I am not one
to hold the government in high esteem anyway, and I don't believe the
government should be doing, in general, much more than Keeping the
Peace and ensuring our safety, funding education and keeping the roads
clean. In this case, this is a natural National Disaster that I think
we've paid our tax dollars for all these years to have a response in
place for, and they have failed, failed, failed so miserably as right
now, New Orleans might as well be Darfur, Sudan.