I hate change, but it's inevitable. My bank used to be across the street, where I could get cash from the ATM and deposit checks, but it was closed by Capital One for being underperforming and now I have to drive to my bank and the service sucks.
I used to be able to walk to the main provision center of my HMO which was in my home town with 24-hour care, but Kaiser built new main center in Tysons Corner which I now have to drive to, it's impossible to find on the first try and traffic out there sucks. To pick up a prescription at my rump HMO center in town takes at least half an hour waiting in line.
My mortgage holder used to have an office across the street and I had overdraft protection linked to my home equity line of credit but Capital One sold my mortgage to a fly-by-night provider (who begins every phone conversation with an offsetting warning that this conversation is an attempt to collect a debt, unless you're in bankruptcy) and my HELOC to a different fly-by-night company so my checking account no longer has overdraft protection.
Next door is a drugstore which I walk to often to buy toiletries and incidentals, food, beer or wine, and to check my B/P, treating it like an old-time dimestore. Rite Aid just announced it would close the store next month as being underperforming, leaving me with no store I can walk to handily.
Showing posts with label old. Show all posts
Showing posts with label old. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 7, 2019
Sunday, May 5, 2019
The Assist
In the Safeway I noticed the encounter of a middle-aged man with an elderly, frail woman at the checkout counter when the cashier ringing up the woman casually handed her a light bag of groceries and the elderly lady almost pitched over as she placed it in her cart. The man in line behind her started to reach out to steady her but discretely stepped back when she successfully regained her equilibrium.
The woman handed the cashier a fistful of coupons and then learned that she couldn't use her best one, a ten-dollars-off coupon if the grocery bill was $50. Her total was $49.
She fumblingly put her credit card in the card reader and lamented her loss of ten dollars off but also spoke of her good fortune as well. "It's too bad I can't use the ten dollar coupon, I counted up my purchases carefully but I gave you too many lesser coupons and now my total is too small. But this is my first shopping trip in eighteen months after the fracture so I guess I'm doing okay. I'll just use it the next time I come, if I can get over $50 then."
You and I both know what we would do. Look anywhere for a one dollar item, a candy bar or anything, so we could then benefit from the ten dollar coupon to achieve a nine dollar savings. But the lady was evidencing a trace of confusion as she said she didn't want to delay the checkout line.
The man behind her was surveying his items on the conveyor belt and then, handing her two of his four yogurt cups, said, "These are seventy cents each, Ma'am. If you added these to your purchase, then you could then use your ten dollar coupon because it would put your total over fifty dollars. I don't know if you like yogurt but it would save you almost nine dollars off your current bill."
She gratefully accepted the two small containers and handed them to the cashier who rang them up. Her total dropped from $49 to forty dollars and change. The lady helpfully added to the man that she liked yogurt, she spread it on toast, using it like peanut butter.
The woman handed the cashier a fistful of coupons and then learned that she couldn't use her best one, a ten-dollars-off coupon if the grocery bill was $50. Her total was $49.
She fumblingly put her credit card in the card reader and lamented her loss of ten dollars off but also spoke of her good fortune as well. "It's too bad I can't use the ten dollar coupon, I counted up my purchases carefully but I gave you too many lesser coupons and now my total is too small. But this is my first shopping trip in eighteen months after the fracture so I guess I'm doing okay. I'll just use it the next time I come, if I can get over $50 then."
You and I both know what we would do. Look anywhere for a one dollar item, a candy bar or anything, so we could then benefit from the ten dollar coupon to achieve a nine dollar savings. But the lady was evidencing a trace of confusion as she said she didn't want to delay the checkout line.
The man behind her was surveying his items on the conveyor belt and then, handing her two of his four yogurt cups, said, "These are seventy cents each, Ma'am. If you added these to your purchase, then you could then use your ten dollar coupon because it would put your total over fifty dollars. I don't know if you like yogurt but it would save you almost nine dollars off your current bill."
She gratefully accepted the two small containers and handed them to the cashier who rang them up. Her total dropped from $49 to forty dollars and change. The lady helpfully added to the man that she liked yogurt, she spread it on toast, using it like peanut butter.
Wednesday, May 30, 2018
A New Phone
I activated my true smart phone, an android, last Thanksgiving after it sat on my shelf unused for two years. I was happy all that time with my old dumb smartphone which had a slide-out tactile keyboard that was good for sending texts and made and received calls, so why swap it out for a complicated android after it arrived once I upgraded my service plan to receive for the same monthly rate unlimited call minutes, unlimited texting and the new phone.
I visited my sister for Thanksgiving and she forced me to activate the android, a THC which was already obsolete by then and no longer sold. I hated it, couldn't figure it out, went on the internet only once (to look up an address) with it which apparently unleashed a horde of genies into my phone and thereupon it ran 24 hours a day, hogged data (16GBs every 10 days), sent me weird texts from entities I didn't know concerning phantom orders I'd made and rogue deliveries that were coming and I finally went to the Verizon store to change my phone and my service.
Unfortunately, it was staffed by three young people, all twenty-somethings who spoke in very heavily-accented English and I couldn't understand what they were saying whenever the discussion turned technical. I told them the reason I was switching from AT&T was because it had hired the grifter lawyer Michael Cohen for $400,000 to provide access to our corrupt president, but not one of them knew who Michael Cohen was.
I asked them if they had ever heard of Robert Mueller but I drew three more blank stares. They tried to upsell me on a "jump pack" and/or a "Hum" to "bundle" with the phone, useless accessories so much as I could even follow what they were talking about and I left the store with my old, hated phone still a part of my life and a troubling suspicion that this country is in deep trouble.
I visited my sister for Thanksgiving and she forced me to activate the android, a THC which was already obsolete by then and no longer sold. I hated it, couldn't figure it out, went on the internet only once (to look up an address) with it which apparently unleashed a horde of genies into my phone and thereupon it ran 24 hours a day, hogged data (16GBs every 10 days), sent me weird texts from entities I didn't know concerning phantom orders I'd made and rogue deliveries that were coming and I finally went to the Verizon store to change my phone and my service.
Unfortunately, it was staffed by three young people, all twenty-somethings who spoke in very heavily-accented English and I couldn't understand what they were saying whenever the discussion turned technical. I told them the reason I was switching from AT&T was because it had hired the grifter lawyer Michael Cohen for $400,000 to provide access to our corrupt president, but not one of them knew who Michael Cohen was.
I asked them if they had ever heard of Robert Mueller but I drew three more blank stares. They tried to upsell me on a "jump pack" and/or a "Hum" to "bundle" with the phone, useless accessories so much as I could even follow what they were talking about and I left the store with my old, hated phone still a part of my life and a troubling suspicion that this country is in deep trouble.
Thursday, April 20, 2017
So how exactly did you get this?
Here's something you might not know. When you reach a certain age in your sixties, you can apply for a special smart card in the DC Metro system and ride at a greatly reduced rate forever, I suppose. I didn't know anything about this program until a friend of mine who is older than me told me about it, describing it as a half-off card.
I inquired at the West Falls Church station, which I sometimes use, and the station manager confirmed the program and told me where the "commuter store" was where I could go to purchase the card, for $2, and informed me of the store's hours. The next day I undertook a run of four miles to that store and bought the special card and loaded it to the max ($300).
I handed over my OL to the clerk in her fishbowl booth and said, "Check the age and you'll know what I want." Without a word she smiled, glanced at my license and started filling out a form. She said most people are ignorant of the program but still, she sells about half a dozen such cards a day.
The card is bright yellow, in contrast to the pale green and blue color of the regular metro smart cards. I guess its distinctiveness shouts out to onlookers, Senior, Senior, as in old. But who am I kidding, I don't need to flash the fare card for persons to realize that there are seats in the cars set out especially for me and my ilk.
Having run to the commuter store at the Ballston station on the flat W&OD Trail and hilly Custis Trail from the East Falls Church station because I didn't want to pay full fare to get there when I could ride for half-fare back, I entered the metro system for my return trip and carefully checked the posted fare. $1.75. Upon exiting the system one stop later, I was disappointed to see that my cost was $1.05, not $0.88.
I asked the station manager if he could explain something about my brand-new fare card to me and handed it to him. I said that it should have provided me with a half-off fare, but that my fare was more than half of the normal fare. He gave me the familiar dodge about higher than expected fares and said it depended upon the distance traveled and the time of day.
I said that it was a senior card which is supposed to provide for half-fares, not something higher. He was quick on his feet and said it was a discount card, not a half-fare card. It was apparent that neither of us really knew how the program actually works, so I'll have to monitor my fares for awhile or try find its particulars on-line, but his answer was acceptable to me.
And then, his face hardening and his voice rising authoritatively, he asked, "And just how did you come into possession of this card?" He was staring at me and holding my card, and I looked at him in stunned disbelief. Suddenly I burst into laughter and pointed knowingly at him. His eyes twinkling, he handed my card back and gave me a slight chuck on my shoulder. Friends for life.
I inquired at the West Falls Church station, which I sometimes use, and the station manager confirmed the program and told me where the "commuter store" was where I could go to purchase the card, for $2, and informed me of the store's hours. The next day I undertook a run of four miles to that store and bought the special card and loaded it to the max ($300).
I handed over my OL to the clerk in her fishbowl booth and said, "Check the age and you'll know what I want." Without a word she smiled, glanced at my license and started filling out a form. She said most people are ignorant of the program but still, she sells about half a dozen such cards a day.
The card is bright yellow, in contrast to the pale green and blue color of the regular metro smart cards. I guess its distinctiveness shouts out to onlookers, Senior, Senior, as in old. But who am I kidding, I don't need to flash the fare card for persons to realize that there are seats in the cars set out especially for me and my ilk.
Having run to the commuter store at the Ballston station on the flat W&OD Trail and hilly Custis Trail from the East Falls Church station because I didn't want to pay full fare to get there when I could ride for half-fare back, I entered the metro system for my return trip and carefully checked the posted fare. $1.75. Upon exiting the system one stop later, I was disappointed to see that my cost was $1.05, not $0.88.
I asked the station manager if he could explain something about my brand-new fare card to me and handed it to him. I said that it should have provided me with a half-off fare, but that my fare was more than half of the normal fare. He gave me the familiar dodge about higher than expected fares and said it depended upon the distance traveled and the time of day.
I said that it was a senior card which is supposed to provide for half-fares, not something higher. He was quick on his feet and said it was a discount card, not a half-fare card. It was apparent that neither of us really knew how the program actually works, so I'll have to monitor my fares for awhile or try find its particulars on-line, but his answer was acceptable to me.
And then, his face hardening and his voice rising authoritatively, he asked, "And just how did you come into possession of this card?" He was staring at me and holding my card, and I looked at him in stunned disbelief. Suddenly I burst into laughter and pointed knowingly at him. His eyes twinkling, he handed my card back and gave me a slight chuck on my shoulder. Friends for life.
Monday, March 27, 2017
No title.
The crowning achievement in your life.
http://law.justia.com/cases/virginia/court-of-appeals-unpublished/2004/1714034.html
Don't forget to sign up for medicare.
http://law.justia.com/cases/virginia/court-of-appeals-unpublished/2004/1714034.html
Don't forget to sign up for medicare.
Sunday, July 3, 2016
More Billy Goat
More Billy Goat Trail 2016.
A blue crane. My camera was too slow to catch it when it majestically spread its wings and flew away.
Another bird.
That's all.
A blue crane. My camera was too slow to catch it when it majestically spread its wings and flew away.
Another bird.
That's all.
Saturday, June 25, 2016
When I'm 64...
The Beatles sang about it on their Sgt. Peppers album in the song, When I'm 64. "Will you still need me?"
In the case of my job, the answer came down unmistakably, a month after the fact, from a manager either acting on his own or in tandem with the rest of the managers in my shop, in the form of an, uh, in-person communication from him that indelibly said, "No." So last month I retired rather than report to an increasingly hostile and untenable work environment each workday.
After more than 25 years of outstanding service, it's a shame. But that's the way the game is played these days, whether it's legal or illegal, by mid-level managers fighting to advance their careers above all else, when dealing with workers a generation apart from them.
The above is only my opinion, of course. This particular manager announced shortly after I left that he was leaving to take a job elsewhere.
He'd been there 7 years, the last 3 as a manager, and he didn't want to "calcify," he reportedly said. He needed new challenges.
In my opinion, he had way too much recent baggage to stay, being the chief henchman in driving out workers two decades older than he. His fingerprints were all over two of the three sexagenarians in my former shop being forced to leave in the last year due to age discrimination, one via a forced transfer and in my case, a precipitous retirement.
He certainly never met the challenge of being an effective manager. In my opinion, it was management by bullying.
In the case of my job, the answer came down unmistakably, a month after the fact, from a manager either acting on his own or in tandem with the rest of the managers in my shop, in the form of an, uh, in-person communication from him that indelibly said, "No." So last month I retired rather than report to an increasingly hostile and untenable work environment each workday.
After more than 25 years of outstanding service, it's a shame. But that's the way the game is played these days, whether it's legal or illegal, by mid-level managers fighting to advance their careers above all else, when dealing with workers a generation apart from them.
The above is only my opinion, of course. This particular manager announced shortly after I left that he was leaving to take a job elsewhere.
He'd been there 7 years, the last 3 as a manager, and he didn't want to "calcify," he reportedly said. He needed new challenges.
In my opinion, he had way too much recent baggage to stay, being the chief henchman in driving out workers two decades older than he. His fingerprints were all over two of the three sexagenarians in my former shop being forced to leave in the last year due to age discrimination, one via a forced transfer and in my case, a precipitous retirement.
He certainly never met the challenge of being an effective manager. In my opinion, it was management by bullying.
Tuesday, December 1, 2015
The magic mile.
I haven't timed myself in a mile in a long time. Last decade, when I was in my fifties, I used to run my neighborhood mile and try to keep it under 7 minutes, usually finishing it in the 6:40s or 6:50s. But that was before my injury in 2009, which laid me up for two years.
It took a long time, and a lot of weight coming off, to get back under nine minute miles. Then when I got the weight off, I could do a sub-eight again, but I can't approach 7 minutes in the mile anymore. I know that in my 3-mile race last spring, I did a 7:30 first mile before I tired and struggled to finish in 24:29 (8:10).
Recently I ran a timed mile in my neighborhood, without looking at my watch during it, to see where I was at in non-competitive conditions. As usual, I started in front of my house, and ran up the block, slightly uphill, for the first quarter mile. Then I gained level ground and ran down the side street to Railroad Avenue, which parallels the flat W&OD Trail, thinking the whole time, now that the incline was behind me, about turnover.
I burned down Railroad Avenue and back, traversed the side street again, and turned down my block, which was now a slight, but welcome, downhill. I was tempted to look at my watch but I eschewed it, not wanting to be demoralized as I feared, now that I was approaching the end stretch, that it would show that I would be mired in the eights somewhere at the finish. I kicked as much as I could, reached the dumpster marking the finish line in the strip mall parking lot one house past my house, and clicked my watch . . . at 7:4668, which I rounded down to 7:46.
I was delighted. It's a start.
It took a long time, and a lot of weight coming off, to get back under nine minute miles. Then when I got the weight off, I could do a sub-eight again, but I can't approach 7 minutes in the mile anymore. I know that in my 3-mile race last spring, I did a 7:30 first mile before I tired and struggled to finish in 24:29 (8:10).
Recently I ran a timed mile in my neighborhood, without looking at my watch during it, to see where I was at in non-competitive conditions. As usual, I started in front of my house, and ran up the block, slightly uphill, for the first quarter mile. Then I gained level ground and ran down the side street to Railroad Avenue, which parallels the flat W&OD Trail, thinking the whole time, now that the incline was behind me, about turnover.
I burned down Railroad Avenue and back, traversed the side street again, and turned down my block, which was now a slight, but welcome, downhill. I was tempted to look at my watch but I eschewed it, not wanting to be demoralized as I feared, now that I was approaching the end stretch, that it would show that I would be mired in the eights somewhere at the finish. I kicked as much as I could, reached the dumpster marking the finish line in the strip mall parking lot one house past my house, and clicked my watch . . . at 7:4668, which I rounded down to 7:46.
I was delighted. It's a start.
Saturday, September 26, 2015
Barefoot Running
Barefoot running is the title. No, I don't do it, my friend Markus does it.
He swears by it, something about how that's how humans ran back then on the African veranda. Me, when I run with Markus, I'm in my broken-down Aisics but I notice the looks we get from runners running past, even those cacooned within their earbuds.
Markus called on Friday and I ran 5 miles with him, a tempo run for sure since he's faster than me. It was good, probably the pace was in the mid-8:30's per mile.
Markus is a former, and infrequent current, running buddy of mine. I worked hard to keep up, in my dotage.
He swears by it, something about how that's how humans ran back then on the African veranda. Me, when I run with Markus, I'm in my broken-down Aisics but I notice the looks we get from runners running past, even those cacooned within their earbuds.
Markus called on Friday and I ran 5 miles with him, a tempo run for sure since he's faster than me. It was good, probably the pace was in the mid-8:30's per mile.
Markus is a former, and infrequent current, running buddy of mine. I worked hard to keep up, in my dotage.
Tuesday, September 22, 2015
Trembling.
Having yanked out the old fillings on two teeth on my left side, which disclosed the need for crowns on both, my dentist refilled them temporarily and set to work shaping the badly cracked last tooth on my lower right side. We presumed it was deadened, trusting in the power and magic of Novocain.
Whiir! I was hit with a jolt and reacted noticeably.
"That's really sensitive," she said. "Every time I touch near the point of the crack, you move. The vibration of the drill sometimes travels down the crack and upsets the nerve, even with local anesthesia. I hope the crack doesn't run into the nerve, which would require a root canal before we can proceed further."
Always the specter of a root canal. Suffice to say, two more ampules of Novocain, which is about all the fluid a jaw can take in one sitting, did nothing more that was noticeable to me. The dentist drilled around one side of the tooth shaping it for the crown but couldn't touch the other side in any way without me reacting.
I was pressed as far back in the chair as far as I could go, my forehead wet with sweat. The jolts were strong. I was, well, trembling.
"That's enough for today," she finally said. "I've gotten about three quarters of it done but you'll have to come back next week for me to finish it. Sometimes a tooth is just different on another day. Take an Advil the night before your appointment next week, and that morning also. And no coffee on the morning you come."
She looked at me intently and asked, "You will come back, won't you, Peter?" I didn't answer my friend and neighbor.
The anticipation. I spent a miserable week.
Whiir! I was hit with a jolt and reacted noticeably.
"That's really sensitive," she said. "Every time I touch near the point of the crack, you move. The vibration of the drill sometimes travels down the crack and upsets the nerve, even with local anesthesia. I hope the crack doesn't run into the nerve, which would require a root canal before we can proceed further."
Always the specter of a root canal. Suffice to say, two more ampules of Novocain, which is about all the fluid a jaw can take in one sitting, did nothing more that was noticeable to me. The dentist drilled around one side of the tooth shaping it for the crown but couldn't touch the other side in any way without me reacting.
I was pressed as far back in the chair as far as I could go, my forehead wet with sweat. The jolts were strong. I was, well, trembling.
"That's enough for today," she finally said. "I've gotten about three quarters of it done but you'll have to come back next week for me to finish it. Sometimes a tooth is just different on another day. Take an Advil the night before your appointment next week, and that morning also. And no coffee on the morning you come."
She looked at me intently and asked, "You will come back, won't you, Peter?" I didn't answer my friend and neighbor.
The anticipation. I spent a miserable week.
Sunday, September 20, 2015
Dentist
A loose crown put back in and a cavity filled. Now my dental bill for the year was around $700.
Since my dentist is retiring and I think she is very good, I let her at my cavity-filling session talk me into a teeth cleaning and an oral exam. Apparently these are basic necessities and neither had been done for years.
So I came in for a teeth cleaning, and now my bill for the year was over a thousand dollars. The dental examination, which was very thorough with some spectacular pictures of breaking and decaying teeth for my viewing pleasure, sent my bill for the year to date rocketing towards two thousand dollars.
From the examination, my dentist identified a tooth that was badly cracked and needed a crown before it broke into pieces in the not-too-distant future. She also wanted to pull out two old fillings and, if there were no surprises under them, refill them.
What's the old saw? If it ain't broke, don't fix it?
Against my better judgment I made not one, not two, but three more dentist appointments, to shave one tooth and fit it for a crown, drill out two old fillings and refill them, and insert the permanent crown when it came back from the lab. After several years of seeing my dentist two or three times every three or four years, I was going to be seeing a lot more of her in the not-too-distant future.
Since my dentist is retiring and I think she is very good, I let her at my cavity-filling session talk me into a teeth cleaning and an oral exam. Apparently these are basic necessities and neither had been done for years.
So I came in for a teeth cleaning, and now my bill for the year was over a thousand dollars. The dental examination, which was very thorough with some spectacular pictures of breaking and decaying teeth for my viewing pleasure, sent my bill for the year to date rocketing towards two thousand dollars.
From the examination, my dentist identified a tooth that was badly cracked and needed a crown before it broke into pieces in the not-too-distant future. She also wanted to pull out two old fillings and, if there were no surprises under them, refill them.
What's the old saw? If it ain't broke, don't fix it?
Against my better judgment I made not one, not two, but three more dentist appointments, to shave one tooth and fit it for a crown, drill out two old fillings and refill them, and insert the permanent crown when it came back from the lab. After several years of seeing my dentist two or three times every three or four years, I was going to be seeing a lot more of her in the not-too-distant future.
Wednesday, July 15, 2015
Great Expectations
I'm reading Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. It sure is slow going but it sure is good reading. Some paragraphs are a page long!
I can't believe I read it in seventh grade because I don't remember any of it; or rather, perhaps I read the Classics Illustrated comic book back then instead of the novel. I can't believe they assign this dense and complex, but rich and exquisitely well developed, book to seventh graders, who surely could never follow all the goings on in it. Perhaps they don't assign it anymore, assigning instead, what, a Harry Potter book?
I have reached what I think is the moral of the book, when Miss Havisham, with her heart of stone, begs Pip to forgive her someday for having so cruelly misled him for so long about his true benefactor but even more importantly, for having turned her adopted daughter, the beautiful child Estella, Pip's longstanding unobtainable love, into a cold and heartless adult incapable of love. Pip replies, "Oh Miss Havisham, I can do it now. There have been sore mistakes; and my life has been a blind and thankless one; and I want forgiveness and direction far too much to be bitter with you."
This reduces the stern old spinster, who never left her bridal party room when jilted at the altar decades earlier, into a weeping and prostrate supplicant whom Pip comforts. The evolution of a boy-turned-fop into a freestanding, freethinking young man who--what? I'll find out in the coming days and weeks as I crawl through the last eighty pages or so.
I can't believe I read it in seventh grade because I don't remember any of it; or rather, perhaps I read the Classics Illustrated comic book back then instead of the novel. I can't believe they assign this dense and complex, but rich and exquisitely well developed, book to seventh graders, who surely could never follow all the goings on in it. Perhaps they don't assign it anymore, assigning instead, what, a Harry Potter book?
I have reached what I think is the moral of the book, when Miss Havisham, with her heart of stone, begs Pip to forgive her someday for having so cruelly misled him for so long about his true benefactor but even more importantly, for having turned her adopted daughter, the beautiful child Estella, Pip's longstanding unobtainable love, into a cold and heartless adult incapable of love. Pip replies, "Oh Miss Havisham, I can do it now. There have been sore mistakes; and my life has been a blind and thankless one; and I want forgiveness and direction far too much to be bitter with you."
This reduces the stern old spinster, who never left her bridal party room when jilted at the altar decades earlier, into a weeping and prostrate supplicant whom Pip comforts. The evolution of a boy-turned-fop into a freestanding, freethinking young man who--what? I'll find out in the coming days and weeks as I crawl through the last eighty pages or so.
Thursday, September 12, 2013
What you see when running
Although it's been a mostly temperate summer, we've had a hot, humid spell here at the end. I've been struggling mightily with a cold which has invaded my chest and I haven't run for a week to aid my recovery.
Yesterday I finally got back out there, running a mile in the blistering, sopping heat of the noon hour with a running buddy who was returning to work after maternity leave. She hadn't been running either for awhile, and we walked the mile back.
My last run before yesterday was a few miles about a week ago in Falls Church and Arlington, in the morning before the day heated up. I was enjoying watching the people I ran past, other runners going by, a househusband walking and cleaning up after the household dog, a Muslim praying on his mat behind the 7-11.
At about 7 a.m. a cherry red Ford Mustang convertible drove by with its top down, a youthful chariot for an old woman, the roadmap of lines criss-crossing the driver's face belying her wind-tossed bleached blonde hair. It sure was a nice brand new car.
Yesterday I finally got back out there, running a mile in the blistering, sopping heat of the noon hour with a running buddy who was returning to work after maternity leave. She hadn't been running either for awhile, and we walked the mile back.
My last run before yesterday was a few miles about a week ago in Falls Church and Arlington, in the morning before the day heated up. I was enjoying watching the people I ran past, other runners going by, a househusband walking and cleaning up after the household dog, a Muslim praying on his mat behind the 7-11.
At about 7 a.m. a cherry red Ford Mustang convertible drove by with its top down, a youthful chariot for an old woman, the roadmap of lines criss-crossing the driver's face belying her wind-tossed bleached blonde hair. It sure was a nice brand new car.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Do you use a film camera?
I am one of those old-fashioned people who still uses a film camera. You can buy great cameras with phenomenal lenses for $4.99 at the thrift stores.
Usually I just carry a disposable camera around, although this bothers some people, especially younger people. They just get annoyed that I don't have a digital camera, and when I snap a picture, they often say, "Oh, really?"
When people snap a photo with their cell phone, no one says, "Oh, really?" That's normal apparently.
This means I have a contract with a mail-order photo-developer. I snap pictures and two weeks later, when the developed pictures come back in the mail, I re-live the moment all over again.
Sometimes I don't know what the picture is about or where or when it was taken. I'm not the greatest picture-taker.
Pursuant to my mail-in account, obviously, I received by mistake somebody else's pictures last week. Nice to know there are other film picture takers out there, although their snapshots sucked as bad as mine.
I sent the pictures to the intended recipients, without asking for reimbursement for postage or anything. Today I received in the mail a letter from them enclosing the $2.30 postage in cash in the envelope.
My kind of people. Linda wrote,
Dear Mr. Lamberton, Thank you so much for taking the time and and money to mail our pictures to us. We have been wondering where they got to. Enclosed is $2.30 to pay for the shipping. It's good to know that there are still some people out there who have time to think of others. Again, thank you so much. [Signature.]
No, thank you, Linda! There are still some of us people out there.
.
Usually I just carry a disposable camera around, although this bothers some people, especially younger people. They just get annoyed that I don't have a digital camera, and when I snap a picture, they often say, "Oh, really?"
When people snap a photo with their cell phone, no one says, "Oh, really?" That's normal apparently.
This means I have a contract with a mail-order photo-developer. I snap pictures and two weeks later, when the developed pictures come back in the mail, I re-live the moment all over again.
Sometimes I don't know what the picture is about or where or when it was taken. I'm not the greatest picture-taker.
Pursuant to my mail-in account, obviously, I received by mistake somebody else's pictures last week. Nice to know there are other film picture takers out there, although their snapshots sucked as bad as mine.
I sent the pictures to the intended recipients, without asking for reimbursement for postage or anything. Today I received in the mail a letter from them enclosing the $2.30 postage in cash in the envelope.
My kind of people. Linda wrote,
Dear Mr. Lamberton, Thank you so much for taking the time and and money to mail our pictures to us. We have been wondering where they got to. Enclosed is $2.30 to pay for the shipping. It's good to know that there are still some people out there who have time to think of others. Again, thank you so much. [Signature.]
No, thank you, Linda! There are still some of us people out there.
.
Friday, June 29, 2012
Carly Simon is 68?
I was on the subway traveling to work reading one of the two free rag sheets handed out as you enter the system each morning. I always take both offerings, the Express put out by the WaPo (this is the paper that brought RMN down and ensured the continuation of our democracy) and the the Chronicle (put out by the Washington Times, which I think is or was owned by the Reverend Moon). I always like to know what the enemy is thinking.
The newsletter said Carly Simon's birthday was that day and she was 68. Ouch.
I thought back to 1972, in the days of the turntable and LP (are they back?) I bought her album, the one which showed her on the jacket picture as a luscious young woman who could belt out a song, and played her classic "You're So Vain" over and over again.
At age 20, I was living at home, having dropped out of college to "find" myself and my folks were carefully keeping their comments about my life's orb to themselves. I aspire to their approach (not that my kids communicate with me, whatever there're up to). The song on the album I reallyliked was "Father, I'm Sorry."
A girl was telling her Dad she wouldn't be returning home that night because, well, she was in love. You cannot try to stop love, it's like railing against the tide.
I heard the main song, You're So Vain, was about Mick Jagger because, well, when he enters, the entire room is focused on him. But in fact Carly had vocals on the track from James Taylor and she married him afterwards.
She also divorced him afterwards. I am shocked (I'm not a fan of the institution, people change and grow apart as the decades intercede)!
It was a bittersweet moment for me there jostling elbows with the suburban hordes on Metro, clouds in my coffee, as I had just passed 60 myself and become invisible to practically everyone and that this luscious girl in my memory who had confidently projected that she was totally independant and a hot catch now was calmy awaiting the end, alone I suppose (as we all are as we pass over). Huh.
The newsletter said Carly Simon's birthday was that day and she was 68. Ouch.
I thought back to 1972, in the days of the turntable and LP (are they back?) I bought her album, the one which showed her on the jacket picture as a luscious young woman who could belt out a song, and played her classic "You're So Vain" over and over again.
At age 20, I was living at home, having dropped out of college to "find" myself and my folks were carefully keeping their comments about my life's orb to themselves. I aspire to their approach (not that my kids communicate with me, whatever there're up to). The song on the album I reallyliked was "Father, I'm Sorry."
A girl was telling her Dad she wouldn't be returning home that night because, well, she was in love. You cannot try to stop love, it's like railing against the tide.
I heard the main song, You're So Vain, was about Mick Jagger because, well, when he enters, the entire room is focused on him. But in fact Carly had vocals on the track from James Taylor and she married him afterwards.
She also divorced him afterwards. I am shocked (I'm not a fan of the institution, people change and grow apart as the decades intercede)!
It was a bittersweet moment for me there jostling elbows with the suburban hordes on Metro, clouds in my coffee, as I had just passed 60 myself and become invisible to practically everyone and that this luscious girl in my memory who had confidently projected that she was totally independant and a hot catch now was calmy awaiting the end, alone I suppose (as we all are as we pass over). Huh.
Sunday, April 8, 2012
W&OD 5K 2012.
Sunday March 26th was the running of the W&OD Trail 5K. Not too long ago I could burn off a 23 minute 5K.
But then I got injured plus I got old (60 in less than a week). Last year I ran the race in 29:12 and was ecstatic that I didn't break 30 minutes (I have never run a 5K in over thirty minutes).
This year I jogged down to the start line from my house with 5 minutes to go (the race runs by my house twice) and set off down the trail when the gun went off. The course is flat and I passed the first mile in 8:50.
Fatigue then set in and the second mile rolled by in 18:10. I persevered however and finished in 27:54 (8:59) and felt good about my progress at age 59, almost 60.
But then I got injured plus I got old (60 in less than a week). Last year I ran the race in 29:12 and was ecstatic that I didn't break 30 minutes (I have never run a 5K in over thirty minutes).
This year I jogged down to the start line from my house with 5 minutes to go (the race runs by my house twice) and set off down the trail when the gun went off. The course is flat and I passed the first mile in 8:50.
Fatigue then set in and the second mile rolled by in 18:10. I persevered however and finished in 27:54 (8:59) and felt good about my progress at age 59, almost 60.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Memories
I did four and a half miles of hills in my home town today, thinking of my friends just ten miles away to the east across the Potomac River running in the National Marathon and Half, a Rock and Roll entity now. Back in the day, the National Marathon gave me my PR in 2007 and the next year I ran my second fastest HM in the National Half, before I got injured and became overweight again during my layoff.
So this morning, fifteen months into my return to some semblance of running after being away for fifteen months, for fifty minutes I lugged around my extra twenty-five pounds and ran by some old spots. I have lived in this town for twenty years, alone for the last ten, and memories sometimes crowd in as I shuffle along.
I pass by a house where a friend of ours died one night unexpectedly. I accepted the story then that the friend just lay down in bed and died, but I wonder now if it was perhaps a suicide.
Here's the empty parking lot of the elementary school I attended over half a century ago, where the mother of my children works as a teacher now. She has steadfastly refused to share any information whatsoever with me for years about our three children, who turned against me as adolescents shortly after she filed divorce papers, and I wonder if this cruel woman would even inform me if something terrific, or terrible, ever befell any of these three young adults.
I approach the half mile long steep hill that is the crown jewel of hill running around here. I remember taking the person who was my best running buddy ever up it once several years back and laughing as she stood at the top bent over with her hands on her knees sucking wind, and I wonder how she is faring on the west coast where she moved to a few years ago.
The bicycle bridge spanning the highway which provides a slight uphill is up ahead and I think of all the running friends I have accompanied across the bridge on its clattering wooden surface and slightly swaying structure. None of them are with me now, and I have run with only one or two of them at all in the last year.
I am approaching my neighborhood mile, a measured distance from my driveway that used to provide me with my version of speed work as I burned off three or four sub-seven-minute miles in a morning, interspersed with household chores. Now I reflect that the best mile since my return was a solitary 8:02 several weeks ago, and I shake my head as I feel the overhang over my waistband.
I was forty-eight when I started running and for years I ran five times a week, raced weekly and was svelte and swift enough not to be embarrassed; now I will be sixty in a few weeks and I run four times a week, don't race anymore and am overweight and slow enough to be embarrassed. Memories are bittersweet at best.
So this morning, fifteen months into my return to some semblance of running after being away for fifteen months, for fifty minutes I lugged around my extra twenty-five pounds and ran by some old spots. I have lived in this town for twenty years, alone for the last ten, and memories sometimes crowd in as I shuffle along.
I pass by a house where a friend of ours died one night unexpectedly. I accepted the story then that the friend just lay down in bed and died, but I wonder now if it was perhaps a suicide.
Here's the empty parking lot of the elementary school I attended over half a century ago, where the mother of my children works as a teacher now. She has steadfastly refused to share any information whatsoever with me for years about our three children, who turned against me as adolescents shortly after she filed divorce papers, and I wonder if this cruel woman would even inform me if something terrific, or terrible, ever befell any of these three young adults.
I approach the half mile long steep hill that is the crown jewel of hill running around here. I remember taking the person who was my best running buddy ever up it once several years back and laughing as she stood at the top bent over with her hands on her knees sucking wind, and I wonder how she is faring on the west coast where she moved to a few years ago.
The bicycle bridge spanning the highway which provides a slight uphill is up ahead and I think of all the running friends I have accompanied across the bridge on its clattering wooden surface and slightly swaying structure. None of them are with me now, and I have run with only one or two of them at all in the last year.
I am approaching my neighborhood mile, a measured distance from my driveway that used to provide me with my version of speed work as I burned off three or four sub-seven-minute miles in a morning, interspersed with household chores. Now I reflect that the best mile since my return was a solitary 8:02 several weeks ago, and I shake my head as I feel the overhang over my waistband.
I was forty-eight when I started running and for years I ran five times a week, raced weekly and was svelte and swift enough not to be embarrassed; now I will be sixty in a few weeks and I run four times a week, don't race anymore and am overweight and slow enough to be embarrassed. Memories are bittersweet at best.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Associations, forty years later.
Facebook is quite a phenomenon, now I spill short drivel onto my FB page every day while I neglect any reflective writing I might do in my blog. But through facebook in the last year, I have been contacted by three of my best friends growing up, after decades of non-contact.
None of them are old female friends. How much better a friend I could be now for them.
We were young then, we're old now and either wrinkled or fat or wrinkled and fat. The Republicans inadvertently coined a motto
for us when they advanced a health care plan for folks like us to Just Die.
My BFF in ninth grade reached out to me this past summer and I eagerly accepted his Friend-Me bid. It had been 40 years since I last heard from him.
How does that happen to BFFs? Very easily, at least up until the advent of the electronic age, which is very recent. (I'm the fat & wrinkled one on the left.)
We spent a lunch hour catching up recently at a restaurant in Minnesota, of all places. He told me about his alienated child (divorce situation) whom he had just recently heard from and then seen for thirty minutes for the first time in almost a decade, and I told him about my three alienated children (divorce situation) whom I have not seen nor heard from in almost a decade.
Once we were past our mutual modern male-parent maudlin stories, I told him about my very last memory of him. Sitting around the kitchen table of my parents' house on Staten Island, he was regaling my family with his first-year-in-college tales of life in the frat house at a college in the south.
You see, I chose to go to school in Boulder in 1970, and I had a much different attitude from him about schools and classmates. I said I remembered chiding him for his affinity for having 40 close frat brothers by asking, when he said that if you needed to go somewhere that 40 car keys would be tossed at you, if all 40 brothers would also put on blue shirts if he donned one before going out in the borrowed car.
Forty years later I still remembered how clear it had been to me how ridiculous his portrayal of frat life was. Although he had forgotten until then our last encounter, forty years later he remembered how merciless I had been in my chiding and how silly he had felt.
Life sucks sometimes. I suck sometimes.
None of them are old female friends. How much better a friend I could be now for them.
We were young then, we're old now and either wrinkled or fat or wrinkled and fat. The Republicans inadvertently coined a motto
for us when they advanced a health care plan for folks like us to Just Die.My BFF in ninth grade reached out to me this past summer and I eagerly accepted his Friend-Me bid. It had been 40 years since I last heard from him.
How does that happen to BFFs? Very easily, at least up until the advent of the electronic age, which is very recent. (I'm the fat & wrinkled one on the left.)
We spent a lunch hour catching up recently at a restaurant in Minnesota, of all places. He told me about his alienated child (divorce situation) whom he had just recently heard from and then seen for thirty minutes for the first time in almost a decade, and I told him about my three alienated children (divorce situation) whom I have not seen nor heard from in almost a decade.
Once we were past our mutual modern male-parent maudlin stories, I told him about my very last memory of him. Sitting around the kitchen table of my parents' house on Staten Island, he was regaling my family with his first-year-in-college tales of life in the frat house at a college in the south.
You see, I chose to go to school in Boulder in 1970, and I had a much different attitude from him about schools and classmates. I said I remembered chiding him for his affinity for having 40 close frat brothers by asking, when he said that if you needed to go somewhere that 40 car keys would be tossed at you, if all 40 brothers would also put on blue shirts if he donned one before going out in the borrowed car.
Forty years later I still remembered how clear it had been to me how ridiculous his portrayal of frat life was. Although he had forgotten until then our last encounter, forty years later he remembered how merciless I had been in my chiding and how silly he had felt.
Life sucks sometimes. I suck sometimes.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Moving forward
When I recently became president of my running club, due to my higher profile, the adverse reaction became pointed. Formerly, In my role as Programs Director for my running club, I took a lot of pictures because I liked to record the training programs I directed. You know, bands of indistinguishable runners loping down the Mall, that sort of thing.
For the past several years I have been using disposable cameras. I get the film developed and order a CD with electronic images on it. Although the results are not instantaneous, people tell me that film cameras actually take better pictures than digital cameras. But what do I know?
Some people within the club, who don't like my style, have taken this as further proof of what a cretin I am, still using last century's technology. It's not that they saw my preference as quaint, they were genuinely offended by it. Instead of being bemused when I use tried and true instead of cutting edge, they are outraged. These are much younger folks, less tolerant, who have no use for old fogeys who still mail checks or carry a cell without a camera or Internet capability on it.
I actually had a digital camera which I bought for $500 four years ago. I had a friend show me how to use it. It was simple to operate, really. I'll tell you one thing though. I'd rather lose or ruin a $6 disposable camera than a $500 one.
And I'll tell you another thing. I think digital cameras promote two things. One is that no shots are ever reduced to a "picture" anymore that can be shown to a friend, sent to Grandma or put in an album. It only exists, unseen, within someone's hard drive forever once it gets offloaded there. The other is what I call snapping diarrhea. Every little thing is shot, with no thought about framing the picture or relevancy.
So for a few weeks I've been using the digital camera. Mostly I take running shots. If I get ahead of the running crowd and open the camera, wait for it to get ready to shoot, which takes about five seconds (no point & shoot with this thing), and then click the shutter, it'll take a picture, in about another two seconds. In other words, I shoot the shot that will "appear" in two seconds, not the scene that is actually before me.
I learned to take head on shots, not side shots. And anything but a dead-head-on shot was blurry anyway. What I have is a $500 landscape camera. It's worthless for running shots.
I have learned a few things. My camera is worthless. It's 3 Mega pixels, and the standard now is 12. The photo card that came with it was 286 MB and cost me $85, back then. It took about 20 pictures and then filled up. So I got to buy another more "modern" card with 2 GB for $30.
My battery, which lasts about two years, dies after about five shots. I went to Best Buy to purchase a new one. Uh, they don't carry it anymore. 2005 hardware is all on the scrap heap. I special ordered it for $20. The salesman pointedly showed me a $99 Kodak with the aforesaid 12 Mega pixels. I think the implication was for me to throw out this $500 four-year old implement.
This is progress, right? At my house I have an entire shelf dedicated to charging units, for my Garmin, my laptop, my cellphone, my camera. None of the chargers will charge anything else. No attachment will fit into anything else. Wires and plugs everywhere.
I recently was at a super thrift store, perusing the clutter on the camera shelf. I bought an Olympus 35MM automatic advance date recording zoom lense camera for $4.99 and a Nikon 35MM automatic advance date recording zoom lense camera for $4.99. I used to pay $250 for cameras like that and yes, I know how to operate them even without the manual, which of course wasn't around. Two 123 batteries later ($13.59) and they are operating just fine. They take much better running shots and landscape shots than practically any digital camera I could buy.
I can wait for my special order digital battery to come in.
For the past several years I have been using disposable cameras. I get the film developed and order a CD with electronic images on it. Although the results are not instantaneous, people tell me that film cameras actually take better pictures than digital cameras. But what do I know?
Some people within the club, who don't like my style, have taken this as further proof of what a cretin I am, still using last century's technology. It's not that they saw my preference as quaint, they were genuinely offended by it. Instead of being bemused when I use tried and true instead of cutting edge, they are outraged. These are much younger folks, less tolerant, who have no use for old fogeys who still mail checks or carry a cell without a camera or Internet capability on it.
I actually had a digital camera which I bought for $500 four years ago. I had a friend show me how to use it. It was simple to operate, really. I'll tell you one thing though. I'd rather lose or ruin a $6 disposable camera than a $500 one.
And I'll tell you another thing. I think digital cameras promote two things. One is that no shots are ever reduced to a "picture" anymore that can be shown to a friend, sent to Grandma or put in an album. It only exists, unseen, within someone's hard drive forever once it gets offloaded there. The other is what I call snapping diarrhea. Every little thing is shot, with no thought about framing the picture or relevancy.
So for a few weeks I've been using the digital camera. Mostly I take running shots. If I get ahead of the running crowd and open the camera, wait for it to get ready to shoot, which takes about five seconds (no point & shoot with this thing), and then click the shutter, it'll take a picture, in about another two seconds. In other words, I shoot the shot that will "appear" in two seconds, not the scene that is actually before me.
I learned to take head on shots, not side shots. And anything but a dead-head-on shot was blurry anyway. What I have is a $500 landscape camera. It's worthless for running shots.
I have learned a few things. My camera is worthless. It's 3 Mega pixels, and the standard now is 12. The photo card that came with it was 286 MB and cost me $85, back then. It took about 20 pictures and then filled up. So I got to buy another more "modern" card with 2 GB for $30.
My battery, which lasts about two years, dies after about five shots. I went to Best Buy to purchase a new one. Uh, they don't carry it anymore. 2005 hardware is all on the scrap heap. I special ordered it for $20. The salesman pointedly showed me a $99 Kodak with the aforesaid 12 Mega pixels. I think the implication was for me to throw out this $500 four-year old implement.
This is progress, right? At my house I have an entire shelf dedicated to charging units, for my Garmin, my laptop, my cellphone, my camera. None of the chargers will charge anything else. No attachment will fit into anything else. Wires and plugs everywhere.
I recently was at a super thrift store, perusing the clutter on the camera shelf. I bought an Olympus 35MM automatic advance date recording zoom lense camera for $4.99 and a Nikon 35MM automatic advance date recording zoom lense camera for $4.99. I used to pay $250 for cameras like that and yes, I know how to operate them even without the manual, which of course wasn't around. Two 123 batteries later ($13.59) and they are operating just fine. They take much better running shots and landscape shots than practically any digital camera I could buy.
I can wait for my special order digital battery to come in.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Those pesky miles
I'm getting slower. It's a fact.
2001 and 2006 were my good years. I guess good years come every half-decade or so.
In 2001 I set my 5K and 10K PRs, 21:58 and 46:01. I wasn't much good at longer distances then (my marathon PR was 5:05:20) because I didn't train "long." Most mornings I would just sprint helter-skelter for 2.1 miles and that would be it. Done for the day in 16 to 18 minutes. 12 miles was a big week for me. It kept my weight down and my speed up.
Then I turned 50 and started focusing on longer distances. I ran more miles. I threw 4-mile runs into the mix as my concession to going long, and in 2003 my marathon PR dropped to 4:16. My "speed" suffered though as my 5Ks crept into the 25 minute range. But then all of my times stagnated.
In 2006 I got serious. My long runs started having a base of at least 10 miles. No longer did a scheduled ten mile training run seem like a date that I had to circle on my calendar and watch with dread as it approached. I started track work. I did hills. I brought my marathon time down to 3:52:34. Even my 5Ks and 10Ks revved up as I came within 24 seconds and 48 seconds respectively of my old PRs. But after 10 months of hard training, I crashed and burned. I haven't been the same conscientious runner since returning from setting my then-marathon PR at the NYCM in November, 2006.
My 10-milers tell the story. From my 1:14:34 PR at Army in 2006, I slipped to a 1:16:05 GW Parkway Classic last year. This year I fell to a 1:22:44 at the Al Lewis club 10-miler.
I will tell you this, I don't think administering club training programs, which I have been doing for a year now, helps your own running much. But that's my choice, my notion of helping the community and "giving back."
I still run 5 times a week. That has always been my one constant, my interjection of discipline into my running routine. Some days it's only a mile, but at my age each mile counts. I feel each run the next day now, especially as I descend the stairs on those mornings after.
Solitary miles seem labored nowadays, even beyond the burning lungs. You know, leaden legs, feeling like I'm running underwater, the dreamlike flow of the landscape passing slowly by.
I keep at it. Yesterday I did a new mile-route around my neighborhood that involved a hill. I labored to bring it home in 8:58. Huh! My standard of a "good" solitary mile used to be a sub-seven.
Today I went back to a more familiar mile-route in the 'hood. I arrived huffing and puffing at my driveway in 7:22. Better, but I still have work to do.
2001 and 2006 were my good years. I guess good years come every half-decade or so.
In 2001 I set my 5K and 10K PRs, 21:58 and 46:01. I wasn't much good at longer distances then (my marathon PR was 5:05:20) because I didn't train "long." Most mornings I would just sprint helter-skelter for 2.1 miles and that would be it. Done for the day in 16 to 18 minutes. 12 miles was a big week for me. It kept my weight down and my speed up.
Then I turned 50 and started focusing on longer distances. I ran more miles. I threw 4-mile runs into the mix as my concession to going long, and in 2003 my marathon PR dropped to 4:16. My "speed" suffered though as my 5Ks crept into the 25 minute range. But then all of my times stagnated.
In 2006 I got serious. My long runs started having a base of at least 10 miles. No longer did a scheduled ten mile training run seem like a date that I had to circle on my calendar and watch with dread as it approached. I started track work. I did hills. I brought my marathon time down to 3:52:34. Even my 5Ks and 10Ks revved up as I came within 24 seconds and 48 seconds respectively of my old PRs. But after 10 months of hard training, I crashed and burned. I haven't been the same conscientious runner since returning from setting my then-marathon PR at the NYCM in November, 2006.
My 10-milers tell the story. From my 1:14:34 PR at Army in 2006, I slipped to a 1:16:05 GW Parkway Classic last year. This year I fell to a 1:22:44 at the Al Lewis club 10-miler.
I will tell you this, I don't think administering club training programs, which I have been doing for a year now, helps your own running much. But that's my choice, my notion of helping the community and "giving back."
I still run 5 times a week. That has always been my one constant, my interjection of discipline into my running routine. Some days it's only a mile, but at my age each mile counts. I feel each run the next day now, especially as I descend the stairs on those mornings after.
Solitary miles seem labored nowadays, even beyond the burning lungs. You know, leaden legs, feeling like I'm running underwater, the dreamlike flow of the landscape passing slowly by.
I keep at it. Yesterday I did a new mile-route around my neighborhood that involved a hill. I labored to bring it home in 8:58. Huh! My standard of a "good" solitary mile used to be a sub-seven.
Today I went back to a more familiar mile-route in the 'hood. I arrived huffing and puffing at my driveway in 7:22. Better, but I still have work to do.
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