Reading Time Management

We are all busy. We all have a million things to do and (seemingly) not enough time to get them all done. We all say at some point: "I wish I had more hours in the day!"

Well, I got news for y'all: there are only 24 hours in a day, and that's not going to change any time soon. Instead of wishing for more time, we should try to make better use of the 24 hours that we already have. But that's easy to say and harder still to do. How to start the process?

I began my quest to better time management by identifying activities that I engage in on a daily basis that might be wasteful. And the number one activity by far was driving a car to and from work every day. Think about it: all you can do when you drive a car is DRIVE THE CAR. You can't do anything else effectively and that includes such activities as putting on makeup, trimming your nails, or checking emails on your laptop or smartphone. Attempting to "multi task" while driving is a waste of time at best and potentially deadly at worst.

So what if public transportation is not an option for you and you must drive to work every day. How can you make better use of that time? Three words: books on tape. Now know as audio books, these have made my daily commute much more entertaining and informative. Give them a try for your daily commute and you might be amazed to discover how much you enjoy the experience.

Floor Zero

When the air heats up and gets heavy with humidity, my brain turns to mush. I slowly put away the biographies and histories and heavyweight fiction that I normally relish. And then out comes the thrillers and the horrors and other pulpy stuff that makes it onto the NYT Best Selling Paperback list. I used to be ashamed of this phenomenon, but have come to embrace it as I have grown older. Even my late Father enjoyed a literary "amuse bouche" from time to time. Nothing wrong with a little brain candy!

And with that, I offer you the opening paragraph of Floor Zero...

"I was telling my boyfriend the same thing! God, what is it with men?" Sue barked into the phone. She looked around guiltily because she knew g.d. well that the office phone is not meant for personal business. But there was nobody around to bother her, so she continued yakking with Patty for another 15 minutes. And then an odd sound filled the air. Not quite as annoying as a fire alarm, but loud enough to prevent any further conversation. "I'll call you back," Sue said as she hung up. "What the hell is that..." She looked around and noticed that something was blinking in the lower right corner of her monitor. She leaned in closer and saw a small pop up window with the words ALERT ALERT ALERT in red blinking text. She clicked the window with her mouse and everything on her screen vanished. Another window appeared seconds later, displaying what looked like a video feed from a surveillance camera. The picture was slowly sweeping back and forth across a large room filled with lab equipment. Sue blinked and then began to scream. She was still screaming when she bolted from her chair and ran out the front door of the Portland Health Sciences building. The only thing that stopped her screaming was the baton that tapped her on the back of the head as she rounded the corner toward the parking garage.

Well then....

It's been a while. A really long while. Needless to say, lots has been going on. Mostly good, but some not so good. I'll get to all that later.

I'm trying to resurrect my writing, so I'm taking part in The Weekend Assignment. It's a contest of sorts that was started by John Scalzi when he was working at AOL. It's a chance to flex your creativity in a short format. So we'll see how this goes. Click the picture to find out more:



2010 has already brought many changes to my life. My Father passed away in January as a result of a fall. It was quite unexpected and shocking and tragic and sad and all those other things. But my Sister and I are getting through it, one day at a time. Washington experienced the snowiest February in recorded history, which cut the number of performances of "Amadeus" almost in half. I played the title role, but that's for another post.

I'll sign off for now, but there are many more posts to come. Thanks for sticking around!

Ohio: Ecstasy

NOTE: Yes, this is one of those posts I warned you about. There is nothing graphic within, but tons of suggestive content. You have been warned...

We had rented a cabin somewhere in the Ohio hills with another couple. They took the master room while we took the "kid's room". We had to push together two twin beds to manufacture something that could contain us adequately. Considering how active our evening was, I am still surprised that our contraption held together.

I remember that the evening had a rhythm that neither of us could control. It took us forever to sync up, probably the anticipation of having a room to ourselves with no roomies stumbling in at inopportune moments. Or maybe it was we had confided to each other earlier in our relationship: neither of us had an "ecstatic" moment in our romantic lives. Orgasms? Sure. Passion? Absolutely. But had either one of us been transported by ecstasy? No.

We wanted to change that. And we did.

At one point I remember kissing her so intensely that I forgot to breathe. I remember when we finally did sync up, and our hips moved together as naturally as the tide lapping against the shore. I remember looking into her eyes and losing myself in her affectionate gaze.

Yes, it was an active evening. I'm sure that I got less than two hours of actual sleep while her insomnia served her well: she would let me rest for a bit before starting up again.

We were still making love when the sun peeked through the bare trees the next morning. The winter glow filled the room slowly, warming the skin on our faces and lending another sparkle to our eyes.

A billion here, a trillion there...

... pretty soon you're talking about real money!

You should spend the next six minutes watching this.

Virginia: And the clouds parted...

It occurs to me that I have devoted much of this space to my divorce. And while that is sad, I must state that my former spouse and I have remained friends. Good friends, actually. So with that statement made, I offer one of my most favorite memories of all time.

Our wedding day was shaping up to be a typical March day in DC: chilly with a side of cloudy. We both knew the odds, being natives had inoculated us to any disappointment regarding the weather. We were polar opposites when it came to temperature: she preferred the sweltering heat and humidity of DC Summers while I preferred the chill of Fall sliding into Winter. With those facts in hand, it was easy to plot a temperate month to have our wedding. March seemed as good as October to us.

We assembled at the Lyon Village Community Center, a quaint little structure on the grounds of a park. It felt very similar to a Quaker Meeting House, solemn but in a non-denominational sort of way. While friends decorated the hearth with greenery snatched from outside, I cooled my heels in an upstairs room. My Father-in-Law to be and I chuckled over the whole "you can't see the Bride until you are at the altar" thing and I looked out the window. There were kids playing in the park, despite the chill and the clouds. I remembered that a couple who was interested in using the space for their wedding was going to drop by and stand in the back to watch the proceedings. No, this didn't bother us at all we told them. I don't think I even noticed them.

So, our "Wedding Dictator" (a position created by the woman who named it in my honor, since I performed the same function for her two years earlier) called me down and arranged us in our processional order. We filed in, the Ushers beaming and the Minister (Unitarian, natch) awaited me and my Best Man. The Bride entered with her Father, who only paused so he could place his white cowboy hat on an empty chair before proceeding down the aisle. (I still get a bit misty thinking about that moment.)

We joined hands and listened to the sermon and the readings and the music. Then it came time for the vows. As the Minister began, I noticed that Sweetie was tearing up. So I reached for one of the three handkerchiefs I carried with me that day to hand to her. As I was doing so, I was temporarily struck blind.

Tears? No.

Adrenaline rush? Nope.

The sun had come out.

And it filled the room with such a soft golden light that there were a few gasps from the audience. (One of our theatrical friends complimented Sweetie on pulling off such a difficult lighting cue.) The room warmed, we looked at each other, and smiled. Then kissed. And then we were married.

It really was a perfect moment.

Inaugural Notes

Just a couple of personal notes from a rather historic day:

I was working from home and I got my problematic wireless network back up and running for my work laptop. So I curled up in front of the TV machine and settled in for the ceremony. When a certain pastor stepped up to the podium, I snapped this picture:


Yes, that's me turning my back upon Pastor Rick Warren. Hey, it's the least I could do, right? And I didn't even boo or raise my fist in anger when the former administration was introduced. I was too happy to protest any harder.

When it came time for Obama to take the oath of office, I decided to test something. I noticed that I could hear the Fourth of July fireworks on the Mall from my porch. Faint little pops instead of the sonic booms, but the sound was unmistakable. So I stepped onto my porch and listened. And there came a low rumble, more vibration than sound, punctuated by the artillery fire right after he completed the oath.

Hope never sounded so good!

Inauguration Day

By the time this post reaches your retinas, it will be Inauguration Day. I spent the eve of this day by watching the latest film to arrive via Netflix: a documentary on the Iraq war and occupation called "No End in Sight". I almost didn't watch it, didn't want to bum myself out. But then I thought it important to review what had come before as I welcome what is to come.

So I made dinner and watched it.

And I did get angry all over again. 

In particular, the looting of the museums and libraries made my blood pressure rise. An entire country's history and culture snatched away in the lawlessness that we condoned. "Stuff happens," to quote Secretary Rumsfeld.

But I'm still hopeful, despite the grim assessment of the people who tried to get things right and were thwarted by an administration focused on politics instead of results. Perhaps after eight years of living in fear fomented by the Bush administration, we can believe again in our collective capacity to do the right thing.

Happy Inauguration day, everybody!

Minnesota: Navigating by ten year old maps

This memory begins in a state already covered: Iowa. I did a stint of summer stock theater in East Central Iowa and I didn't have a whole lot of free time. Just one day, in fact: Monday. That was the only day when we interns were not spending 12+ hours inside a theater of some sort. That precluded the possibility of any serious day-tripping, although some folks did get to Chicago and back for a few hours of shopping.

I had been to Chicago many times so that held little appeal. But another city did: Minneapolis. I had never set foot in Minnesota before but I figured if the people were half as nice as they were in Iowa then I would be OK. The immediate problem was how to navigate once I got there. I was earning $50/week and board, so buying a big ole driver's atlas was out of the question. So I went to the company office and asked if they had anything I could borrow for the day. The secretary pulled out a ten year old map of the Twin Cities and wished me luck. Her parting comment was encouraging: "Nothing much has changed up there, anyway. The roads should still be where they say they are."

I set out early Monday morning, pointing the nose of my red Ford Fairmont station wagon North. As I approached the city, I began to eye the ten year old map on my passenger seat. I pulled over to a rest area and parked. I unfolded it and began to plot my approach. There were a few stops on my itinerary (a Thai restaurant, a bookstore, a museum, and a park), so I plotted the best course I could based on location and cross-streets.

I folded the map as strategically as I could and resumed the journey.

And yes, I navigated that city like a pro. There were some changes, to be sure, but like most Midwestern cities, Minneapolis was laid out like a grid. So if I missed a street, all I had to do was "box the compass" to get back to a starting point and then make the turn. I had a grand day, saw some pretty art, ate some wonderful food, picked up a novel or two. The park was out, it began to storm while I was there and continued on my way back home. But that was the only setback to an otherwise wonderful day.

I haven't gotten seriously lost since. That was the biggest gift of the day: navigational confidence.

Texas: Nine hours I would like back

I've done a fair amount of traveling for business over my career. When you first take a business trip, it's fun. Kinda like a field trip except you get to eat out and drink and maybe even go to a club and have fun when you're not working. I adapted pretty well and came to enjoy traveling on my own. I had a whole system worked out so that my trips were almost always trouble-free:

1. Check in at the hotel and find out if they have a Concierge.
2. Introduce yourself to the Concierge, or the cute girl at the Reception Desk, and inform them that you are in town in business and want to know the good places to eat and enjoy one's self.
3. Tip them at least $5 on your way up to your room.
4. Come down for dinner after unpacking and meet the Concierge. By this time, they should have several dinner options, directions, or (if you're lucky!) a cab waiting to take you to the best BBQ place in the city. (The latter only happened to me once, but it was cool!)

So you get the idea. It's a great system, but it doesn't work on the worst kind of business trip: the Day Trip.

You aren't going to stay there, so there is no reason to try to find the best places to eat. You'll only get two meals at best, and one of them is going to be at the airport!

My only time in Texas was on one of these Day Trips. I wish I could report something memorable or unique or interesting. I can't -- the suburb of Dallas where we spent the day looked like Springfiled, VA. There were only three things that told me I was even in Texas: 

1. The accents.
2. The Western Style Suits with cowboy boots that most of the men favored.
3. The awesome Mexican food we had for lunch.

That's it. Not much of a memory, I realize. I'm sure by the time I get to Austin my opinions about Texas will change. But for now, I'm left with an empty feeling whenever I think about Texas.

8 and 41

So I turned 41 last week. Had a great birthday week, actually. Lots of shout-outs on Facebook, cards, cupcakes, a great steak dinner, a happy hour the next day to celebrate along with a coworker (whose birthday was the day after mine). All in all, a good deal.

And then today rolls around: the eighth anniversary of my Mom's passing.

I felt a tad melancholy when I glanced at the clock on my phone at 10 AM*. But then I always feel a tad melancholy when I do that. My grief has certainly evolved from the times when I could not talk about it at all, despite all the pleasant and supportive urging from my wife. At the time, my Sister thought I wasn't really mourning Mom, or at least not mourning in the proper way. I'm usually much more effusive with my emotions, so my reticence was surprising to me. I think that part of me, the part I got from Mom, needed to hunker down and ride out the artillery barrage, just like in All Quiet on the Western Front. After a while, the ground no longer shook from the explosions of the falling shells.

Now I just miss her. I miss her council, her humor, her zest for life. I know I'll always carry those things within me and I use them most every day. That's the best thing I can do for her today. Especially today.


*We used to call each other at work at 10 AM every morning. Silly conversations mostly. But I miss them most of all.

Things That Bother Me: A New Series

NOTE: The title should say it all. I stole the idea from a friend. No, I'm not telling you who. She prefers to remain anonymous. That's it. No more questions.

Common Courtesy #1

I've noticed this a lot on pundit shows and it is driving me slowly mad. 

OK, kids, pop quiz! How do you respond to someone when they say "Thank you"?

A. Thank you.

B. No, thank you.

C. My pleasure.

D. You're welcome.

E. None of the above.

Time's up! Pencils down!

Give up? Can't decide?

There are two correct answers: C and D. 

Never thank someone who is in the act of thanking you. I know that it sounds like a nice reciprocal gesture, but all you have done is negated their expression of gratitude. "No, thank you" is kind of like saying "Fuck you! My expression of gratitude is far more important than your expression of gratitude. In fact, it's so important that I am going to make sure I get the last word in this exchange."

I prefer to use "My pleasure" in more personal and/or intimate situations. "You're welcome" is always the most polite way to go.

Maryland: "Homicide" Auditions

1995 was probably the peak of my professional acting career. It was not my primary source of income for I had begun my Technical Writing career that same year. But I went on many auditions and got lots of callbacks, and, as a result, a few jobs. Some stage, some voice-over, some local advertisements. But the highlights of that year were two separate auditions for "Homicide: Life on the Street".

They say that you can't be a working actor in NYC without having worked on at least one of the many "Law & Order" franchises. During the early 1990s, "Homicide" was the Baltimore/Washington area's version. Most of my professional friends had been on in an extra or small supporting role. One of my grad school colleagues had a recurring role as a reporter throughout most of the show's run. Between the acting opportunities, scores of other businesses made it through those tough economic times by working with the show.

Almost all of it was filmed out of a single building in the Fells Point area of Baltimore. The production offices were also located in the building because it was so large, so that's where you went if you were called to audition. The first time I went I was just awed by being there -- have I mentioned that I was a HUGE fan of the show? -- so I don't remember too much about the experience. I know I read with a production assistant for a witness role. I didn't get the part, but I was far from disappointed. Just being about ten feet from the desk of Det. Frank Pembleton was a thrill for me.

The second audition was much more fun. I was called for the role of the copy-cat sniper in the second part of a two-part episode called "Sniper". The only detail I remember from the audition is that I got to perform my callback in "The Box", the interrogation room set. My god, that was so freakin' cool! The only other thing that occurs to me is that I really got into the whole claustrophobic nature of the being in "The Box".

Didn't get the part, but it is one of my favorite acting memories nevertheless.

P.S. There is a post-script to this story, but it occurs in another state.

Iowa: The Great Fireworks Mishap of 1976

NOTE: Consult this post for an explanation of TRP's writing project. I won't follow his rules except trying to post one state-related memory every week. I haven't visited all 50 states, so there may be multiple memories per state. Some of the memories may contain sexual content. Nothing graphic, but very probably sensual. I'll give y'all a fair warning if you don't want to read those.

The Bicentennial Year featured my first summer trip to Iowa, the state of my Mom's birth. Clear Lake, Iowa, became forever stamped in my mind as the idyllic model for small-town American life. Friendly people, a cottage by the lake, a carnival (complete with a freak show!), a parade, and fireworks!

Fireworks are launched from a barge floating on the lake, so the entire community can have a great view of the spectacle.

After dinner, we all assembled on the dock to watch the show. My uncle gave me a pair of binoculars to watch the shells as they were launched from the barge. He crouched down beside me on the dock and scanned the far shoreline. "There it is, Tommy," he said. He handed me the binoculars and pointed me in the right direction. Sure enough, I could see the barge, a dark smudge against the far shoreline.

Minutes passed and the appointed moment arrived. The gathered began to look heavenward to see the first beautiful star bursts of the evening. I refocused my binoculars and concentrated on the barges, hoping to see the trails of the shells.

I only saw one flash -- and it went in a horizontal rather than a vertical direction. Then there was nothing. I told everyone what I saw and my uncle snatched the binoculars out of my hand. He scanned the shoreline and could see nothing.

In the morning, the paper told the awful truth: one of the shells misfired and punched a hole in the barge. The entire thing sank very quickly, and one of the pyrotechnicians came very close to injury as he lept from the stricken barge. We were all bummed by the lack of fireworks, but grateful that nobody was hurt.

That was one of the first times in my life that I remember putting the lives of others ahead of my own pleasure.

On Peace

With today's headlines from the Middle East, it seems odd for a post on peace. But peace has settled upon me and I am trying to welcome it into my life.

I've spent much of 2008 picking up the pieces of my heart and mind while recovering from the divorce. I could write at length about the drunken, sobbing nights I endured this year, but those don't much interest me now. Toward the end of the winter and the beginning of Spring, I began to feel better. I've written about this turn of the road before, but some elaboration is in order.

My therapist recommended that I construct a timeline of my marriage. Major events, changes in mood or circumstance, things that may seem minor and/or important. I approached this assignment with a fair amount of dread, because who wants to see their failed marriage arranged on a spreadsheet or a table? But I decided to attack this as another Technical Writing project: document what happened in order to produce a better Test Case for future releases. So I began the task. Took me about two months to complete, but by the time I was done I did see some patterns of behavior. Patterns that during the marriage I considered essential to its survival. Patterns that I have exhibited my whole life.

I sat on these discoveries for a while, not knowing what to do with them. Typical guy thing to do, I guess: ignore the problem and it will go away! I wrote in my journal without reviewing its contents as I went along (a former habit of mine). I also used the VoiceNotes program on my iPhone to record my thoughts and feelings, mostly while porching ("Porch Thoughts"). And after a while the problem revealed itself. The best way to sum it up is in a maxim I have often said to people over the years: "If you can't take care of yourself, then how can you take care of another?"

The cruise was a wonderful kickoff to my latest project: Taking Care of My Emotional Life. Making small changes, asking myself if this choice or that one will be beneficial to me as well as to another, for example, has done wonders. And all during the hectic production process at work I felt calm and centered. Unlike last year when I was at wits end, spending 12+ hours at work because I loathed returning to my new home to be alone with my demons.

This Holiday Season has been one of the best I've ever had. My family has been a real source of strength and I wept when we exchanged gifts, saying that they had already give me the best gift of all: their love. I had Dad, Sister, and her dog over for dinner last night, and we all had a wonderful time chatting and marveling in the sixty-degree weather! We sat on the porch before dinner and reveled in it.

So, this peace. I like it. I'm still working hard at welcoming it into my life, and I still have much work on myself to do. But I feel that I've been given a headlamp while still spelunking my mental caverns. I can find my way out of this; I believe this now.

On Singing in Public

Last night I attended a holiday party and met a whole bunch of new people. Always a good thing. A group of them left early to go to a piano bar and asked if I wanted to tag along. I brought some cigars to share with my host so I told them I would meet them up later.

After leaving the party, and then going home to put on a sweater because the air was getting chilly, I made my way to National Harbor. This is the brand new hotel/convention center/outdoor mall complex just over the Woodrow Wilson Bridge in Maryland. Only took about 20 minutes to get there from my house and I found the place with no problem.

I call one of the folks to find out the name of the piano bar. "Bobby McKey's," she said.

It's not a typical piano bar. It's what would happen if a dueling piano bar were dropped into the middle of a frat party. And people don't get up to sing while the pianists provide backup, rather, the performers encourage the crowd to sing, clap, chant, and make all manner of ruckus while they belt out a bunch of very different tunes.

On the plus side, all of the musicians were pretty good. Nice piano technique and serviceable voices. Even their canned jokes didn't feel quite so canned. They all knew how to read a crowd, and this was a raucous one. So they got appropriately raunchy when they needed to be and then clever to amuse themselves.

All in all, I had a nice time even though my voice paid the price for howling along with the rest of the crowd. But as I drove home, I felt a longing for a real piano bar. And then I remembered the one that my friend TRP took me too many years ago when I was visiting Seattle. 

I usually prefer new takes on old forms, but in this case I'll make an exception.

A Different Kind of Holiday Show

Over the weekend, I attended a production of "The Last Days of Judas Iscariot". I thought it was one of the most moving and sensitive portraits of Christianity I've ever seen. That title was previously held by "The Last Temptation of Christ" (book and movie), but this moved me even more.

The play consists of a trial for Judas Iscariot held in Purgatory. There are witnesses arrayed for and against, and while Judas spends most of his the play in a semi-catatonic state, he remains central and vital to what is going on around him. The question before us is simple: Can we forgive Judas? Should Judas be forgiven at all?

Not surprisingly, I found that I could forgive him. But not because of my feelings about organized religion, but because I understood why he made that choice. I won't tell you the reason, because that may spoil the play for you and I do encourage you to see a production if you get the chance.

But for now, during this season of peace and reflection and forgiveness, I choose to think not of the Light of the World, but of the man who effectively snuffed it out. Sometimes cursing the darkness is the only choice you think you have.

Pastor Rick Warren

Speaking as one of those non-religious types, I have to ask a question: Why do we need a religious figure to be included in the Inauguration of the President of the United States? I don't care about Rick Warren. He doesn't speak for me -- but then again, the Reverend Barry Lynn doesn't speak for me either (at least from a religious standpoint).

But if I were the leader of the LGBT band from San Francisco that is scheduled to perform in the Inaugural Parade, I might be tempted to inform Obama that they might be busy that day. You know, for a parade in South Dakota, perhaps.

I do think that Obama's response is pretty good, FWIW:

On Thrown Shoes

This may get me kicked out of the super-secret-commie-pinko-bleeding-heart-liberal-elitist club, but I didn't find the shoe-throwing incident funny. In fact, I found it rather sad. Sad for our country, sad for Iraq, sad for the troubled journalist, and sad for the President. Maybe I'm still feeling a bit melancholy over the death of a friend but I couldn't enjoy any schadenfreude from it at all.

Truth is, I just want GWB to go away. I don't want to waste any energy (emotional or otherwise) on him. That's not to say I don't want every single one of his crimes investigated to the fullest extent possible. But that's for the incoming administration to deal with. For now, we have to deal with this sad little man who doesn't seem to understand the enormity of the insult that those shoes represent. Either that, or he just doesn't care.

And that may be the saddest thing of all.

***UPDATE***

OK, this may be the saddest thing of all:

Inferno and Paradiso

Funny how two weeks ago today I was lying on a beach in the Dominican Republic, soaking up some Vitamin D and listening to the latest Stephen King short story collection on my iPhone. Today I plunged deep into the document production process for our upcoming release. Only 150 docs or so to deal with. It'll be fine. Really.

Also funny how remembering how the powdery sand felt between my toes helped today go by a bit faster...