Month: September 2006

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What’s an interweb?

Big off-site sales meeting today, to discuss online sales strategies for the company. I’m not in sales, but they brought me in (along with our VP/editorial director) to give some perspective on how the editors can contribute good web-based content.

It was a critical meeting, in which we hammered out much of the plans for how we’re going to move this publishing company into the 21st century. People gave presentations on our digitial editions, webinars, and push e-mail systems, while discussing how to integrate online and print advertising packages. Thanks to the strategies we developed today, our salespeople are ready to go out and increase our online revenue fivefold in 2007.

Except maybe this guy:

Besides this moment, my favorite part of the meeting was when the sales consultant asked us, “How many of you go to YouTube.com?”

I raised my hand, as did our IT guy and our e-mail manager. That was it. I blurted out, “What the heck do you people do online all day?!”

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Unsafe at Any Speed

Keeping with last post’s high school fixation, I bring up the fact that my first serious girlfriend (in my first way-too-boringly-serious relationship) drove a Chevy Corvair, that car Ralph Nader springboarded his career by denouncing.

I bring this up because of a gentleman in Iowa who takes issue with Nader in a way that the state’s DoT really doesn’t approve of:

State highway officials are setting up a roadblock of sorts for John Miller, a Boone man whose sporty 1966 Chevrolet Corvair has personalized plates that say, “F NADER.”

The Iowa Department of Transportation plans to send a letter to Miller advising him the license plates will be revoked within 10 days because of the objectionable combination of letters, said Andrew Lewis, the DOT’s assistant director of vehicle services.

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This is Your Hometown

I live in my hometown. I’ve been here for about 25 of my 35 years, even though I moved away when I was 17. Most of my neighbors are my parents’ age, which makes for a quiet street. Except for those punk kids who live down the hill, but that’s another story.

I refute the Grosse Point Blank mindset pretty well. Even though I was a hyperliterate misfit in my formative years (as opposed to, y’know, now), I have a fondness for this place, with the Revolutionary War manor houses, the gorgeous gardens, the fantastic pizza, the strange shadow race of orange people who live on the edge of town (that’s a story for another post).

Tonight, I was confronted with the one aspect of living in one’s hometown that I’ve avoided for years: bumping into an old schoolmate.

Now, I’ve seen some of them over the years, but never gotten into a conversation. The last time was in 1997, when I walked into the local barbershop (The Shear Shop). I was going out for a job interview the next day (at the office where I now work), looked like the Unabomer’s little brother, and needed to clean up. The stylist at the counter took one look at me and said, “Gil?”

I replied, “Ericka?” It was she. We talked while she cut my hair, reminiscing over our barely shared high school experiences. But that encounter was almost a decade ago. I’ve bumped into almost no one since.

It’s not that I’m averse to talking to people from my youth; I have plenty of friends from that stage of my life. I’m just averse to getting into conversations in supermarkets or convenience stores, which is where these little recognitions take place. I’m usually pretty tired by the end of the day, and I tend to have many excuses in my arsenal to keep from talking to people.

But There I Was, standing on the deli line at the supermarket, while Amy was getting some other fixings for dinner. The guy working behind the counter looked a lot like someone I met in kindergarten or thereabouts, and his nametag pretty much sealed the deal.

But did I say anything? Oh, no. I figured it was fine just recognizing the guy. There was no need to actually start talking to him. I could just tell Amy that I saw a guy from grade school at the deli counter.

He turned to take my order, paused a second, and said, “Gil Roth?”

“Rick Bolt?”

“Wow! I thought it was you! How you doing?”

“Living in Ringwood,” I told him. “You too, huh?”

“Been around a lot, but I ended up back here,” he said.

“Not a bad place to be,” I said. I introduced Amy to him, and he mentioned that his wife had just stopped by to see him.

Fortunately, he avoided the awkward, “So what are you doing?” question, which would’ve been fine in theory but would’ve contrasted with his, “I’m working behind the deli counter, cutting a half-pound of cheddar for you” response.

But I don’t want to address any class-oriented issues in this post. No, I’m more concerned with a very basic question:

How the heck did someone who hasn’t seen me since 1989 identify me at a goddamn glance?!

Seriously! You’ve seen what I looked like around then! (masochistally speaking, I love breaking out this picture)

I’m 40-50 lbs. heavier, I don’t wear glasses, and my hair is a bunch shorter. Moreover, it’s been almost 20 years! I mean godDAMN!

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Written in flesh

You may or may not know that I have a 9/11 tattoo on my right arm. I got it the Sunday after the attacks. It’s not particularly exciting, as tattoos go. In fact, my artist was a little bummed that I wanted a dull, blocky font, rather than the flourishing cursive he was planning to use.

A few months ago, an acquaintance of mine (Eric Solstein) discovered that an acquaintance of his (Jonathan Hyman) has been photographing 9/11 memorials: tattoos, graffiti and other personal tributes. Eric hooked us up, and a few photos of my tattoo are now among the 15,000+ pics that Jon has taken.

Before the shoot, Jon showed me a bunch of shots from the collection, and they’re pretty breathtaking. He filled me in on the stories of how many gallery shows or museum exhibits he was going to have, and how often the rug was pulled out from under him. While the portfolio was amazing, I admit that my BS-meter was pinging a bit (but I was glad to be part of the collective memory).

Fortunately, I was utterly wrong. “9/11 and the American Landscape: Photographs by Jonathan Hyman” will be open from Friday, Sept. 8 to Saturday, Oct. 7, at WTC #7, 250 Greenwich St., 45th flr. The event is curated by Clifford Chanin and is accompanied by a color catalogue featuring an introduction by Pete Hamill, according to Jon.

I doubt that my photo is among the 63 that are on display in this exhibit, but Amy & I will head in Saturday for the opening reception. The venue (that rebuilt WTC #7) overlooks the WTC site (or the Memorial Hole, as The Onion put it); I’ll try to post some photos from the event, especially for you out-of-towners who wonder what things look like nowadays.

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Unrequired Reading

Stuff I meant to post about in the past week:

Writing about restaurants in New Orleans (with a go-to mention of Finis Shelnutt):

“When people are still mucking out their houses, chefs are living in FEMA trailers, and others are finding out they are going to get screwed by their insurance company, I don’t want to be the guy who is writing about how the foie gras is not quite up to snuff,” he said.

* * *

Why bashing Wal-Mart is not a good strategy for the Dems:

By restraining inflation, intense competition of the sort that Wal-Mart provides eases pressure on the Federal Reserve to do the job with higher interest rates. Note the paradox: At one level, intense competition destroys jobs, as some companies can’t compete, but the larger effect is to increase total job creation by fostering favorable economic conditions.

* * *

Get your picture taken with Jesus.

* * *

NO,LA: It’s the civil engineering, stupid!

Why didn’t the Corps design a consistent, redundant system? In large part, the reason was foot dragging — or worse — by pols on the state, local, and federal levels. In some cases, political opposition prevented the Corps from seizing land to build sturdier foundations. Plus, Louisiana’s local levee boards were lousy stewards. Levee officials were political animals, not engineering experts, and sometimes proved more interested in running ancillary “economic development” projects than working with the Corps to make sure the levees were up to their task. (It’s not because New Orleans is poor and black: the levees protect New Orleans’s richer, whiter suburbs too.) In addition, the Corps warned that many of New Orleans’s manmade canals, obsolete for years, should be closed or at least gated -— to no avail. Moreover, when the Corps, along with state officials, came to understand that wetlands restoration is a vital part of the flood protection system, not a tree-hugger’s afterthought, Congress balked at spending the required $14 billion over several decades for coastal restoration.

* * *

The Chinese village of Dafen is like the opposite of William Gaddis’ The Recognitions:

In just a few years, Dafen has become the leading production center for cheap oil paintings. An estimated 60 percent of the world’s cheap oil paintings are produced within Dafen’s four square kilometers (1.5 square miles). Last year, the local art factories exported paintings worth €28 million ($36 million). Foreign art dealers travel to the factory in the south of the communist country from as far away as Europe and the United States, ordering copies of famous paintings by the container. [. . .]

Some five million oil paintings are produced in Dafen every year. Between 8,000 and 10,000 painters toil in the workshops. The numbers are estimates: No one knows the exact figure, which increases by about 100 new painters every year. But it’s not just professional copy painters who are drawn to Dafen — graduates of China’s most renowned art academy also come here. They complete only a small number of paintings a month and earn as much as €1,000 ($1,282).

* * *

A guy used the graphics engine of the computer game Half Life to make a video tour of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Fallingwater house.

* * *

Go see Little Miss Sunshine when you get the chance. We caught it yesterday. So did a couple of children sitting in the row behind us. They were less than 10 years old, and I’m sorta wondering if their mom noticed the “R” rating on the movie, or just thought it would be a fun flick about children’s beauty pageants, with that guy from The Daily Show. She may’ve been a little surprised when Alan Arkin was snorting heroin in one of the opening scenes. Anyway, it was a really wonderful flick, with a punchline that almost had us crying with laughter.

* * *

And have a good holiday.

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Dark Saturday

Well, the cassuolet was well-received, as was the chocolate cake. It was a nice evening all around, until the blackout around 8pm. We busted out a ton of candles, drank and bantered till around 11pm, at which point all 4 of us crashed out.

Still no power today, so we’ve stopped in at my office to check e-mail, look up movie schedules, and figure out if our favorite dim sum place is open on Sunday.

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Rainy Saturday

It’s some godawful weather here in the northeast. We’re expecting a pair of Amy’s friends this afternoon for an early dinner. She’s been cooking and cleaning all day while I’ve been cleaning and trying to stay out of her way. It seems to have worked out okay, provided her friends are on the right bus out here from NYC.

We spent yesterday at this giant-ass outlet mall in New York state. I’ve written about this place a few times before, including one of the first posts I ever wrote. No Hugo Boss clothing this time around, but I found a couple of pairs of decent pants for the fall/winter.

Our routine for visiting this mall is that we

a) go on Saturday

b) leave a half-hour before the place opens

The latter enables us to get together before buses from NYC start showing up and the parking lot becomes jammed with rental cars carrying The Axis: German and Japanese tourists who have come to buy luxury goods on the cheap.

We got a late start yesterday, since Amy had to handle a work-emergency in the morning. When we reached the place, it was around noon, and it was a Friday.

That’s when Amy discovered the importance of going only on Saturdays: Hasidic Jews won’t be there.

As it is, there were enough Hasidim present yesterday to populate Samaria. The place was overrun with head-covered moms pushing multiple baby carriages, two or three more children in tow, while sections of the parking lot looked like a reunion for Country Squire station wagons.

This led Amy to ask, “What exactly are they all here to buy?”

I replied that we should open a headscarf and wig store up there: “And the best thing is, we could take Saturdays off!”

Anyway, we spent a bunch of hours up there, with Amy searching pretty much in vain for fall clothes. On the plus side, we swung by my office on the way home and picked up my new Amazon delivery: a couple of 1gb SD cards for our digital cameras, a gravy separator, and a pair of books, My Horizontal Life, by Chelsea Handler (whose show on E! is a hoot), and Lost Girls, Alan Moore’s pornographic comic book about Alice (of Wonderland), Dorothy (of Oz) and Wendy (of Neverland) meeting in a hotel in Austria shortly before WWI.

I read the first few installments of the comic years ago, and, um, enjoyed it a lot. I’ll let you know how the collected edition (three books in a slipcase) works out.

Once we finally got home, we busted out the gin and our most recent Netflix choice: Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang. It’s one of the most entertaining movies I’ve watched in a while. Robert Downey, Jr. is typically fantastic, but Val Kilmer’s also pretty fun to watch as Gay Perry, the private eye. Run, don’t walk.

Anyway, our guests swear they’re on the right bus, and oughtta be here in half an hour. Amy’s made a cassoulet; I’ll let you know how it goes (she also picked up some neat cheeses for hors d’oeuvres, and made a chocolate cake for dessert). If it weren’t typhooning out, we’d take her friends on a nice tour of the gardens out here.

That’s the skinny. I hope everyone else is having a drier holiday weekend.

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Housing ka-boom

LONG article about how a popular type of mortgage, the option ARM, does not actually provide money for free, and is about to annihilate a lot of homeowners’ finances:

After prolonging the boom, [option ARM] mortgages could worsen the bust. They also betray such a lack of due diligence on the part of lenders and borrowers that it raises questions of what other problems may be lurking. And most of the pain will be borne by ordinary people, not the lenders, brokers, or financiers who created the problem.

Gordon Burger is among the first wave of option ARM casualties. The 42-year-old police officer from a suburb of Sacramento, Calif., is stuck in a new mortgage that’s making him poorer by the month. Burger, a solid earner with clean credit, has bought and sold several houses in the past. In February he got a flyer from a broker advertising an interest rate of 2.2%. It was an unbeatable opportunity, he thought. If he refinanced the mortgage on his $500,000 home into an option ARM, he could save $14,000 in interest payments over three years. Burger quickly pulled the trigger, switching out of his 5.1% fixed-rate loan. “The payment schedule looked like what we talked about, so I just started signing away,” says Burger. He didn’t read the fine print.

After two months Burger noticed that the minimum payment of $1,697 was actually adding $1,000 to his balance every month. “I’m not making any ground on this house; it’s a loss every month,” he says. He says he was told by his lender, Minneapolis-based Homecoming Financial, a unit of Residential Capital, the nation’s fifth-largest mortgage shop, that he’d have to pay more than $10,000 in prepayment penalties to refinance out of the loan. If he’s unhappy, he should take it up with his broker, the bank said. “They know they’re selling crap, and they’re doing it in a way that’s very deceiving,” he says. “Unfortunately, I got sucked into it.” In a written statement, Residential said it couldn’t comment on Burger’s loan but that “each mortgage is designed to meet the specific financial needs of a consumer.”

This is one of those instances where the financial industry is at fault, but they couldn’t have pulled it off without the help of idiotic consumers. Any transaction I get into worth $500,000 is not going to involve someone who put a flyer in my mailbox.

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Stop Making Sense

It’s the end of the summer, so I’m taking a long weekend (off Thursday – Monday). I haven’t written much lately, but I figure most of my ‘regular’ readers are traveling and only checking in intermittently. That’s summertime for ya.

I spent yesterday taking care of errands, including my belated/extended taxes, which I’ve been procrastinating on since we filed the extensions. More errands to get done today, unless I decide to spend my time finishing a book, watching a movie, or trying to write a longer piece for the 9/11 anniversary. I have something in mind, but I’ve been kinda uninspired of late.

The week-long dreary weather is probably the biggest contributor to this malaise o’ mine. Last week, I chalked it up in part to my “wheels-within-wheel paranoia” about how world events have been unfolding. A day or so later, I realized that paranoia wasn’t an appropriate term. After all, I don’t feel like these machinations are targeting me, nor that there’s a single overarching cabal organizing events to suit its needs.

Nah, my mental paralysis is caused more by my trying to understand the multiplicity of forces in action, not One Central Plot. It reminds me of something I said in the weeks after 9/11:

“Somehow, this president has to figure out how to work in concert with Pakistan but not anger India, without placating India to the point of angering China, without assuaging China so much that Japan and South Korea get nervous, and I’m pretty sure that I could beat him at tic-tac-toe.”

I don’t work in international relations or foreign policy; I’m just some schlub from New Jersey. My biggest problem is that I’m trying to make sense of things.

Fortunately, football season is coming up.