Saturday, September 04, 2010
Monday, February 08, 2010
Open Letter to Facebook After Another UI Debacle
I sent this to facebook after I was was "upgraded" to their new UI (user interface); I post it here in hopes others will send similar messages. Each time they change things, they annoy millions of users. If they would adhere to some basic, proven ideas, they could make far more users happy without a lot of wasted effort. If you agree with these, please send a similar message to Facebook. Feel free to copy and paste this with an "I agree", or just point them to this blog. Or send your own suggestions. Merely complaining about the current UI won't likely help. File your suggestions via the page at http://www.facebook.com/help/suggestions.php (which was much easier to find via google than via facebook).
...
Instead of deciding every few months what users want to see on the home page, why not just give the users control?
First, under account settings, let each user decide what they want with a list of feed checkboxes, something like:
and so on for everything that can show up. (Note: Selections in the above example are not meant to be defaults, just what I, personally would select from that subset.)
Secondly, every category should be available on the left hand menu. You removed the "Statuses" choice among others, which has annoyed quite a few users.
Thirdly, bring back the ability to arrange those choices on the left. I have no use for applications or games, so I would prefer those to be in the section that is not displayed unless I click on "More". But I would like to see Notes up there (among others).
I suppose you could tie the checkbox list and the left hand menu together, so that those checked would appear in the top section, and those unchecked would appear in the normally hidden section.
The top menu mechanism needs to stabilize. I don't care if submenus are rollovers or appear on clicking, but pick one and stay with it more or less forever.
Along those lines, the top menus should have submenus wherever possible. For instance, the Profile menu should have a submenu listing the tabs that show up on the profile (Notes, Info, etc.) to let you pick the first tab you want to see at a given time. Messages should have a submenu for Inbox, Sent, Compose, etc.
Finally (for now), please get rid of the minimum screen width requirement. There are still people using monitors with less horizontal resolution than you require, who hate having to scroll. Netbook users, in particular, are going to loathe this. I am currently using my backup monitor (width 1280). My daughter in law is using something similar. We both hate this "feature". Pick the minimum, reasonable space you need on the side[s], and use whatever is left for the remaining content.
Thank you.
Miles O'Neal (and scads of others, based on his current, Facebook home page)
Instead of deciding every few months what users want to see on the home page, why not just give the users control?
First, under account settings, let each user decide what they want with a list of feed checkboxes, something like:
What I want to see on my home page:
[x] Statuses
[ ] Application notifications
[ ] Game notifications
[x] Photo notifications
and so on for everything that can show up. (Note: Selections in the above example are not meant to be defaults, just what I, personally would select from that subset.)
Secondly, every category should be available on the left hand menu. You removed the "Statuses" choice among others, which has annoyed quite a few users.
Thirdly, bring back the ability to arrange those choices on the left. I have no use for applications or games, so I would prefer those to be in the section that is not displayed unless I click on "More". But I would like to see Notes up there (among others).
I suppose you could tie the checkbox list and the left hand menu together, so that those checked would appear in the top section, and those unchecked would appear in the normally hidden section.
The top menu mechanism needs to stabilize. I don't care if submenus are rollovers or appear on clicking, but pick one and stay with it more or less forever.
Along those lines, the top menus should have submenus wherever possible. For instance, the Profile menu should have a submenu listing the tabs that show up on the profile (Notes, Info, etc.) to let you pick the first tab you want to see at a given time. Messages should have a submenu for Inbox, Sent, Compose, etc.
Finally (for now), please get rid of the minimum screen width requirement. There are still people using monitors with less horizontal resolution than you require, who hate having to scroll. Netbook users, in particular, are going to loathe this. I am currently using my backup monitor (width 1280). My daughter in law is using something similar. We both hate this "feature". Pick the minimum, reasonable space you need on the side[s], and use whatever is left for the remaining content.
Thank you.
Miles O'Neal (and scads of others, based on his current, Facebook home page)
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Color Outside the Lines
Until just shy of my 11th birthday in 1966, I mostly grew up in El Paso, Texas. I grew up in communities of military, academic and professional families generally free of prejudice, or at least working hard to be. We often visited back east since Mom was from Alabama and Dad was from South Carolina. On one of these trips my sister, Sharon, and I nearly caused a race riot in Selma, AL. This must have been between 1962 and 1964. I don't recall who we were visiting, but several parts of the family crowded in the cozy, old home to visit with the Texas lot. It was a hot, lazy, summer afternoon; with just a few people in it the house would have been bearable, but crowded it was hot and stuffy. My parents agreed to let Sharon and I walk the few (5? 10? I'm not sure) blocks to a store for sodas. Armed with a nickel each, we went, happily waving and talking to everyone we saw.
A lot of folk weren't too friendly until we announced who we were. Once they knew we were Billie's kids, Thelma's grandkids, James and Mizz Daisy's great nephew and niece, they warmed right up. At least, the white folk did. The black kid we talked to on the way to the store acted terrified and ran away. We got our sodas and drank them, and started back. This trip was different. The white folk avoided us, and some older black people just glared at us. After a couple of blocks, a black boy a little bigger than us called to us from beside some bushes. "What you doin' talkin' to my little brother?" We explained we were just being friendly. He said something to the effect that we were trying to get his brother killed and ran off.
When we got home we told the adults our bizarre (to us) story. They went ballistic (not because we had talked to a black kid, but because of the possible consequences). We were confined to the house under watchful, adult eyes until we drove off, very quietly, after dark. Our parents had to explain some things they had hoped not to have to deal with just yet. My world grew a little darker, a little uglier, a little sadder. Apparently no riot ensued. Hopefully nobody got horsewhipped or anything. Despite having family there, I was not interested in returning to Selma for quite some time.
--
A few years after we moved to Georgia, around 1969 (I would have been 13 or 14), we were visiting relatives. The young man my age and I were heading out to the woods to see a log cabin fort he and his brothers had built. He grabbed a pair of .22 rifles and handed one to me "in case we want to shoot squirrels or anything". After we were well into the woods, nearly to the fort, he looked carefully around and whispered. "The rifles are in case we run into niggers. We got a war going with some. We've shot at each other a few times." (And yes, he was serious,)
I was suddenly far less interested in the fort. I was pretty timid (OK, somewhat of a coward) at the time, so I didn't argue. I also knew it would make no difference and cause a lot of problems. So I just kept a wary eye out (planning to talk, not shoot) and made sure we headed home as soon as possible. I think he knew, and we both lost some respect for each other that day. I lost some respect for myself, too.
--
1970 was a pivotal year for me. Augusta had some problems the previous couple of years over busing and heavier school integration, and I was slowly becoming aware that the world wasn't a happy, little place for everyone, and that it could get ugly. There had been marches, even some small riots.
I rode the bus to school. When I couldn't avoid it. The bus had seats for either 44 or 48 people, I forget. There were typically 80+ students, with three high school students to a seat designed for two, and kids packed, standing, from the back to the front. Somehow the buses for predominately black neighborhoods were always this packed, though the mainly white buses weren't The days everyone was on the bus you couldn't close the door. There were typically only two or three white kids on this bus. Some of the more aggressive, angry, black seniors made sure there were always seats in the back for us, where we tended to get roughed up. The rare days we could get on first leaving school, we got spit on and things were thrown at us. Small, hard to see, things, like bolts and nuts from the seats.
One day, Mr. Chris, the elderly, black bus driver, realized what was going on. He pulled over and stopped, stood up, and took off the old army jacket he wore, summer or winter. He had muscles I'd never envisioned, and looked like the world's only 65 year old drill sergeant. He stood there with his hands on his hips, glaring. "Everyone on this bus is my friend, including these boys." (I think he called everyone under 30 a boy or girl.) "If you mess with them, you mess with me. You want to fight them, you better fight me, and you ain't ridin this bus no more unless you whip me. Now come on, who wants to fight?"
After about a minute of dead silence other than the occasional "No sir" from someone he glared at specifically, he put his coat on, sat down, and resumed driving. Even the linebackers on the football team tried to hide. We had very little trouble after that.
As school districts were redrawn and kids bussed farther and farther from home, some white parents decided to keep their kids home in protest with a sick-out. Delighted to skip school, I stayed home that day. The next day, several black friends at school gave me the cold shoulder. I finally asked one, Carl, what was up. His reply? "You stayed home yesterday!"
"Well, yeah, a day out of school. So what?"
Carl dropped a lot on me that day. Despite having black friends at school for several years, I'd never had a clue what they felt like, how things looked from their side. I thought only a minority of black people felt repressed, that only troublemakers wanted change. In short I'd been clueless (I was clueless about lots of things). I apologized, thanked him and promised it wouldn't happen again.
A month later there was another sick-out. I went to school. Ten percent of the school was black. Total attendance was maybe 20% or 25% that day. My black friends started trusted me again, and black kids who'd hardly spoken to me warmed up. I woke up a bit more.
That same year, someone younger than me, who I knew and loved, was molested at school by a black guy a little older than her. A bunch of other black kids stood around, laughing, mocking, and encouraging the guy. Despite my upbringing, I found myself not mad at a handful of kids, but at blacks in general. Prejudice was alive and well right there in me (not to the extent it was in many, but any is too much).
After seething a few days, Carl took me aside and asked what was wrong. I let it all out. I saw anger in Carl's eyes, but also pain and sadness. He promised to check it out. He and a few friends looked into it, and assured me it would never happen again. As far as I know, it didn't happen at that school again while my family was there. (My parents had gone to the school about it, but the school hadn't been able to get anyone to talk about it.) Carl's anger wasn't so much at my response as it was the kids who'd participated. He understood my reaction all too well, since he and many people he knew had watched someone victimized by whites at some point. Thanks to Carl, I think I can honestly say I've never hated an entire group of people again over the actions of some.
There were a couple of black girls I would have liked to date. I never bothered to ask, because the consequences for both of us would have been ugly. That was partly real concern for everyone involved, and partly, still, cowardice. Then again, we're still alive... which we might not have been if we'd dated.
I also never went to a James Brown concert, despite Augusta being his home and his playing there several times a year. Just going myself would have been insane. It's a toss up whether the cops would have let me in, and whether it would have gotten ugly if they had. But it never occured to me to ask Carl and some friends about going with them.
--
Fast forward a bit to 1971 or 1972. Dad and I were visiting his mom. After the usual, awesome cakes and pies (probably including caramel cake, which will invoke memories of Grandma until I die) and coffee, we moved to "the TV room". She said she'd had a scare. Someone had knocked on her door, and when she went to answer it, "the biggest nigra I ever saw was standing there in a police uniform, gun and all". She didn't invite him in; she locked the screen door. "I was terrified. I know he was a policeman, but I was terrified." Now before you judge her, remember that she'd grown up in the deep south with all that entails (good and bad). It's amazing she didn't hate the man, only feared him. There was still plenty of hate to go around, but at least some people (including my wonderful Grandma) understood from the Bible that "coloured people" were truly people, and God loved them, too.
I asked her to call him a "black man" as blacks didn't see much difference between "nigger" (a word she didn't like) and "nigra". In the ensuing discussion I challenged her to see him simply as a man, possibly even her brother in Christ. We had a long talk, and she agreed in principle. She said she'd pray and try to see blacks without fear. I reassured her it was OK to not let strangers in if she wasn't comfortable, whether black, white or purple. (She asked if I knew any purple people, because she didn't. 8^) Even though I knew she loved me and wouldn't actually reject me, I didn't know how she'd respond, so this was a turning point for me.
--
In 1977 a roomie and I lived in a duplex in midtown Atlanta. The other half of the duplex was occupied by the owner, our landlady. A black friend, Ron, used to come over to visit us after he got off work. If we weren't home, he'd wait on the porch swing or just sit on the steps. Our landlady, who dated back to the previous century, mentioned to us that Ron made her nervous. We had some long talks with her, and she eventually got to know him, and was fine with him coming by (a remarkable change, no?) But her neighbors, her friends for over 50 years, were not interested in change of that sort, and started shunning her. Not long after that we went by to pay rent, and found our landlady crying. Having her friends turn their backs on her and call her ugly names was getting to her. We knew these women, and they weren't likely to change. We moved out so Mary could get on with her life (we weren't going to give up seeing Rob). I saw her a couple of months later. She was doing better, but still wasn't as happy as before because she was no longer the same as she had been-- but her old friends were.
Some time around then Grandma told me she had started going to "social luncheons" at her church. As she approached 80, her friends and relatives were dying off, and she was feeling lonely. During the conversation, I realized she had lots of new friends she was seeing several times a week, and most of her best friends were now black. I probably cried. I'd seen any number of "racial" miracles by now, but this one was so close to home.
--
Yesterday we celebrated the life and death of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr, a truly remarkable man. While he was not just a symbol, not just a focus, but instrumental in helping change our society, he was far from alone. Thank you, Dr King. But also thank you, Carl Henderson, for not giving up on me, for treating me like a brother, and for helping me wake up and grow up. Thank you, Rob, for your respect for Mary as she worked through things. Thank you, Mary and Grandma, for being willing to see the truth, and for embracing it after years of being told lies. You all helped make sure my kids didn't grow up in a world where black and white were separate (and hardly equal). It's not perfect, but it's a lot better that it was, thanks in part to you.
A lot of folk weren't too friendly until we announced who we were. Once they knew we were Billie's kids, Thelma's grandkids, James and Mizz Daisy's great nephew and niece, they warmed right up. At least, the white folk did. The black kid we talked to on the way to the store acted terrified and ran away. We got our sodas and drank them, and started back. This trip was different. The white folk avoided us, and some older black people just glared at us. After a couple of blocks, a black boy a little bigger than us called to us from beside some bushes. "What you doin' talkin' to my little brother?" We explained we were just being friendly. He said something to the effect that we were trying to get his brother killed and ran off.
When we got home we told the adults our bizarre (to us) story. They went ballistic (not because we had talked to a black kid, but because of the possible consequences). We were confined to the house under watchful, adult eyes until we drove off, very quietly, after dark. Our parents had to explain some things they had hoped not to have to deal with just yet. My world grew a little darker, a little uglier, a little sadder. Apparently no riot ensued. Hopefully nobody got horsewhipped or anything. Despite having family there, I was not interested in returning to Selma for quite some time.
--
A few years after we moved to Georgia, around 1969 (I would have been 13 or 14), we were visiting relatives. The young man my age and I were heading out to the woods to see a log cabin fort he and his brothers had built. He grabbed a pair of .22 rifles and handed one to me "in case we want to shoot squirrels or anything". After we were well into the woods, nearly to the fort, he looked carefully around and whispered. "The rifles are in case we run into niggers. We got a war going with some. We've shot at each other a few times." (And yes, he was serious,)
I was suddenly far less interested in the fort. I was pretty timid (OK, somewhat of a coward) at the time, so I didn't argue. I also knew it would make no difference and cause a lot of problems. So I just kept a wary eye out (planning to talk, not shoot) and made sure we headed home as soon as possible. I think he knew, and we both lost some respect for each other that day. I lost some respect for myself, too.
--
1970 was a pivotal year for me. Augusta had some problems the previous couple of years over busing and heavier school integration, and I was slowly becoming aware that the world wasn't a happy, little place for everyone, and that it could get ugly. There had been marches, even some small riots.
I rode the bus to school. When I couldn't avoid it. The bus had seats for either 44 or 48 people, I forget. There were typically 80+ students, with three high school students to a seat designed for two, and kids packed, standing, from the back to the front. Somehow the buses for predominately black neighborhoods were always this packed, though the mainly white buses weren't The days everyone was on the bus you couldn't close the door. There were typically only two or three white kids on this bus. Some of the more aggressive, angry, black seniors made sure there were always seats in the back for us, where we tended to get roughed up. The rare days we could get on first leaving school, we got spit on and things were thrown at us. Small, hard to see, things, like bolts and nuts from the seats.
One day, Mr. Chris, the elderly, black bus driver, realized what was going on. He pulled over and stopped, stood up, and took off the old army jacket he wore, summer or winter. He had muscles I'd never envisioned, and looked like the world's only 65 year old drill sergeant. He stood there with his hands on his hips, glaring. "Everyone on this bus is my friend, including these boys." (I think he called everyone under 30 a boy or girl.) "If you mess with them, you mess with me. You want to fight them, you better fight me, and you ain't ridin this bus no more unless you whip me. Now come on, who wants to fight?"
After about a minute of dead silence other than the occasional "No sir" from someone he glared at specifically, he put his coat on, sat down, and resumed driving. Even the linebackers on the football team tried to hide. We had very little trouble after that.
As school districts were redrawn and kids bussed farther and farther from home, some white parents decided to keep their kids home in protest with a sick-out. Delighted to skip school, I stayed home that day. The next day, several black friends at school gave me the cold shoulder. I finally asked one, Carl, what was up. His reply? "You stayed home yesterday!"
"Well, yeah, a day out of school. So what?"
Carl dropped a lot on me that day. Despite having black friends at school for several years, I'd never had a clue what they felt like, how things looked from their side. I thought only a minority of black people felt repressed, that only troublemakers wanted change. In short I'd been clueless (I was clueless about lots of things). I apologized, thanked him and promised it wouldn't happen again.
A month later there was another sick-out. I went to school. Ten percent of the school was black. Total attendance was maybe 20% or 25% that day. My black friends started trusted me again, and black kids who'd hardly spoken to me warmed up. I woke up a bit more.
That same year, someone younger than me, who I knew and loved, was molested at school by a black guy a little older than her. A bunch of other black kids stood around, laughing, mocking, and encouraging the guy. Despite my upbringing, I found myself not mad at a handful of kids, but at blacks in general. Prejudice was alive and well right there in me (not to the extent it was in many, but any is too much).
After seething a few days, Carl took me aside and asked what was wrong. I let it all out. I saw anger in Carl's eyes, but also pain and sadness. He promised to check it out. He and a few friends looked into it, and assured me it would never happen again. As far as I know, it didn't happen at that school again while my family was there. (My parents had gone to the school about it, but the school hadn't been able to get anyone to talk about it.) Carl's anger wasn't so much at my response as it was the kids who'd participated. He understood my reaction all too well, since he and many people he knew had watched someone victimized by whites at some point. Thanks to Carl, I think I can honestly say I've never hated an entire group of people again over the actions of some.
There were a couple of black girls I would have liked to date. I never bothered to ask, because the consequences for both of us would have been ugly. That was partly real concern for everyone involved, and partly, still, cowardice. Then again, we're still alive... which we might not have been if we'd dated.
I also never went to a James Brown concert, despite Augusta being his home and his playing there several times a year. Just going myself would have been insane. It's a toss up whether the cops would have let me in, and whether it would have gotten ugly if they had. But it never occured to me to ask Carl and some friends about going with them.
--
Fast forward a bit to 1971 or 1972. Dad and I were visiting his mom. After the usual, awesome cakes and pies (probably including caramel cake, which will invoke memories of Grandma until I die) and coffee, we moved to "the TV room". She said she'd had a scare. Someone had knocked on her door, and when she went to answer it, "the biggest nigra I ever saw was standing there in a police uniform, gun and all". She didn't invite him in; she locked the screen door. "I was terrified. I know he was a policeman, but I was terrified." Now before you judge her, remember that she'd grown up in the deep south with all that entails (good and bad). It's amazing she didn't hate the man, only feared him. There was still plenty of hate to go around, but at least some people (including my wonderful Grandma) understood from the Bible that "coloured people" were truly people, and God loved them, too.
I asked her to call him a "black man" as blacks didn't see much difference between "nigger" (a word she didn't like) and "nigra". In the ensuing discussion I challenged her to see him simply as a man, possibly even her brother in Christ. We had a long talk, and she agreed in principle. She said she'd pray and try to see blacks without fear. I reassured her it was OK to not let strangers in if she wasn't comfortable, whether black, white or purple. (She asked if I knew any purple people, because she didn't. 8^) Even though I knew she loved me and wouldn't actually reject me, I didn't know how she'd respond, so this was a turning point for me.
--
In 1977 a roomie and I lived in a duplex in midtown Atlanta. The other half of the duplex was occupied by the owner, our landlady. A black friend, Ron, used to come over to visit us after he got off work. If we weren't home, he'd wait on the porch swing or just sit on the steps. Our landlady, who dated back to the previous century, mentioned to us that Ron made her nervous. We had some long talks with her, and she eventually got to know him, and was fine with him coming by (a remarkable change, no?) But her neighbors, her friends for over 50 years, were not interested in change of that sort, and started shunning her. Not long after that we went by to pay rent, and found our landlady crying. Having her friends turn their backs on her and call her ugly names was getting to her. We knew these women, and they weren't likely to change. We moved out so Mary could get on with her life (we weren't going to give up seeing Rob). I saw her a couple of months later. She was doing better, but still wasn't as happy as before because she was no longer the same as she had been-- but her old friends were.
Some time around then Grandma told me she had started going to "social luncheons" at her church. As she approached 80, her friends and relatives were dying off, and she was feeling lonely. During the conversation, I realized she had lots of new friends she was seeing several times a week, and most of her best friends were now black. I probably cried. I'd seen any number of "racial" miracles by now, but this one was so close to home.
--
Yesterday we celebrated the life and death of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr, a truly remarkable man. While he was not just a symbol, not just a focus, but instrumental in helping change our society, he was far from alone. Thank you, Dr King. But also thank you, Carl Henderson, for not giving up on me, for treating me like a brother, and for helping me wake up and grow up. Thank you, Rob, for your respect for Mary as she worked through things. Thank you, Mary and Grandma, for being willing to see the truth, and for embracing it after years of being told lies. You all helped make sure my kids didn't grow up in a world where black and white were separate (and hardly equal). It's not perfect, but it's a lot better that it was, thanks in part to you.
Sunday, August 09, 2009
Pikes Peak... Over the Top
(Some reasons not to go all the way up Pikes Peak.)
In January we went to Colorado Springs. The day I got sick, my wife decided to drive up Pikes Peak. The first reason not to go all the way to the top is when the road is closed. In January, it is likely to be closed because of snow and ice. I believe she got to about mile 12 or mile 15 before they made her turn back. On the trip last week she pointed out the scariest parts of the switchback. It was bad enough driving that with dry roads; I can't imagine doing it on snow.
This past week in July we tried to drive up with our son, his wife, and our new grandson. A sign at the entrance requested no babies under 4 months, but Tyler's doctor had cleared him, so up we went. Until somewhere between mile 15 and mile 16, when the engine temp went into the red zone. We had a busted coolant overflow tank and had lost too much coolant. Down we went, using more brakes than we would have otherwise. We bought coolant at the point they check your brake temp (we were in the safe zone, but just barely), and made it down still using too much brake, twice having to turn the heater on to help pull heat from the coolant. Car trouble is another reason not to drive all the way up.
The final reason? Acrophobia. An unreasoning fear of heights.
Part of it is probably that I grew up in the desert. I think our 1st story roof was the highest I normally went. Except for the odd drive in the mountains. Normally these bugged me, but not horribly. Then, at the age of 7 or 8, on a trip to Cloudcroft, New Mexico, on a narrow, two lane, no shoulders or guard rails, savagely twisty mountain road, my sister Sharon (2 1/2 years younger) and I looked down. And down. And down. Down about an 80 degree or steeper slope. With the overgrown, rusting hulks of cars a long way down, clearly victims of the curves at speed.
About that time, a fully loaded tractor trailer (one of several that trip) came flying around a blind curve, partly into our lane, probably doing the speed limit (70 MPH). Certainly we were going the speed limit. Dad hugged the edge of the road. I'm pretty sure the tires were half way off the edge. The car was shimmying, the semi was practically scraping paint, and the ghosts in the cars below were planning a welcome party for us. Sharon and I spent the rest of the trip to the top, and most of the trip down a few days later, in fetal positions on the floor of the car. Our insane younger siblings, Kathleen and Bill, gleefully looked out the windows and described what they saw. We'd have killed them, but that would have required opening our eyes.
The first part of the drive up Pikes Peak is through lush peaks and valleys, with the occasional steep bank covered in trees. The view down is in the distance, a pleasant buffer of vegetation hiding the nearby horrors. Once past the tree line, you are suddenly aware of the steep, steep drop offs and distance to the bottom. But the road is wide, often has guardrails, and a good bit of time the drop off is on the left. Space between you and the fall zone helps a lot.
But farther up, you spend a lot of time (with no guardrails! What idiot forgot the guardrails?) with the drop off much closer... on the right. At times the road is dirt, not asphalt (what fool forgot the paving?) Then the serious switchbacks start (often still dirt, and mostly without the guardrails (what MORON forgot those???)) and you are obviously higher up, it's soooo far down, and if you mess up even the teeniest bit, you will fall, fall, fall, and it's just a question of whether you'll die before the car explodes or after. Which draws your eye to the terrible, terrible edge of the road, the oh, so clear line between safety and driving off into space...
I recall vividly how I learned from motorcycling that your natural tendency is to go where you're looking. In this case, that's the edge. So far down. There's a little bit of a shoulder; between that and how steep the mountain is, you can't tell if there are rusting hulks of cars below, ghosts waiting for you to join them... And all I want to do is curl up in the fetal position on the floor.
I "joke" about that with my family. My wife and son both ask if I want them to drive. "No, I'm fine, Sharon can drive back down so I can look around." But that's just me trying to cope, trying not to give in to the Fear. I'm terrified. I'm determined to do this. I don't think I can do it. I pray, desperately, for strength.
The car overheats. Answered prayer? Serendipity? Chance? I don't believe in chance, and it wasn't what I asked for. But it's a gift horse, and I don't look it in the mouth; there might be a slope in there. We let the engine cool, and I drive back down. Why did I keep driving? I couldn't tell you. Machismo? Maybe. Psychopathic fixation and reasoning shutdown? More likely. I'm pretty sure we made it down safely.
I'd still like to see the view from the top. But unless I can afford a helicopter ride (and NOT a bubble helicopter!) I just don't see it happening.
PS: Today I went off the high dive. From underneath, it's 10 to 12 feet high. From on top, that makes it 16 to 18 feet eyeball level. But it's easily twice that inside my head. But I jumped. Three times. I would have gone again, but I was at a party, and it was piñata time. I've come a long way being able to do that. I won't give up fighting my fear of heights. But I think Pike's Peak, for me, is just over the top.
PPS: I don't believe in ghosts. But that's how things seemed at the time.
In January we went to Colorado Springs. The day I got sick, my wife decided to drive up Pikes Peak. The first reason not to go all the way to the top is when the road is closed. In January, it is likely to be closed because of snow and ice. I believe she got to about mile 12 or mile 15 before they made her turn back. On the trip last week she pointed out the scariest parts of the switchback. It was bad enough driving that with dry roads; I can't imagine doing it on snow.
This past week in July we tried to drive up with our son, his wife, and our new grandson. A sign at the entrance requested no babies under 4 months, but Tyler's doctor had cleared him, so up we went. Until somewhere between mile 15 and mile 16, when the engine temp went into the red zone. We had a busted coolant overflow tank and had lost too much coolant. Down we went, using more brakes than we would have otherwise. We bought coolant at the point they check your brake temp (we were in the safe zone, but just barely), and made it down still using too much brake, twice having to turn the heater on to help pull heat from the coolant. Car trouble is another reason not to drive all the way up.
The final reason? Acrophobia. An unreasoning fear of heights.
Part of it is probably that I grew up in the desert. I think our 1st story roof was the highest I normally went. Except for the odd drive in the mountains. Normally these bugged me, but not horribly. Then, at the age of 7 or 8, on a trip to Cloudcroft, New Mexico, on a narrow, two lane, no shoulders or guard rails, savagely twisty mountain road, my sister Sharon (2 1/2 years younger) and I looked down. And down. And down. Down about an 80 degree or steeper slope. With the overgrown, rusting hulks of cars a long way down, clearly victims of the curves at speed.
About that time, a fully loaded tractor trailer (one of several that trip) came flying around a blind curve, partly into our lane, probably doing the speed limit (70 MPH). Certainly we were going the speed limit. Dad hugged the edge of the road. I'm pretty sure the tires were half way off the edge. The car was shimmying, the semi was practically scraping paint, and the ghosts in the cars below were planning a welcome party for us. Sharon and I spent the rest of the trip to the top, and most of the trip down a few days later, in fetal positions on the floor of the car. Our insane younger siblings, Kathleen and Bill, gleefully looked out the windows and described what they saw. We'd have killed them, but that would have required opening our eyes.
The first part of the drive up Pikes Peak is through lush peaks and valleys, with the occasional steep bank covered in trees. The view down is in the distance, a pleasant buffer of vegetation hiding the nearby horrors. Once past the tree line, you are suddenly aware of the steep, steep drop offs and distance to the bottom. But the road is wide, often has guardrails, and a good bit of time the drop off is on the left. Space between you and the fall zone helps a lot.
But farther up, you spend a lot of time (with no guardrails! What idiot forgot the guardrails?) with the drop off much closer... on the right. At times the road is dirt, not asphalt (what fool forgot the paving?) Then the serious switchbacks start (often still dirt, and mostly without the guardrails (what MORON forgot those???)) and you are obviously higher up, it's soooo far down, and if you mess up even the teeniest bit, you will fall, fall, fall, and it's just a question of whether you'll die before the car explodes or after. Which draws your eye to the terrible, terrible edge of the road, the oh, so clear line between safety and driving off into space...
I recall vividly how I learned from motorcycling that your natural tendency is to go where you're looking. In this case, that's the edge. So far down. There's a little bit of a shoulder; between that and how steep the mountain is, you can't tell if there are rusting hulks of cars below, ghosts waiting for you to join them... And all I want to do is curl up in the fetal position on the floor.
I "joke" about that with my family. My wife and son both ask if I want them to drive. "No, I'm fine, Sharon can drive back down so I can look around." But that's just me trying to cope, trying not to give in to the Fear. I'm terrified. I'm determined to do this. I don't think I can do it. I pray, desperately, for strength.
The car overheats. Answered prayer? Serendipity? Chance? I don't believe in chance, and it wasn't what I asked for. But it's a gift horse, and I don't look it in the mouth; there might be a slope in there. We let the engine cool, and I drive back down. Why did I keep driving? I couldn't tell you. Machismo? Maybe. Psychopathic fixation and reasoning shutdown? More likely. I'm pretty sure we made it down safely.
I'd still like to see the view from the top. But unless I can afford a helicopter ride (and NOT a bubble helicopter!) I just don't see it happening.
PS: Today I went off the high dive. From underneath, it's 10 to 12 feet high. From on top, that makes it 16 to 18 feet eyeball level. But it's easily twice that inside my head. But I jumped. Three times. I would have gone again, but I was at a party, and it was piñata time. I've come a long way being able to do that. I won't give up fighting my fear of heights. But I think Pike's Peak, for me, is just over the top.
PPS: I don't believe in ghosts. But that's how things seemed at the time.
Monday, July 06, 2009
Freebird!!!
I was wondering why people were so wigged out about Michael Jackson's death. Then I remembered...
I was watching Lynyrd Skynyrd play Freebird on the two part video from 1974 on YouTube. Despite the infinite airplay (second only to Sweet Home Alabama), it's still a great song. I don't think they ever played it the same way twice live. Then again, I don't think they played any song the same way twice live, unless it was "Sweet Home, Alabama"...
Watching them again, I was just having a blast, until it hit me all over again. In my head, I heard the announcer's voice on the radio: the plane crash, no details at first; slowly they trickled in. Dead and wounded, some survivors. What amazing guitar interplay! You can't play the song and have it sound *right* without three guitars. At least three dead, no names pending next of kin being notified. I remember the first time I saw them, opening for the Who. The song went on forever, and I never wanted it to end. Crescendo after crescendo. Ronnie's dead? Who else? Albert and Gary in bad shape? Leon may be paralyzed for life? I was stunned. I sat there and cried in the typewriter repair shop where I worked. (Yes, I cry easily for a guy. Big softie, that's me. My eyes got damp during Finding Nemo, OK?) I was inarticulate for hours. The tragedies of the rich and famous don't usually have much impact on me, but Skynyrd's music was practically a part of my soul. Just a bunch of long haired, red neck, hippy rock and rollers. Well, I was pretty much a long haired, Texas cowboy, hippy rock and roller myself, back then.[1] My homies, even though the term hadn't been invented at the time.
The kicker is that, since it's a band, not an individual, there have been several more deaths since. Each time, another bit of me feels like it died, and I grieve for all those who've gone before again.
I was always jealous of Albert's, Gary's and Leon's hair. I'm still jealous of all their chops. And Leon always had on some cool hat (I love hats).
Watching the video, I didn't exactly cry, but I did tear up. I miss those guys.
Death, how do I hate thee? Let me count the ways. Nevermind, not enough time.
Ronnie and the rest who've passed on, I pray you made Heaven, and are truly free as a bird now. And one day we'll all fly free together.
[1] Still am, other than trading the hippy lifestyle for a relationship with the One who made me.
(Here's a version with some really sweet guitar work: http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x34uaw_lynyrd-skynyrd-freebird-germany-197_music .)
I was watching Lynyrd Skynyrd play Freebird on the two part video from 1974 on YouTube. Despite the infinite airplay (second only to Sweet Home Alabama), it's still a great song. I don't think they ever played it the same way twice live. Then again, I don't think they played any song the same way twice live, unless it was "Sweet Home, Alabama"...
Watching them again, I was just having a blast, until it hit me all over again. In my head, I heard the announcer's voice on the radio: the plane crash, no details at first; slowly they trickled in. Dead and wounded, some survivors. What amazing guitar interplay! You can't play the song and have it sound *right* without three guitars. At least three dead, no names pending next of kin being notified. I remember the first time I saw them, opening for the Who. The song went on forever, and I never wanted it to end. Crescendo after crescendo. Ronnie's dead? Who else? Albert and Gary in bad shape? Leon may be paralyzed for life? I was stunned. I sat there and cried in the typewriter repair shop where I worked. (Yes, I cry easily for a guy. Big softie, that's me. My eyes got damp during Finding Nemo, OK?) I was inarticulate for hours. The tragedies of the rich and famous don't usually have much impact on me, but Skynyrd's music was practically a part of my soul. Just a bunch of long haired, red neck, hippy rock and rollers. Well, I was pretty much a long haired, Texas cowboy, hippy rock and roller myself, back then.[1] My homies, even though the term hadn't been invented at the time.
The kicker is that, since it's a band, not an individual, there have been several more deaths since. Each time, another bit of me feels like it died, and I grieve for all those who've gone before again.
I was always jealous of Albert's, Gary's and Leon's hair. I'm still jealous of all their chops. And Leon always had on some cool hat (I love hats).
Watching the video, I didn't exactly cry, but I did tear up. I miss those guys.
Death, how do I hate thee? Let me count the ways. Nevermind, not enough time.
Ronnie and the rest who've passed on, I pray you made Heaven, and are truly free as a bird now. And one day we'll all fly free together.
[1] Still am, other than trading the hippy lifestyle for a relationship with the One who made me.
(Here's a version with some really sweet guitar work: http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x34uaw_lynyrd-skynyrd-freebird-germany-197_music .)
Monday, June 29, 2009
Oh Michael, Ye Hardly Knew Ye
I recall seeing the Jackson 5 on TV when they were just starting out. I thought they were cool. They were singing "I Want You Back", and that kid Michael was just going crazy on the dance floor. I loved the song. And I loved the dancing.
And I couldn't tell my friends. At least my white friends. We'd moved about 3 years before from a west Texas military and university community where people were just people, to a small town in the south where (at the time) white people were people, colored folk were generally something else, and there wasn't too much mixing, and then only under controlled conditions. Unless you liked getting beat up. A lot.
I had a couple of black friends, anyway; they'd somehow managed to cross the color line and not cause riots (no, I am not exaggerating). They and the local rock station turned me on to Diana Ross, James Brown, and many others, including the Jackson 5. My parents had worked hard (and rather successfully) to raise us to notice skin color about like we noticed hair color or eye color, and they were fine with us listening to this music. (We were the Outsiders, for sure.)
That radio station (and the black station that proper white folk weren't supposed to listen to) kept playing the Jackson 5, even playing their older songs over the next few years. At one point in 1972, I recall hearing five or six Jackson 5 songs in the same afternoon on one station, including "I Want You Back".
Some of my friends-- who'd been brought up in that culture of racism-- stared listening to these cats as well. They all claimed not to watch Soul Train, but if you watched them dance it was clear they weren't learning these moves from American Bandstand. By now, of course, black music in the white world was maturing (as well as sometimes getting rawer and / or angrier), but the Jackson 5 were still drawing people better than all but a few black acts.
For a few years after this the Jackson 5 (morphing into The Jacksons in a name dispute between labels) and Michael kind of flew under the radar for a while until Michael appeared in The Wiz. Things started moving for Michael again, though predominately still in the black community. But now his weirdness was center stage; black friends who bought The Jacksons' records and Michael's records were as likely to talk about his surgery and idiosyncratic behavior as they were his music. Until Thriller. Now everyone listened to (and watched, via MTV) Michael. Subsequent tours (no tour for Thriller) saw ticket prices that, for the time, were insanely high. The Machine was in full gear, and Michael was the hamster keeping the golden wheel spinning.
The Music Industry, the Pop Fans, and Greed Running Amok in every one around him (and probably in him; Real Money and Adoration of the Masses will tempt nearly anyone) had caught Michael at a young age and locked him in that hamster wheel. I've often wondered whether his bizarre lifestyle was primarily because of substance abuse or just a reaction to the cage, trying to carve out an identity because he really didn't know who he was. In either case (or perhaps both) the man sure seemed lost inside that ever changing body and the growing metropolis of the Michael Jackson Mystique. This is the end, to greater or lesser degrees, for far too many of our kings and queens of popular culture.
I never met the man, and I certainly can't judge him. But despite the glamor, the money, the accolades, I don't really see Michael Jackson as all that successful. Sure, he had money, fame, and millions of rabid fans. But I see a sad case, a man possessed from a young age by people riding his gravy train, molding Michael Jackson into the image of the god they wanted serving them.
I've made my share of jokes about his bizarre lifestyle but I really do appreciate the contributions he made to the music industry (especially to helping black music go mainstream in the 1969-1973 era) as well as to music itself and ultimately to racial harmony. He was a great pop singer, a great dancer, a brilliant showman / entertainer. He made some pretty cool, significant contributions to charity. But in the end, I wonder how happy he really was, if he really knew who he was, who he was created to be, and where he was ultimately headed. I don't know that he did. For his sake, I hope he did. Eternity's a long time by yourself.
What about the Machine? The Music Industry; society with stars in its eyes, worshipping its idols and driving them to hide, to despair of the public; the Greed Machine? While I detest them as collectives, I feel the same way toward the people in them as I do Michael and everyone else. Far too many of us look at Michael Jackson (or Elvis or Farrah or whomever) and try so desperately to be one of them, someone we are not, that we in turn lose sight of who we are and were made to be (if, indeed, we ever knew), and wander, like Michael, in an inner city of confusion and desperation. May God have mercy on us all and deliver us from ourselves.
Thanks especially to Kayla Marie and to John VanPelt, whose responses to Michael's death got me thinking more about these issues.
And I couldn't tell my friends. At least my white friends. We'd moved about 3 years before from a west Texas military and university community where people were just people, to a small town in the south where (at the time) white people were people, colored folk were generally something else, and there wasn't too much mixing, and then only under controlled conditions. Unless you liked getting beat up. A lot.
I had a couple of black friends, anyway; they'd somehow managed to cross the color line and not cause riots (no, I am not exaggerating). They and the local rock station turned me on to Diana Ross, James Brown, and many others, including the Jackson 5. My parents had worked hard (and rather successfully) to raise us to notice skin color about like we noticed hair color or eye color, and they were fine with us listening to this music. (We were the Outsiders, for sure.)
That radio station (and the black station that proper white folk weren't supposed to listen to) kept playing the Jackson 5, even playing their older songs over the next few years. At one point in 1972, I recall hearing five or six Jackson 5 songs in the same afternoon on one station, including "I Want You Back".
Some of my friends-- who'd been brought up in that culture of racism-- stared listening to these cats as well. They all claimed not to watch Soul Train, but if you watched them dance it was clear they weren't learning these moves from American Bandstand. By now, of course, black music in the white world was maturing (as well as sometimes getting rawer and / or angrier), but the Jackson 5 were still drawing people better than all but a few black acts.
For a few years after this the Jackson 5 (morphing into The Jacksons in a name dispute between labels) and Michael kind of flew under the radar for a while until Michael appeared in The Wiz. Things started moving for Michael again, though predominately still in the black community. But now his weirdness was center stage; black friends who bought The Jacksons' records and Michael's records were as likely to talk about his surgery and idiosyncratic behavior as they were his music. Until Thriller. Now everyone listened to (and watched, via MTV) Michael. Subsequent tours (no tour for Thriller) saw ticket prices that, for the time, were insanely high. The Machine was in full gear, and Michael was the hamster keeping the golden wheel spinning.
The Music Industry, the Pop Fans, and Greed Running Amok in every one around him (and probably in him; Real Money and Adoration of the Masses will tempt nearly anyone) had caught Michael at a young age and locked him in that hamster wheel. I've often wondered whether his bizarre lifestyle was primarily because of substance abuse or just a reaction to the cage, trying to carve out an identity because he really didn't know who he was. In either case (or perhaps both) the man sure seemed lost inside that ever changing body and the growing metropolis of the Michael Jackson Mystique. This is the end, to greater or lesser degrees, for far too many of our kings and queens of popular culture.
I never met the man, and I certainly can't judge him. But despite the glamor, the money, the accolades, I don't really see Michael Jackson as all that successful. Sure, he had money, fame, and millions of rabid fans. But I see a sad case, a man possessed from a young age by people riding his gravy train, molding Michael Jackson into the image of the god they wanted serving them.
I've made my share of jokes about his bizarre lifestyle but I really do appreciate the contributions he made to the music industry (especially to helping black music go mainstream in the 1969-1973 era) as well as to music itself and ultimately to racial harmony. He was a great pop singer, a great dancer, a brilliant showman / entertainer. He made some pretty cool, significant contributions to charity. But in the end, I wonder how happy he really was, if he really knew who he was, who he was created to be, and where he was ultimately headed. I don't know that he did. For his sake, I hope he did. Eternity's a long time by yourself.
What about the Machine? The Music Industry; society with stars in its eyes, worshipping its idols and driving them to hide, to despair of the public; the Greed Machine? While I detest them as collectives, I feel the same way toward the people in them as I do Michael and everyone else. Far too many of us look at Michael Jackson (or Elvis or Farrah or whomever) and try so desperately to be one of them, someone we are not, that we in turn lose sight of who we are and were made to be (if, indeed, we ever knew), and wander, like Michael, in an inner city of confusion and desperation. May God have mercy on us all and deliver us from ourselves.
Thanks especially to Kayla Marie and to John VanPelt, whose responses to Michael's death got me thinking more about these issues.
Monday, June 22, 2009
My kind of wedding!
I love a good wedding and suffer through the rest. The Hall family weddings are always fun. They manage to take the wedding seriously without taking themselves or life too seriously. Since I haven't cleared this with anyone in the family, I won't name any more names. Those who know will know, and everyone else can fill in names as they please. If you need names, then I suggest (in order) Edwina, Fred and Poquan. Just because.
When the bride (traditional white satin) started down the aisle, the groom (jeans, jacket, boots & hat) went wild, like he was going to run down the aisle and tackle her. The best man held the struggling groom off the ground to keep him up front.
A couple of times during the service, the bride got so excited she just shimmied all over.
During the vows the best man was looking straight at the bride over the groom's shoulder with a big, goofy smile on his face. The bride barely made it through the vows without cracking up.
When they (the bride and groom) kissed at the end, it was so passionate I thought her dress was going to catch fire.
As the bride and groom started down the aisle after the service, the DJ started playing the traditional wedding recessional. After a few seconds of this the sound system made a noise like a dying turntable and switched to disco music (K C and the Sunshine Band).
After the dinner and dancing, the bride threw the bouquet. Her two sisters both got hold of it and fought over it until it ripped in half.
When the groom got ready to take off the bride's garter, they blindfolded him. She got up from the chair; the best man sat down with his pants pulled up to his knees and his boots off. The bride sat next to him to cover his legs with her dress. When the groom got old of the best man's *very* hairy legs, his expression was priceless.
When the bride (traditional white satin) started down the aisle, the groom (jeans, jacket, boots & hat) went wild, like he was going to run down the aisle and tackle her. The best man held the struggling groom off the ground to keep him up front.
A couple of times during the service, the bride got so excited she just shimmied all over.
During the vows the best man was looking straight at the bride over the groom's shoulder with a big, goofy smile on his face. The bride barely made it through the vows without cracking up.
When they (the bride and groom) kissed at the end, it was so passionate I thought her dress was going to catch fire.
As the bride and groom started down the aisle after the service, the DJ started playing the traditional wedding recessional. After a few seconds of this the sound system made a noise like a dying turntable and switched to disco music (K C and the Sunshine Band).
After the dinner and dancing, the bride threw the bouquet. Her two sisters both got hold of it and fought over it until it ripped in half.
When the groom got ready to take off the bride's garter, they blindfolded him. She got up from the chair; the best man sat down with his pants pulled up to his knees and his boots off. The bride sat next to him to cover his legs with her dress. When the groom got old of the best man's *very* hairy legs, his expression was priceless.
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