Garage matters

For some reason this upper respiratory thing that attacked me last week has hung on like a baby gorilla and I’ve not dragged myself out of the house for several days (except to take walks, which is my substitute for going to the gym).

So it was a big deal that I got in my car to go to Whole Foods yesterday morning—the car’s not been out of the garage since Saturday.

But I also opened my second garage (yes, there are two that come with this flat—for which I’m paying a huge amount of rent; I use the second to store stuff like my good china, the bookcases I’m trying to get rid of and all the broken-down packing cartons for my next move, since the garage is so situated that you can’t actually get a car in or out of it) to find some old journals. And when I was pulling out of my car garage I realized the storage garage door hadn’t closed. It kept getting down about ¾ of the way and then just went back up.

I couldn’t get it to close. Which meant I couldn’t leave the place until it could somehow be made to close. Which meant I had to call the property management company, and the rep had to check this and that before she called a garage door company.

(The last time I actually opened this garage was December 2011, when I loaded up my mid-sized rental car to take 13 cartons of books to the used bookshop. There were cobwebs and stuff all over the thing. This complex was built in 1993; I’m sure everything in that door mechanism was original to that date.)

The short version of this story is that my day was pretty well shot, waiting for the repair guy.

But the good part is the repair guy, Bill. He must be 70, I swear, but still out fixing people’s garage door openers. He had to put this cable back on a reel—but then he went through tightening bolts, hammering the rails and spraying some industrial-strength type of WD40 on anything that moved. He even replaced the rollers, and you could hear the difference when the door slid open and shut.

Here’s the thing—Bill wasn’t interested in just doing a quick fix, he wanted to make sure the damned thing was well and truly fixed, that it wouldn’t give anyone any trouble anytime soon.

I’d forgot there were people who took such pride in their work that they go to that length.

So—not such a bad day after all.

Long green

There are plenty of get-well/be-well programs out there, geared at getting “healthcare consumers” to take charge of their own health. You know, be active, stop smoking, eat something besides double-cheese sausage pizzas and French fries. That sort of thing.

Most of the ones in the US are sponsored by health insurers, who hope to keep down the amount of money they fork out in claims by keeping obesity-related ailments down in their member populace. Also, employers trying to keep down the cost of health insurance and keep up employee productivity without having to pay, you know, “market” salaries. They provide incentives like lower deductibles or employee premium costs for employees who stop smoking, join gyms or sign up for Weight Watchers.

Here’s a study out of South Africa that seems to be telling us that giving consumers a more direct incentive could encourage them to eat more healthily. That is, giving them actual cash-back incentives for buying fruit, veg and low-fat dairy does indeed change their consumption habits.

Well—at least, it changes their buying habits. Dunno what they do with the stuff after they get it home.

The higher the cash back, the more people spend on the good stuff: if the rebate is 10%, people increased their spending 6%, as opposed to people offered a 25% rebate; they splashed out 9.3% more.

And; a similar study is being embarked on in the US, although the rebate being trialed is a trivial 5%, and the venue is Wal-Mart, an emporium not known for its health-conscious customers. It’ll be interesting if there’s any change in shoppers’ habits.

Anyhow—there’s not enough money in the world to get me to buy Brussels sprouts, let alone eat them.

Paper trail

You know, there are times when words are completely superfluous to requirements:

Water of life

My post yesterday sparked an exchange with someone who’s also a Mary Black fan, during which I made the comment (referring to the plethora of sad songs you can count on from the Irish) that it’s a good thing I don’t have any whiskey in my house.

Which is true enough, because I don’t. I am (temporarily, I hope) in a whiskeyless state. But if I did have it, it wouldn’t be Irish. I’ve just never got my mouth around the taste of the stuff. (A nice, single-malt from Spey, now… But since that’s kind of on the ruinously expensive non-essential side of my shopping list, it’s just going to have to remain a dream.)

If this affronts your sensibilities, then all I can say is, get over it. Think about it this way—it leaves all the more for you.

Sure, I’ve had it in Irish coffee—whoop-de-do. You pile enough sugar, coffee and whipped cream on anything, it’ll taste fine. (Except Brussels sprouts.)

Winding up my trip to Ireland, back in the 90s, I went to dinner at some posh hotel in Dublin, where the silverware at my place setting marched in serried ranks to either side of the table. I’d been drinking nothing but Smithwick’s lovely ale since my first night in that very town two weeks earlier. (I’d had the obligatory portion of Guinness—a glass, which I gagged my way through only half of before giving up on it—then, at my next pub of call, I asked for a recommendation, was handed a Smithwick’s and set for the duration.)

And, in fact, I had a Smithwick’s in the posh hotel bar while waiting for my table. This being Ireland, being in a posh hotel is no barrier to civilized conversation, and I’d chatted for a while with a couple of blokes who explained to me that all these young chicks milling about were dressed up because there was some sort of event analogous to a prom taking place there.

They also asked the inevitable question when the Irish found out you were an American traveling through their country: where’ve you been and how did you like it. They were pretty impressed with the amount of territory I’d covered—all four provinces, only missing deep Kerry.

“You were moving pretty fast,” one observed.

“I had to,” I replied. “Otherwise I’d have moss all over me.”

(It rained a lot while I was there. And when they call it "The Emerald Isle, they're not talking about precious stones.)

Anyway, I was escorted into the posh dining room and settled at my table, with my book (I think I was reading Boccaccio, but I’d have to verify) in a little walled-off area where a couple of business guys were having dinner. Looking at six different types of forks and spoons on either side of where the plate goes makes me nervous. I told the waiter that, while I wasn’t a big fan of Irish whiskey, I’d like to try one of the local products, if he’d recommend one. He did.

He asked me (reluctantly, I believe) if I’d like ice with it. I countered, “How is it properly drunk?”

“With a splash of spring water, madam.” (They madam you all over the place in Ireland and Britain; go figure.)

“Okay, that’s how we’ll do it.”

There was some small ceremony—a smallish glass with maybe an inch or two of the whiskey (and at this point I don’t recall what it was; but it wasn’t the stuff that’s made in Ulster), and a small carafe of water. He poured the latter carefully into the whiskey and then left me to it.

Well, reader, it still didn’t taste very good, and I’ve not had another drink of it until a couple of weeks ago when I was at the RSA Conference in Moscone Center, and there was some “Irish Tech” booth there with some chick pouring Tullamore Dew into tiny plastic thimbles. What the hell, I thought, I needed something to wash down the ibuprofen with. So I let her give me some. There might have been half a tablespoon’s worth.

I still ditched about half of it when I got out of her sight.

Oh—but I did have a very nice conversation back in Dublin with the Irish businessmen in the posh hotel dining room about their constitution and the recent stopover by Boris Yeltsin, when he’d apparently been too drunk (or possibly hungover) to get out of the plane even though the Irish Taoiseach was standing out on the tarmac ready to welcome him to Ireland and encourage him to buy from the duty free shops.

See—in Ireland, you don’t need no stinkin’ whiskey to get the crack flowing.

Songs for Ireland

In honor of Saint Patrick’s Day—a celebration that, as far as I can tell, is Irish-American rather than Irish in origin—I’ve been thinking about a quote from G.K. Chesterton:

For the great Gaels of Ireland

Are the men that God made mad.

For all their wars are merry

And all their songs are sad.

Not entirely true, of course, although I guess I can see why it might look that way at times. Because a lot of the songs are about the bitterness and misery of war, and the men (almost always the men) who are consumed by it.

A prime example of that is “The Patriot Game”, which was written by Dominic Behan, brother of the larger-than-life playwright Brendan Behan. (The Behan boys were also nephews of Pedar Kearney, who wrote the lyrics to what’s now the national anthem of Ireland. Think about a nation whose national anthem is called “The Soldier’s Song”.) Here's Behan himself to sing it.

Mary Black’s “Song for Ireland” is an impressionistic survey of the country. But even this captures the disconnect between the dream and waking views.

Since this is, as I wot, an Irish-American holiday, I’ll give you another viewpoint: Cherish The Ladies’ “The Back Door”. For so many years, this was the future of Ireland: its best and brightest slinking into other countries to make a living on the grey economy.

It has other resonances, too. I can’t tell you what the cry, “I want my own bed, my own kitchen” has meant to me over the years.

Finally—one of my earliest experiences of Irish music was of course the Clancy Brothers (and Tommy Makem, although I wasn’t that wild about him). And one of their signature pieces was this one. If you’re summing up a life, of any nationality, there couldn’t possibly be a better one than “The Parting Glass”. If there’s a wake at the end of my run, someone better be singing this.

Sláinte bha!

Up in the air

I am personally relieved that the TSA has now lifted the interdict on commercial airline passengers carrying pocket knives. They, souvenir baseball bats and golf clubs are now okayed for takeoff.

Not that the agency, following Polonius’ advice to be true to itself, seems to be able to explain exactly why they’re now okay but box cutters still aren’t. Possibly because no one will ever be able to say the words “box cutters” and “airline” and not see planes flying into buildings; but of course they wouldn’t say that even if it were true.

I’m relieved because I carry a Swiss army knife around with me all the time—it’s in the little bag with eye shadow, lipstick and the cheap-ass little nail file I got after my real one got confiscated by some airline in 2002. In addition to the two cutting blades, it has a slot screw-driver blade and a corkscrew. Now that they’re air-legal, so to speak, I don’t have to remember to remove it from my purse and leave it at home, or stick it into a carry-on bag which then has to be checked.

You never want to be without a corkscrew, in my opinion, and that’s why I applaud the TSA’s decision.

Holy smoke

Habemus, as they say, papam. The Papal conclave, on only its second day, has elected a new Pope, the cardinal formerly known as Jorge Maria Bergolio, 76, of Buenos Aires. His nom de Pope is Francis, and his election, on the fifth ballot, pretty well breaks all land speed records for papal elections.

Bergolio is a Jesuit (first ever to be elected pontiff), so people hoping that he took the name Francis and therefore pastoral guidance from the man from Assisi—a humane (if possibly divinely dotty) churchman—are probably in for a disappointment. The more likely inspiration is Francis Xavier, co-founder of the Society of Jesus, and not the kind of guy you’d really want to get into an argument with. He was a soldier; beware of guys with a cross in one hand and a sword in the other, if you catch my drift.

He’s also old. Only two years younger than Benedict XVI was on his election in 2005. Benedict, you’ll recall, opened up the position of head of the Catholic Church by resigning last month, citing age and health reasons, after only eight years in office. These cardinals are not the brightest bulbs on the tree, are they—how do they expect to get value out of a guy this old? Especially after the example of the last one? Did they run the candidates through stress tests? Get MRIs? Ask them how long they reckon they’re good for on the throne?

I expect they calculate they’re doing well to find a cardinal who doesn’t have fraud, child abuse or sexual harassment charges in his past or present.

It’s a bit of a hoo-hah, the fact that the new Pope is not European (not had one of those in 1200 years) and the first ever Latin American. I’d be a lot happier about that latter if there weren’t some questions about Bergolio’s complicity with various Argentine dictatorships. I suppose there’s a certain amount of going-along to get-along in those situations, but still.

(My idea of a Latin American Church leader is Óscar Romero; but of course being assassinated in the course of your pastoral duties is a handicap to getting elected Pope.)

On the other hand—perhaps that qualifies him to lead the Church these days, to keep things on an even keel, wink-wink, nudge-nudge. There’s a whole lot wrong with the institution, and the biggest signs of leadership activity seem to revolve around keeping people from paying any attention to the man behind the curtain.

It’s like expecting Congress to enact campaign reform laws—or the foxes to legislate against hen house raids: it’s hard for the very people who benefit from the institutional corruption to take active steps to clean up the mess. As a Cardinal, Bergoglio has gone on record many times taking stands against bringing the Church into even the 20^th Century—including denying communion to anyone who expresses opinions not strictly the party line on topics like birth control, homosexuality and the like. So perhaps that’s a more heavily weighted qualifier than the fact that the old dog probably doesn’t have a lot more fights left in him.

Just call me Sneezy

Well, this is a bummer. Sunday I felt a sore throat coming on all day. I finally took some Neurofen Cold & Flu, a UK OTC product that’s the best defense against colds I’ve ever found. (I get it from a private supplier. ‘Nuff said.)

Monday I couldn’t decide whether it was working or not; the sore throat seemed to be in stasis but then I became way snottier than usual, if you get my drift. I that whole nose-blowing thing. Even when you use the really good tissues, your nose ends up getting all red & raw & it goes on forever. Ergo the Neurofen C&F.

I think I got a total of about four hours’ sleep Monday night—I kept waking up to sneeze & blow my nose. It was hardly worth it at all. Then, around 0600, I went into such a coughing fit that I actually dredged out my cough syrup with codeine in it. I’m serious—I thought a lung might be on its way up my throat.

(An interesting—to me—sidebar is that, in measuring out the cough syrup I spilled a little on the kitchen sink. When I wandered back out about 11 hours later, it looked to me like the stuff might be eating holes in the porcelain. Hmm.)

However, yesterday I spent the entire day (until 1700) in bed, sneezing, blowing, & eye watering. I can't recall the last time I spent the day in bed, but it would have been because I was unbelievably sick. If it weren’t for the actual sore (as opposed to scratchy) throat & the coughing fit, I might think I’m in a massive allergy attack. Only I haven’t had any allergies since leaving Virginia & I can’t think what could cause something to come on this fast & this overwhelming.

Plus—allergies never interfered with my appetite & I haven’t eaten anything since Monday morning. Heigh-ho…

Men bearing cookies

This came via a FB friend, from the Being Liberal fan page:

I have to say that there is no woman in my acquaintance whose first response to a guy bearing freshly-baked cookies would be, “That’s so gay.” More like:

“Did you bring the milk, too?” Or:

“Butt out, bitch, he’s mine!” Or:

…No—from here on out, I don’t believe I can repeat the likely response in a public forum. There are grandfathers who read this.

Recruiters 32

I had a phone interview last week with the VP of Products at a startup in SF. They’ve got an interesting product—predictive suggestions for sales reps, using big data analytics. But they really wanted someone with deep Agile experience, and I’ve only used the waterfall methodology, although I’ve taken a course and got Certified Scrum Product Owner (CSPO) certification from the Scrum Alliance.

The VP and I got along well; he’s an Aussie, so that was pretty easy. And I made my case for understanding the principles of Scrum, and how impressed I am with their product—which is true, because it’s applying artificial intelligence algorithms to the applications side of Big Data (one of the über-buzz words in software these days, along with Mobile), and they’ve placed heavy emphasis on the user experience (UX), which is one of my major focal points. (Seriously—there’s a lot of software out there with completely crap UX.)

Well, the short version of this story is that the VP sent me a very nice thanks-but-no-thanks email—in a ten-person company, they have to choose their additions carefully, and solid Agile experience is key at this point, etc.

I’ll admit to being ambivalent about this turn-down. A ten-person startup in SaaS effectively means ten men, probably most under the age of 35. Ten also means that the health insurance they offer is going to be crap—high deductible, high-copay, low coverage; this is because they’re limited to Anthem as a provider of small-group insurance. Other benefits will also be sketchy.

This company is a couple of years old, but it’s still seeking angel funding; they have one customer, in Japan. And they’ve outsourced their development…to Bolivia.

Additionally, they’re in downtown SF, a minimum two-hour each way commute from Sunnyvale and more than $300 per month.

Still—it was an interesting solution. I think I’ll submit a CV to their primary competitor.