Happy Mother's Day
In honor of this day, I was going to post the newest picture of my granddaughter, who is 7 months old and utterly charming. Unfortunately, there seems to be something wrong with my scanner, so no photos.
Just good wishes.
How Do They Do It?
Yesterday morning I boarded the Union Pacific North Line at the Great Lakes Station in North Chicago, bound for the Ogilvie Transportation Center in the city, where I had a book signing (a rather successful one, but that's not the subject here). I parked in a numbered parking spot, as non-numbered spaces are reserved for regular commuters, of which there were about two dozen.
I've never been much of a commuter - for years I worked in my home office - but before I reached my destination, I found myself not envying those two dozen folks who make this trip daily. It took one hour and ten minutes to get downtown. By car, in steadily moving traffic, it takes maybe 45 minutes. Of course, driving into the city during business hours is a stupid idea unless you've got a couple of hours to fritter away.
What struck me as odd is that, unlike New York's Metro North, there is no such thing as an express train on the Union Pacific. Each train stops at each station from Kenosha, Wisconsin, all the way to downtown Chicago. Some trains will only run as far as the southern part of Lake County, just north of Cook, but they don't skip stations.
And here's the rub: While the Citicorp Building is above the train station and other buildings are nearby, many people who work in buildings further away have to get on a bus to get to work. That hour and 10 minutes can easily stretch out another half hour. And that's just one way. Chances are these people spend three hours a day just getting back and forth to work.
This experience made me remember the original Bob Newhart Show (which was set in Chicago), in which the opening credits depicted Bob kissing Suzanne Pleshette good-bye and leaving for work, walking, waiting at a train platform, switching trains, walking some more . . . I was a teenager at the time, but I remember saying to myself, How long does it take this poor man to get to work??? That's a lot of time.
Commuters have my utmost admiration. But I'm glad I work 3 miles down the road and can be there in 10 minutes.
Yesterday morning I boarded the Union Pacific North Line at the Great Lakes Station in North Chicago, bound for the Ogilvie Transportation Center in the city, where I had a book signing (a rather successful one, but that's not the subject here). I parked in a numbered parking spot, as non-numbered spaces are reserved for regular commuters, of which there were about two dozen.
I've never been much of a commuter - for years I worked in my home office - but before I reached my destination, I found myself not envying those two dozen folks who make this trip daily. It took one hour and ten minutes to get downtown. By car, in steadily moving traffic, it takes maybe 45 minutes. Of course, driving into the city during business hours is a stupid idea unless you've got a couple of hours to fritter away.
What struck me as odd is that, unlike New York's Metro North, there is no such thing as an express train on the Union Pacific. Each train stops at each station from Kenosha, Wisconsin, all the way to downtown Chicago. Some trains will only run as far as the southern part of Lake County, just north of Cook, but they don't skip stations.
And here's the rub: While the Citicorp Building is above the train station and other buildings are nearby, many people who work in buildings further away have to get on a bus to get to work. That hour and 10 minutes can easily stretch out another half hour. And that's just one way. Chances are these people spend three hours a day just getting back and forth to work.
This experience made me remember the original Bob Newhart Show (which was set in Chicago), in which the opening credits depicted Bob kissing Suzanne Pleshette good-bye and leaving for work, walking, waiting at a train platform, switching trains, walking some more . . . I was a teenager at the time, but I remember saying to myself, How long does it take this poor man to get to work??? That's a lot of time.
Commuters have my utmost admiration. But I'm glad I work 3 miles down the road and can be there in 10 minutes.
Who, Me?
This morning, the Today show ran a segment on an identity theft ring who, courtesy of a hospital admissions clerk, specialized in stealing the identities of the dead. It's a damn shame that a person can't register for a hospital stay or get their taxes done without having to worry about someone taking their personal information and using it to establish credit and run up thousands of dollars of purchases.
While these people were completely innocent, it pays to be alert. This reminded me of an e-mail I recently received, from a "student" at a high school who said she was doing a paper on her favorite author, and asked me to answer a couple of questions so she could turn in her paper on time.
This alone raised my suspicions (it must be the New Yorker in me). Doing a paper on me? Why, for heaven's sake? She then proceeded to ask me for a) my date of birth, b) my place of birth, c) the names and ages of my children, and a few other questions that had nothing to do with my writing, everything to do with my personal life and were, frankly, none of her business. (I half expected her to ask for my mother's maiden name, but even she must have thought that was going too far.) Apparently this "student" was hoping that I will be so flattered at being her favorite author that I will blindly provide all kind of personal information to her.
Not a chance.
This morning, the Today show ran a segment on an identity theft ring who, courtesy of a hospital admissions clerk, specialized in stealing the identities of the dead. It's a damn shame that a person can't register for a hospital stay or get their taxes done without having to worry about someone taking their personal information and using it to establish credit and run up thousands of dollars of purchases.
While these people were completely innocent, it pays to be alert. This reminded me of an e-mail I recently received, from a "student" at a high school who said she was doing a paper on her favorite author, and asked me to answer a couple of questions so she could turn in her paper on time.
This alone raised my suspicions (it must be the New Yorker in me). Doing a paper on me? Why, for heaven's sake? She then proceeded to ask me for a) my date of birth, b) my place of birth, c) the names and ages of my children, and a few other questions that had nothing to do with my writing, everything to do with my personal life and were, frankly, none of her business. (I half expected her to ask for my mother's maiden name, but even she must have thought that was going too far.) Apparently this "student" was hoping that I will be so flattered at being her favorite author that I will blindly provide all kind of personal information to her.
Not a chance.
Easy as Pie
I watch a lot of old movies, and it never fails to crack me up when writers are shown as simply sitting down at the typewriter and typing out their latest project. There's the typewriter, and there's a stack of paper. Nowhere is there any evidence of any editing or correction tools in the pre-computer age. No erasers, no red pens. The implication is that the manuscript, whether it be an article, short story, novel, or screenplay, that they typed out was what they sent off . . . and what was ultimately published.
This is bullshit. Writers don't merely sit down and bang out a project; they sweat it out by checking facts, then constantly revising, expanding, deleting. This takes a lot of thought, especially when we can't put our finger on just what's wrong with that sentence, only that there is something wrong.
There's a popular misconception that writing is "easy" work. For those who find writing easy, perhaps they are genuinely talented and can create fine prose with only minor edits. This is possible, but rare, I suspect. More likely, the manuscript will be riddled with repetitive phrases, stale cliches, and/or read like a first draft.
I'm just glad that I became a writer in the computer age. Writing is hard enough without having to do it with no edit or delete function.
I watch a lot of old movies, and it never fails to crack me up when writers are shown as simply sitting down at the typewriter and typing out their latest project. There's the typewriter, and there's a stack of paper. Nowhere is there any evidence of any editing or correction tools in the pre-computer age. No erasers, no red pens. The implication is that the manuscript, whether it be an article, short story, novel, or screenplay, that they typed out was what they sent off . . . and what was ultimately published.
This is bullshit. Writers don't merely sit down and bang out a project; they sweat it out by checking facts, then constantly revising, expanding, deleting. This takes a lot of thought, especially when we can't put our finger on just what's wrong with that sentence, only that there is something wrong.
There's a popular misconception that writing is "easy" work. For those who find writing easy, perhaps they are genuinely talented and can create fine prose with only minor edits. This is possible, but rare, I suspect. More likely, the manuscript will be riddled with repetitive phrases, stale cliches, and/or read like a first draft.
I'm just glad that I became a writer in the computer age. Writing is hard enough without having to do it with no edit or delete function.
You Can Tell the Price of Gas Has Risen When . . .
The sign on the gas pumps at Wal-Mart that said, "No Pre-Pay Necessary . . . We Trust You" has been taken down and replaced with "You MUST swipe your credit card or pay inside before any gas will be dispensed."
Three-twenty a gallon. Damn.
The sign on the gas pumps at Wal-Mart that said, "No Pre-Pay Necessary . . . We Trust You" has been taken down and replaced with "You MUST swipe your credit card or pay inside before any gas will be dispensed."
Three-twenty a gallon. Damn.
Watch Out For That Tree!
I went out for my walk last night, the one I take a) if I don't have to stop at the Wal-Mart Supercenter to pick something up, or b) if I have to cook because there aren't any more leftovers, or c) if it's not too cold or windy or raining outside. Carrying my handheld recorder (why just walk when I can walk and compose a scene or two for my book?) I walk out to the main road (less than ¼ mile) and around a large circle, upon which used to sit a shopping mall, which has been razed. The land, except for a lovely fountain and name sign in two corners and a large Retail Parcels Available sign on the third, sits empty, and the sidewalks have been freshly laid. (I understand the city is trying to override the law that prohibits casinos from being built inland, but I digress.) A good mile-plus in diameter, it's a favorite spot for people to stroll, by themselves, with a friend, with their spouses, with their dogs, with their kids, and sometimes the whole family, Grandma and Grandpa included.
But last night I saw something I'd never seen before. A woman was walking at a steady pace while simultaneously reading a book. No shit, the sistah was reading.
Since I get nauseated if I try to focus on the printed word while in motion (unless I'm on a plane or a train), I found this fascinating in itself. I was also amazed that she could keep up that pace without falling on her face or at least stepping in dog poop. The fairly new, smooth sidewalk probably helped with the former, but there's no saving a person from the latter, especially considering that most of the canines around here are small-statured with small poop. I passed her twice, and because she had passed the turnoff to the residential area she was clearly walking more than one length of the circle (if sistah's tryin' to lose weight and can keep this up, I predict she'll drop 40 pounds in no time.) Both times her eyes were glued to her book, not missing a step as she said hello.
I wanted to kick myself for not having my business cards with me, but in hindsight I'm not sure she would have been willing to stop long enough to accept one from me!
I went out for my walk last night, the one I take a) if I don't have to stop at the Wal-Mart Supercenter to pick something up, or b) if I have to cook because there aren't any more leftovers, or c) if it's not too cold or windy or raining outside. Carrying my handheld recorder (why just walk when I can walk and compose a scene or two for my book?) I walk out to the main road (less than ¼ mile) and around a large circle, upon which used to sit a shopping mall, which has been razed. The land, except for a lovely fountain and name sign in two corners and a large Retail Parcels Available sign on the third, sits empty, and the sidewalks have been freshly laid. (I understand the city is trying to override the law that prohibits casinos from being built inland, but I digress.) A good mile-plus in diameter, it's a favorite spot for people to stroll, by themselves, with a friend, with their spouses, with their dogs, with their kids, and sometimes the whole family, Grandma and Grandpa included.
But last night I saw something I'd never seen before. A woman was walking at a steady pace while simultaneously reading a book. No shit, the sistah was reading.
Since I get nauseated if I try to focus on the printed word while in motion (unless I'm on a plane or a train), I found this fascinating in itself. I was also amazed that she could keep up that pace without falling on her face or at least stepping in dog poop. The fairly new, smooth sidewalk probably helped with the former, but there's no saving a person from the latter, especially considering that most of the canines around here are small-statured with small poop. I passed her twice, and because she had passed the turnoff to the residential area she was clearly walking more than one length of the circle (if sistah's tryin' to lose weight and can keep this up, I predict she'll drop 40 pounds in no time.) Both times her eyes were glued to her book, not missing a step as she said hello.
I wanted to kick myself for not having my business cards with me, but in hindsight I'm not sure she would have been willing to stop long enough to accept one from me!
Madison Avenue Strikes Again
This morning while driving to work (this contractor was late again, but hey, with everything on my plate right now I've got to cut back on something – I heard a commercial for an insurance company. The male announcer said something like, "We understand that you want to protect the things that matter most to you – your home . . . your car . . . your family."
A nice sentiment, but I think they got the order wrong . . really wrong. I don't think that most people would value their Buicks (or even a Mercedes, for God's sake) or their homes in front of the well-being of their loved ones. At least I hope not.
I'm amazed that one slipped by the advertising department.
This morning while driving to work (this contractor was late again, but hey, with everything on my plate right now I've got to cut back on something – I heard a commercial for an insurance company. The male announcer said something like, "We understand that you want to protect the things that matter most to you – your home . . . your car . . . your family."
A nice sentiment, but I think they got the order wrong . . really wrong. I don't think that most people would value their Buicks (or even a Mercedes, for God's sake) or their homes in front of the well-being of their loved ones. At least I hope not.
I'm amazed that one slipped by the advertising department.
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