Archive for the ‘My Home Town’ category

The threes of me

July 23, 2009

Those of you who’ve been reading this blog over the five years of its existence know that I’m not a fan of memes. You know, those little questionnaires or lists that are intended to give you something to write about on days when you can’t come up with something to write about (when I have those days, I — duh! — simply don’t write), and with which you’re supposed to “tag” your blogosphere buddies so that they, too, can participate in the merriment. (I’m not big on suggesting to other people what they ought to be writing about, any more than I’m a fan of being told what to write.)

I’m not, however, a total stick in the mud on the meme issue. Once in a blue moon, someone will tag me on a meme, and I’ll do it either because I like the person or the topic or both.

In this case, my friend Nathan tagged me with this list on Facebook. I enjoyed reading Nathan’s list, so I thought I’d return the favor. Ever the iconoclast, I’m doing the meme here rather than on Facebook, because this is where I write. And you can breathe easy — I’m not going to tag anyone, though you’re certainly welcome to pick up the ball and run with it if you’re thus inclined.

So, onward.

Three names by which I’m known.
1. Michael. This should be obvious, given that it’s my first name.
2. The Mic Guy. One of my chorus mates hung this one on me a dozen or so years ago, and it’s stuck so resolutely that I’m now using it as the brand for my voiceover business.
3. Uncle Swan. If you’re here, you know.

Three jobs I have had.
1. Receiving clerk. The year and a half that I was between colleges, I worked in a drug store. For most of the time, I was a sales clerk in the electronics department (we called it the camera department back in those pre-PC, cell phone, and iPod days). But for about six months, I ran the store’s warehouse, because the job was a prerequisite for management and someone above me was foolish enough to think that I might eventually aspire to managing a drug store. That person was sadly mistaken.
2. Radio advertising salesman. In my first job out of college, I worked in outside sales for a country music radio station. This will be hilarious to those of you who know that my affection for country music ranks somewhere between my fondness for serial pedophiles and my love for flesh-eating staphylococcus.* Right as I was arriving, the station was sold to some faceless corporation. One of the new owners’ first actions entailed firing half of the sales staff, yours truly included. In my case, the move was a relief — I sucked at advertising sales, and as for country music… I think we’ve covered that.
3. Radio Shack manager. In need of gainful employment following the redneck radio debacle, I wandered into my local Radio Shack store and filled out an application. (After all, I hold a university degree in broadcast communications.) Within a week, I had a job. Within three weeks, I was an assistant manager. After nearly a year of refusing promotion opportunities, I let them make me a store manager because they were going to fire me if I said “no” again. That tells you pretty much everything you need to know about Radio Shack.

* Nathan, who happens to be an actual card-carrying microbiologist, informs me that the flesh-eating bacteria is actually a strain of streptococcus, not staphylococcus. Here at SSTOL, we never allow scientific accuracy to get in the way of a good joke. As long as it’s not olympiaducoccus, it’s close enough for me.

Three places where I have lived. (Because I grew up in a military family, I could easily make this “Ten places where I have lived.” But in the spirit of the meme, I’ll pick three. And I’ll skip Hawaii, since I’ve written about that fairly recently.)
1. Iraklion (or Heraklion, if that’s how you roll), Crete, Greece. We were there for two years in the early 1970s. Lovely place, warm and friendly people, great food. Those sand fleas are murder, though.
2. Angeles City, Luzon, the Philippines. Another two-year stint for Uncle Sam, somewhat later in the Disco Decade. We arrived shortly after local despot Ferdinand Marcos declared martial law. We left just as the Vietnam War was ending. Strange times indeed.
3. Abilene, Texas. I spent a decade there one year. At least, it felt that way. The most hellacious place I’ve ever lived, and there isn’t even a close runner-up. If you’re from Abilene, I apologize for airing your dirty laundry in public, but… deep in your heart, you know I speak the truth.

Three favorite drinks.
1. Cream soda. The good stuff — Thomas Kemper, Virgil’s, et al. — when I can get it on sale, but even the supermarket brand suffices in a pinch.
2. Vanilla Coke. Are you sensing a theme here?
3. The vanilla milkshakes Jack in the Box used to serve when I was in high school, before Jack botched the recipe and turned them into syrupy swill.

Three TV Shows that I watch.
1. Burn Notice. Hopefully they won’t have to stop production due to star Jeffrey Donovan’s recent DUI arrest. The world needs more Bruce Campbell. More Gabrielle Anwar isn’t a bad thing, either.
2. Chopped. I’ve been a devotee of competitive cooking shows since the original Iron Chef was on the air. Food Network’s latest entry in the genre is more of the same, with a fun twist or two. Plus, how could you not love a show called Chopped?
3. In Plain Sight. Who knew that Albuquerque was so exciting?

Three places I have been. (This, I suppose, as contrasted with places where I’ve lived for any length of time.)
1. Taipei, Taiwan. My family went on vacation there while we were in the Philippines. More people crammed into less space than anywhere else I’ve ever seen, aside from Tokyo. Beware the lunatic taxi drivers.
2. Athens, Greece. We made several jaunts to Athens during our years in Crete. Aside from San Francisco, the most visually compelling city I’ve ever visited.
3. Cities I’ve only seen from their respective airports: Paris, France; Rome, Italy; Frankfurt, Germany; Anchorage, Alaska; Agana, Guam. But at least I can honestly say that I’ve been there.

Three of my favorite foods.
1. Sushi. Among my top choices: unagi, tako, saba, ebi, tobiko, and when I can find the good stuff in season, otoro.
2. Mashed potatoes. Sometimes, the simplest things in life are best.
3. Chili — preferably my own, served with rice and plenty of hot sauce.

Three things to which I’m looking forward.
1. Pat Fraley’s workshop on voice acting for video games two weeks from Saturday. I had a terrific time in a workshop with Pat earlier this year, and am thrilled to have another chance to study with him.
2. The long-anticipated completion of a quartet of commissions that artist Darryl Banks is drawing for my Bombshells! gallery. Each depicts one of the four key female characters in Will Eisner’s legendary comic series, The Spirit. Darryl’s work on the first two pieces in the series has been stunning.
3. A manned landing on Mars, and a cure for cancer. When I dream, I dream big.

My date with the Mitchell Brothers, revisited

July 13, 2009

The hot story around these parts today is the arrest of James Raphael Mitchell, who stands accused of beating his girlfriend to death and kidnapping their infant daughter over this past weekend. (The child was found unharmed and returned safely to her maternal grandmother. Thanks for asking.)

Mitchell is the son of the late Jim Mitchell, of the notorious Mitchell Brothers, once the Pornography Kings of San Francisco. (Marilyn Chambers, Behind the Green Door, the O’Farrell Theatre, Rated Xthose Mitchell Brothers.)

You may recall that back in 1991, Jim killed his high-living sibling Artie — the junior half of the aforementioned Brothers — and ultimately served three years in prison for manslaughter. Post-incarceration, Jim died of a heart attack at his home right here in Sonoma County in 2007.

All of the above simply affords me the opportunity (or excuse — choose the word you prefer) to share with you again the once-told story of my now-legendary interview with Jim and Artie Mitchell, back in the day.

It’s okay… the link is SFW.

Trust me.

Hawaiian I

June 11, 2009

Happy King Kamehameha Day to all of my Hawaiian friends. Save me a hunk of kalua pig, yeah? (I don’t have room in my backyard to dig an imu — that’s the underground oven used to roast a whole pig — so I’m throwing ribs on the grill instead.)

Whenever anyone asks me, “Where are you from originally?” my default answer as a former military brat is, “Everywhere.” If pinned down, however, I’ll say Hawaii.

Although I was born and adopted in Michigan, I spent the formative years of my childhood in the Aloha State. It’s from Hawaii that my earliest memories emanate, and thus it’s the locale I identify as my place of origin. There’s still a part of me that longs to reside there, even though the Golden State Warriors will win the NBA Finals before I’ll persuade my wife to do that.

Our home on Oahu was a little white house in the Honolulu suburb of Ewa Beach (pronounced “eh-vah,” as in, “You Ewa do dat again, brah, I going knock you on yo’ okole“). There was one other house between ours and a beautiful expanse of white sand beach, where I played in those days before parents thought overmuch about what might become of keikis (that’s “small children” to you haoles) left to play alone in public places. (Or perhaps my parents did think about it, and I should have taken that as a hint.) My best friend was a towheaded boy who lived next door, and who also had the same first name as I. We routinely referred to one another as “the other Michael” in a youthful accommodation to identity.

My most vivid recollections of those halcyon days include the time that my mother and I found and rescued a young dolphin beached on our neighborhood shore, and the time I was pinned under a driftwood log and nearly drowned. From the latter incident I acquired a fear of water that persisted for years, preventing me from learning to swim adequately until I was well into adolescence.

Decades later, Hawaiian influences continue to pervade my consciousness. Some of these are linguistic holdovers from my childhood pidgin: I still refer to my belly as my opu, address my friends as “brah,” say “all pau” when I’m finished with something, and shrug off responsibility with the phrase, “That’s not my kuleana.” Other influences are cultural: I’m convinced that my dogged casualness toward life is vestigial Hawaiian.

And, once or twice a month, I have to indulge my craving for Hawaiian food. Nothing says lovin’ like a loco moco (a gravy-covered hamburger topped with a fried egg, served with rice), a slice of Spam musubi (think sushi, only with Spam — yeah, I said Spam — instead of fish), and a steaming bowl of saimin (noodle soup).

I’ve been a Californian for three decades, but my heart remains in the Islands. And why not — we’ve got a Hawaiian in the White House now. You go, brah!

Think I’ll go put on my aloha shirt and sing a few choruses of “The Hukilau Song.” Or maybe “Pearly Shells.”

Aloha!

What’s Up With That? #77: Teaching a pig to sing

May 27, 2009

Here’s an example of why the word “landlord” is synonymous in the minds of most people with “used car salesman” and “politician.”

We’ve lived as renters in the same house for the past 15 years. We love the place — obviously, since we’ve never felt compelled to move — but the management company that oversees the property doesn’t have a clue. Whenever we’ve needed something repaired around the property, it frequently takes repeated contact before we get any action, and when the management company finally does decide to send someone out, they’ve usually hired the least expensive (and thus, least competent) help.

A few weeks ago, the property managers hired a company to conduct a termite inspection. When the pest report was filed, the inspector identified about $10,000 in repairs — including several items we’ve reported to the management outfit previously, without response. So the management company sent three people — two of their own staffers, plus a general contractor — to assess the items in the report.

The guy who runs the management company still wasn’t satisfied after his people did their review. (Translated: They told him he actually needed to spend money.) He decided to come take a look for himself. He called to let me know that he would drop around at noon one day last week.

The noon hour came and went. So did the next couple of hours. Finally, the guy shows up at 3:30 — three and a half hours after his scheduled appointment. No call to let me know that he was running late, or to reschedule, or to verify that he was even still planning to show up.

For me, that’s a problem. I work from a home office, I’m here most of the time. However, due to the creative nature of my work, especially when I’m writing marketing copy or recording audio projects, interruptions are a challenge. If I’m expecting someone, I don’t get deeply into a project. For this reason, I lost three and a half hours of production time waiting for this guy to appear.

But, as I’ve indicated, this kind of ineptitude is par for the course with this outfit, so I let it go.

As the property manager was leaving, he told me that he would be bringing the owner of the house around to take a look on Tuesday of this week. He agreed to call and confirm a time, and on Monday, he phoned to say that they’d arrive sometime between 11:30 and 1:30.

On Tuesday, the specified time window came and went. As did the three hours following, right up until the moment that I needed to depart for chorus rehearsal. Again, no call from the property manager. Since he had come three and a half hours late the time before, I had every reason to expect that he would show up eventually.

But he didn’t.

This time, I didn’t let it go.

After a couple of exchanged messages over the next two days, I finally got the guy on the phone to express my displeasure. Not only did he not apologize for wasting my time, but he accused me of being “too sensitive” about the issue. As he put it, what difference did it make if he didn’t show up — late or simply not at all — if I was at home anyway? “You weren’t inconvenienced,” he said.

Never mind the fact that I put work on hold for two entire afternoons due to his lack of consideration. Never mind the fact that I might have had other things to do rather than hang out waiting for his incompetent self.

As the old saying goes: Never try to teach a pig to sing. It wastes your time, and annoys the pig.

We’ll see how the pig feels on the first of the month, when my rent check is attached to an invoice for the eight and a half hours of my time he wasted over the past week.

When the ivy walls are far behind

May 23, 2009

My daughter KM graduated from the local community college this morning.

To me, it seems a bit peculiar to refer to the end of KM’s two-year stint as “graduating,” given that she’s already been accepted to a four-year state university and will continue there as a junior in the fall. Still, the event marks a considerable achievement and a bargeload of hard work on her part. Even if it’s more a new beginning than a conclusion, I’m delighted for her to graduate — if only from one collegiate experience to another.

Certainly, for many — perhaps most — of KM’s fellow commencees (um, sure, that’s a word), an associate’s degree from the JC will be the end of their educational journey. For those folks, I’m glad that they received all of the pomp and circumstance (the song of that same name included) that their accomplishment merited. They each seemed just as thrilled to receive the purple folder that will eventually house their junior college diploma as if they had earned a four-year degree. And I’m certain that quite a few of them had invested far more than just the two calendar years that an AA or AS implies.

KM glowed in her black gown and mortarboard, draped with a gold satin stole representing her status as an honor student. I could not have been more proud when she stepped across the lawn to accept her diploma cover from the college president, as a faculty member read off her remarkable academic record:

  • University transfer.
  • Doyle Scholar.
  • Candidate for highest honors — an indication of a cumulative grade point average in excess of 3.6.

Those of you who know me know that I’m not sentimental about all that much. My daughter is the universe’s loftiest exception to that rule. As I tried to keep my hands steady to snap KM’s photograph, tears streamed down my face.

I don’t know whether she heard me shout, “Way to go!” as she shook the president’s hand.

But I meant it, with all my soul.

I have an amazing daughter. She may not always believe I think so, but I do. She’s going to accomplish great things in this world someday, if life, breath, and grace allow, and I pray that they will. The world needs more young people like her.

Then again… she’s one of a kind.

What’s Up With That? #76: Reward Zone? More like Twilight Zone

May 21, 2009

The following is an example of how NOT to provide an incentive for your business’s customers.

Earlier this year, I bought a new HD plasma TV at Best Buy. This purchase garnered me a membership in Best Buy’s bonus program, Reward Zone, and $35 in free merchandise of my choosing. (Say it with me: If it’s free, it’s for me.) The company mailed me a bright blue Reward Zone card a few weeks after the TV arrived… a card which I tossed into a stack of paperwork and largely forgot about.

Forgot, that is, until a Best Buy representative called me the other day to remind me that my $35 reward expires on June 13, and encouraged me to redeem it promptly.

Online shopping being as efficient as it is, I rarely make a trip to Best Buy these days. But hey, for $35, I could use a little fresh air and sunshine. I’d been looking at desktop microphone stands on eBay — just the ticket for lengthy narrative and audiobook reads — and I knew that Best Buy sold such an animal. So, off to the Big Blue Box I travel.

A quick cruise around the musical instruments and audio department turned up the mic stand. I picked one up and proceeded to the register. I handed the box and my Reward Zone card to the young man behind the counter.

“I’d like to get this with my Reward Zone bonus,” I said, just in case the combination of merchandise and reward card wasn’t self-explanatory.

“Do you have a certificate?” the clerk asked.

“Certificate?”

“Yeah. A certificate that says how much your Reward Zone bonus is.”

“I don’t have a certificate. They mailed me this card.”

“You have to go online and print a certificate.”

“Umm… I went online and registered the card like the instructions said. Can’t you just scan the card and see how much reward money I have coming?”

“No, you have to have a certificate.”

Clearly, this conversation was going nowhere.

My next stop was the customer service desk. The young woman there was, at least, more enthusiastic than her counterpart in the audio room.

“Yes, you do have to print out your Reward Zone certificate in order to redeem it. But let me scan your card, and I’ll print your certificate right here.”

She brought up the information and directed me to key in my password. In moments, she handed me a certificate for $35 in Reward Zone funds. Oh, frabjous day!

“Did you want to use this to buy that?” the clerk asked, pointing to the mic stand in my hand.

“Yes, please.”

She scanned the bar code on the box.

“Oh, this is only $12.99 before tax.”

“I understand that. But that’s less than $35.”

“Yes, but the way the program works, you have to get a combination of merchandise that’s a minimum of $35 before tax. The system won’t break up the amount. You have to use it all at once.”

“Okay. How about if I just take this one item, and you guys keep the $22 balance?”

“The system won’t let me do that. You have to get $35 worth of merchandise.”

“Even if I only want one $13 item?”

“I don’t know why they set up the program that way,” she said empathetically. “But that’s how it works.”

Thus, having already wasted an incredible amount of time on what seemed at the beginning like a simple project, I now found myself trolling the aisles of Best Buy, trying to find something worth at least $22 that I might actually use.

Twenty minutes later, laden with a 2 gigabyte flash drive and a six-outlet surge protector strip in addition to my mic stand, I approached the checkout counter. With dispatch, the clerk processed my merchandise, collected my $35 certificate — plus $7.61 from my debit card — and sent me on my way with a bright blue bagful of Best Buy gear.

So, here’s the bottom line.

In order for me to get the one $13 item I wanted in exchange for my Best Buy Reward Zone bonus, Best Buy…

  • Gave up a total of $42 in merchandise.
  • Wasted a half-hour of my Thursday.
  • Involved three members of its customer service team.
  • Raised my already hypertensive blood pressure with pointless exercise.
  • Got seven bucks of my money in the bargain.
  • Frustrated me to the point that it’ll be a snowy August in Fresno before my shadow falls across the threshold of another Best Buy store.

Is that any way to run a rewards program?

While I’m on the subject: Why is the name of the store Best Buy, if your best buys are always at Fry’s, guaranteed?

For that matter, why can’t you get fries at Fry’s?