The 'B' Word: Bureaucracy ~ Blog 16

Why can't this be a normal state? It's not even a state, technically, but the difference between a commonwealth and a state is pretty semantic, so we'll let that one slide.

Every state has quirks and hoops you have to jump through. In Maine, you have to register your car at the DMV, pay taxes on that vehicle at city hall, and get your car inspected before you are good to drive for a year. Then you have to repeat the process. Every. Year.

Minnesota is absurdly expensive. I had to threaten so sue the state of Utah (with a real lawyer and everything) before they would issue me a driver's license. If ever there was an argument for a nationalized vehicle tax system, people who move around a lot would be entirely in favor of it because you never know what you're going to get at the DMV.

Or, in Massachusetts' case, the RMV. We don't have a DMV, we have a Registry of Motor Vehicles. Fine. Whatever. Couldn't be that different, right?

I had to take the subway downtown because there's no way I'm trying to park in downtown Boston, near the RMV. The subway was packed so I got out early and walked a half mile to the RMV. There was nobody there! Score! I was about to sit down when I noticed the signs that loudly announced the RMV "accepts CASH OR CHECKS ONLY for registration." Worried they would call my number, I literally ran out the front door and to the CVS across the street. I got $200 and arrived back at the RMV two minutes before they called my number.

I got up to the teller with my registration, insurance and title. That wasn't enough. Only in Massachusetts.

"You need an RMV-1 form from your insurance agency," I was told.

My what from my who now? I have an insurance card ... RIGHT HERE. Absurd.

"You can go to the UPS store up the street and use their computers."

Convenient. Well, it would be if I found the UPS store quickly, which of course I did not. Eventually, while on hold with Progressive, I found the UPS store after asking for directions three times. Maybe I need a smart phone.

Standing in the front corner of the store, I answered a few questions as discreetly as possible. I asked the very helpful customer service rep, "Does any other state require this form?" Nope. Just Massachusetts. We're a little different here.

Progressive then emailed me the RMV-1 form. SCO ... wait, the co-owner of the vehicle has to sign this thing? Do they have to? Yep, says right there they have to. But ... Crap. That was my reaction. So, I have some paperwork for The Wife to sign. Only took 1.5 hours to figure that out.

When we first got married, TW was annoyed because her name wasn't on many legal documents for cars and houses, or even power and cable bills. We've been on a seven-year campaign to correct that.

Thing is, your spouse is legally entitled to ownership of a vehicle or house regardless of whose name is on a title. With a second person on the account, you don't have more flexibility, you actually have less, as with the two-signatures requirement. 

Come to think of it, the best customer service I've ever had at an RMV — sorry, DMV — came in Utah, after I threatened to sue them to issue a driver's license. I got to skip the line and was out of there in 10 minutes, after they apologized profusely. There's something positive to be said for our lawyers.

Feeling Subtextual ~ Blog 15

For the last two and a half years, there has been an underlying theme to every day of my life. It started small, when we left Utah bound for the East Coast, on a reverse path of the Oregon Trail.

What am I going to do with my life now?

About a thousand days have passed and the sound is much, much louder. And the answer changes, depending on which way the wind blows or what experiences I have that day. I'm wasting time and I know it.

On days like today, when there's a relatively productive domestic agenda including exercise, shopping, laundry and cooking, it's tempting to just chuck it all. Why do I bother coming to work at all? I make enough to support gas, insurance and a car payment, but I could make $10 an hour in Boston as a barista. Seriously. The Wife and I saw a job flyer at a Starbucks in Beacon Hill, one of the nicest neighborhoods in Boston.

It's tough, these gray, slushy days, to want to do much of anything. And still, I write this blog. Writing is important to me and I know that. Tomorrow, I'll cover a minor-league hockey game in Worcester, a Duluth-esque town an hour or so from Boston. Next week, I'll cover the Utah Jazz for 36 hours while they are in town and play a game against our beloved Celtics. I'll be torn about whom to cheer openly for, of course.

It's not much, but it helps. Writing pulls me out of my funk. I'm already in a much better mood than I was five paragraphs ago. My Mom is the only person who's going to read this, but that's OK. My parents and my grandparents were my only readers when I worked in New Hampshire and Vermont and that worked out all right.

There is, of course, a problem with this model: People don't buy newspapers any more. Newsflash. People still read newspapers, it's just online, very selective, and not profitable.

What's a guy with a love of alliteration to do? I still don't know. There's a book rattling around up in my head, somewhere, but for now the answer is simple. Blogging is cathartic. I'm going to stick with that for a while. Maybe I'll get involved in politics and maybe I'll go back and get a master's degree. But I'm going to do something. Because all that housework I did today? I did a terrible job at it. And writing beats stirring drinks at Starbucks. So, you're stuck with reading at least another 75 blogs 'til I hit 90.

Sorry, Mom.

Yeah, We Did ~ Blog 14

Everybody has seen the dramatic social media exclamations today. People are afraid for America and concerned about our future. Losing sucks. We all get that. Here in Massachusetts, an assisted-suicide bill I was hoping would pass did not; it lost by about 60,000 votes out of 3 million cast. 

In general, candidates I support did well last night and that makes me feel pretty good. What doesn't feel good is to see how people, particularly some Christians, are reacting to Barack Obama's re-election. I don't care that they don't like the President or that they're conservative, I care that they make Christians like me look crazy, which affects what should be our basic message of welcome understanding to non-Christians.

I'm not just being dramatic. A friend on Facebook openly cheered Obama's re-election as a sign that the Apocalypse was near, she hoped. If eye-rolling could make a noise, my computer would have heard it when I saw that. Stop it. 

At work in Salt Lake, when Jerry Falwell or Pat Robertson said something crazy, it was my job to loudly protest on behalf of moderate or liberal Christians everywhere. It wasn't a job I relished, but I felt it was my job to represent my faith, because all the secular world sees is another Christian on television being crazy again. This doesn't help spread the Word.

This isn't about the politics. We're on Earth. If you're a born-again Christian, you might believe that you're stuck here on Earth until you get to go to heaven. My point is simple: This is what you've got for now, right here. Let's work together to make it a better place. That's a message that everybody, of all religions and political persuasions, should agree with.

We knew there would be reactions like this. You had to be wishful in your thinking to believe it wouldn't go down like this. I'm not blind to it. I'm not going to try to argue religious theology, argue about what Jesus would do, nor gloat over a Democratic victory.

Here's the deal: Our country has solvable problems. The debt is a big number, but it's nowhere near Greece nor Spain's problems. Our poor have gotten poorer. People need jobs. Go ahead and think the Apocalypse is coming. But let's allow our elected officials to make some deals to give the poorest among us jobs, food and health care. Even if you think the Apocalypse is coming, you have to acknowledge that you don't know God's timing for that event. You're here on Earth for now. Let's make it a better place. 

Votey McVoting Vote Vote ~ Blog 13

Absolutely no line to get this sticker; also, what the hell is that in the
foreground? Is that a fleshy chair?

The BBC was all about our election this morning. Why was NPR broadcasting the BBC instead of Diane Ream at 9 a.m.? No idea. But their analysis was spot-on. America's politics are deeply divided.

That's absolutely true. Today, I reflect on my political caterwauling four years ago. I was in Salt Lake City and felt like a flaming liberal. I supported Obama enthusiastically in the primaries; argued with my Mom, a Clinton backer; and yelled about my voting on Facebook.

Living in an extreme state is polarizing. Prior to moving to Utah, I might have said I was Republican-leaning. In Minnesota, it's possible for Republicans to be open on social issues while fiscally conservative.

In my first Utah election, a candidate for mayor delivered a flyer to my house stating that he would outlaw all abortions, if it was possible. Never mind that mayors don't have anything close to that kind of responsibility. That's how conservative that candidate wanted you to know he was.

Republicans own the state of Utah. They hold super majorities in both the state senate and house. Though I have voted for Republicans before, voting in Utah became an act of protest. It was a way to say, "I'm here and I really disagree with how extreme you are."

And so, in 2008, I was pretty obnoxious. It might explain why about 75 friends of mine on Facebook have blocked me. How do I know they've blocked me? If you do a game invite, it asks you if you want to invite your 650 friends. Wait, I thought I have 725 fri ... oh. I get it.

The result of all the political yelling that we're all guilty of is we tune out dissenting voices. Republicans don't want to hear their idiot liberal friends. Democrats don't want to hear from their jerky conservative friends, so they block them. Independents roll their eyes at all of us.

We're not talking to each other. We're only talking to people we agree with. Then, we wonder how it's possible for Obama to be re-elected (which he will) or how Republicans can hold onto the House (which they will for at least another election).

Our politicians are a reflection of us. Mitt Romney talks about cutting taxes, which liberals vehemently oppose. Liberals talk about cutting defense spending, which causes Republicans to vomit a string of expletives. Moderation is dead.

Or it's almost dead. New England has Republicans I like. Scott Brown is running for Senate and is the kind of guy I could vote for. Olympia Snowe in Maine would have gotten my vote had we stayed in Portland and had she run. But those options are few.

At our local polling place, in an elementary school like so many others around the country, I walked right in and picked up my ballots. After Romney, Ryan and Brown, there was a sum total of one Republican on the ballot. Every judge, every board position, every councilor, was a Democrat. It was pretty much the opposite of Utah.

It was even worse than Utah. At least in Utah there were Democrats to cast opposition votes for. I voted for an independent for U.S. Congress as a protest vote. I did no research on this except for right now. She's a former Miss Massachusetts and I can't really find any positions on any actual issues on her website. A vote well spent, I'd say.

Democrats will pick up a few House seats and hold onto the Senate (even increasing their margin slightly). Obama will likely win re-election. And absolutely nothing will get done for the next two years because we can't talk to each other. It's slightly depressing.

It's comforting to know that elections shouldn't really affect your life. My dog will still be my dog tomorrow. I'll still live in a great city in a great state and have my same computer. But it would be nice to talk to those 75 Facebook friends, even if just to get yelled at. At least we'd be talking.

The Most Vitriol I Can Manage ~ Blog 12

The enemy.

As election day is, in some spots less than 13 hours away, you've probably heard enough negative ads and had enough negative emotions. We, as Americans, need to unite in our hatred, not positive vibes.

This is why I come to you with a story of a cell phone company. If Mother Theresa were still alive, she would probably have bad things to say about her cell phone company. I've used Verizon, AT&T and Cingular. The Wife used Sprint during our faux dating and pre-marital periods. We've never been overly impressed with any service. After years of trying, both AT&T and the iPhone have found a new way to tick me off.

It started two weeks ago to the day, when I decided to go 110 miles north to Portland, Maine, for a Man Date with Nacho Man and The Bearded Beernut. Nacho Man is a former roommate of mine and TW (we had to help pay for PA school somehow). During his tenure in our rented house, he started dating Lu Who. Lu Who lived approximately 15 feet away from Nacho Man in the other half of a split-entry home with her mother, who was also our landlord.

I'll tell you that story some other time.

Two weeks ago, Lu Who was in the Far East on an international work trip. Lu Who and I are peas in a pod, despite a 12-year age gap. Her birthday is the day before mine and we've been known to spend the entire day eating bacon-dusted French fries and, generally, acting like 13-year-olds. Nacho Man and TW generally shake their heads at us. Lu Who and I make fun of them.

The height of the Photo Project.

With Lu Who in the Far East, I wanted to let her know she was missed ... but in a fun way. It occurred to me as I walked from the house to catch my bus to Portland: I would take photos with my camera and text Lu Who all the way to Portland. Because her phone didn't work in the Philipenes, she would arrive home to a slew of text messages. Her phone would explode with texts! It was a brilliant way to tell her she was missed. I started with aplomb. I took a picture from the walk; a picture from my seat on the bus; a picture out the window of the bus taken of a liquor store; a picture crossing into New Hampshire; a picture crossing into Maine; a picture arriving in Portland.

I took a picture of The Bearded Beernut when he picked me up at the bus station; a picture of Meat Head (Nacho Man's brother) when he picked us up to go downtown.

At dinner at Nosh, everybody got into the act. At our table, I took a picture of The Bearded Beernut, who took a picture of me, while Nacho Man and Nacho Man's brother took pictures of us taking pictures. A waitress walked by and took a picture of her own. It was like a TV picture inside a TV picture that goes on forever.

I took a picture of my beer; I took a picture of bacon fries; I took a picture inside the bathroom at LFA (there were neat posters on the walls). The next day, the Photo Project continued. I sent more bus pictures; there was a picture of a giant American flag inside Logan Airport; there were pictures of my dog. The Bearded Beernut sent pictures and texts as well. As the days progressed, I continued to send photos and texts. Once, I texted Lu Who's mother and Lu Who, counting on the mom to respond reply all, which she invariably does with group messages. It worked.

Lu Who was gone for two weeks and I texted her every day. Sometimes just text, often with pictures. There were trees, there were pictures of TW on a date night. It was, in essence, everything I did and everywhere I went for two weeks.

Lu Who landed in Newark on Friday at 5:15 p.m. I didn't hear from her. She arrived in Boston around 8:30 p.m. Still nothing. I texted her. She was tired and sent a short text back. Was she mad at me?

No. It turns out I should be mad at AT&T or her phone. It's unclear which. Lu Who texted me Saturday after Nacho Man informed her of the Photo Bomb project. She received three pictures and three text messages from me. No record of the night out. No pretty fall leaves. No bus photos.

If you're still reading this, and God help you for that, and you have any technical knowledge, perhaps you can explain where the hundreds and hundreds of text messages are. Perhaps you have a magical answer that I am missing. Lu Who deleted old texts from me. Still nothing. It is as if the messages were never sent.

That, we can all agree, is the real travesty of this election cycle. We, as Americans, should band together to text Lu Who photos and text messages to show her our support. Thank You, and God Bless complaining on the Internet about things.

This is Lame ~ Blog 11

It's not that I don't have anything to say. I have plenty of stories to tell, all interesting and all PG-rated. The thing is, nobody reads this blog on Fridays. This is not a unique problem.

So the question goes: What can I do on Fridays that you might find interesting? Pictures? Pictures of my dog? Nude pictures of the dog? The mind boggles.

Why Am I Torturing Myself? ~ P90X Blog 10

Look at these little sassy beauties. Oh yeah.

The first time I recognized my addiction to caffeine was in 2003. I went skiing with Dan The Man, whom some of you might remember, and I didn't wear goggles or sunglasses. It was a beautiful sunny day, it was warm, what could go wrong?

It turns out that I am an idiot. You've probably picked up on that already.

My eyes hurt so much from snow blindness the day after skiing that I wanted to gauge them out of my skull. I stayed inside all day except to get the mail. It hurt to walk to the mailbox. I was out of food, didn't have my usual Diet Pepsi, and a headache crept in around 5 p.m. A bad headache. A screwdriver driving into your skull kind of headache.

My roommates came home, diagnosed the problem as a lack of caffeine, and took me to get a can of Diet Coke and some pizza. Halfway through the Diet Coke, my headache was gone.

For the next five years, I tried to swear off caffeine. My Mom always asks this question: Why would you do that? Well, I like taking naps. It's one of my genetic gifts, along with modesty.

This week, for the first time in three years, I'm not addicted to caffeine. As usual with my life, there are a confluence of things going on that makes this possible.

When we moved to Boston, I didn't think I'd be going without Caribou Coffee. But Caribou isn't sold in any of my regular grocery stores. It's way too expensive when it's in a grocery store ($9.50 for 12 ounces) so please don't start telling me about how I can pay $10 to have some shipped. There is a limit to what I will do for good coffee.

Over a month ago, I bought a 14-ounce tub of Trader Joe's Pumpkin Spice coffee to ween myself off caffeine. Why? I guess I want to take naps again and not have brown teeth. That might not be enough reason to keep me off the Brown Rocket of Caffeine.

I drank less and less coffee day by day (down from two cups to none) to get used to a slower pace of life. And it worked. My last cup of coffee was Monday.

The thing is, it's not necessarily better. Yes, I could really use a nap right now. But I have stuff to do. I need to go for a run with Daisy Duke. And I leave for work in a couple of hours; surely there's not enough time for both.

Daisy Duke and I were out and about town a half hour ago when I realized I was next to a Starbucks. Pike's Place Roast is my heroin. I went to the door, but there were at least eight women standing in line. They were presumably all ordering fraps and lattes. I turned around and left. It isn't worth it to stand in line. There should be a separate line for people just ordering black, hot coffee. I love/hate Starbucks.

And so I sit here, caffeine-less, trying to muster the energy to get off this chair and go outside on a 60-degree, sunny day. This is why I never completely stop using caffeine. At some point, you need a boost to get through a night at work. At some point, you can't take a nap because you have something else to do. And when you drink that coffee, even if it's just 12 ounces, you're wired for the rest of the day. At midnight, you'll lie there in bed, thoughts frenetically bouncing from topic to topic, unable to sleep.

This, of course, is absurd. When I drink coffee regularly, I can drink a pot of coffee at midnight and go straight to bed. I did that once or twice at The Valley News, my first newspaper. Now, I need to plan on having a drink of a more alcoholic nature when I come home if I'm ever going to fall asleep.

So, unless you have any solutions to this caffeine-less conundrum, I'm going to by some Crest Whitening Strips tomorrow and some coffee. Life's too short to not drink coffee.