Sometimes you run across people that you never anticipated seeing again. That happened to me yesterday.
Susan and I decided on the spur of the moment to drive up to Blue Ridge, about an hour or so north of here, to pick up some apple bread and a distinctive blend of coffee--appropriately enough, it's called Blue Ridge Blend--from a small shop that we've frequented over the years. The shop also has a selection of antiques, folk art, and decorative items, so we always browse while we're there.
As I was browsing, I saw a nearly pristine oak school desk. Unlike most of the desks of my childhood, which were metal frame desks with pressed wood seats and desk surfaces, this desk was solid oad, with a hefty 2" x 2" support attached to an oaken top. Beneath, it had oak slats to hold books, and was open on the sides. It was a larger sized school desk, intended for high school or college students, and had no markings, carvings, or other surface marrings that are so common on school desks.
Alas, it also had a "SOLD" sign taped to it.
I asked a woman who worked there if there might be another, and she suggested I check upstairs, as she thought she had seen one not too long before. I checked, and found only two desks: a small one, elementary-school sized, with metal frame, and one of the same type as the one I wanted... but the top had evidently been damaged somewhere down the line, so someone had simply sawed through the 2" b 2" vertical support beam, transforming the desk into a wide oaken chair instead.
Disappointed but still optimistic that another desk might show up, I decided to leave my name with the woman at the register. I had scarcely said three words to her, though, before she said, "Are you Cliff?" Now, Blue Ridge is about seventy miles north of where I live, and it's about ninety miles away from Rome, where I grew up, so I was taken by surprise that anyone would know my name.
"I'm Lynn," she said--and then I actually looked at her face and realized that it was Lynn Amspoker, a girl I had known since we were in class together in junior high school, who was standing before me. Lynn was always a remarkable person--beautiful, with a hint of a Mediterranean complexion that gave her a distant, sort of exotic appeal. Her smile was broad and engaging, and she smiled with her whole face, not just with her eyes. Lynn was a cheerleader, energetic and vital. She was also extremely intelligent; we were in dozens of honors classes together through junior high and high school, and because her last name began with an A and mine with a B, we often sat near enough to one another that we would speak. I can't say that we were close friends; I wasn't athletic, and my group of friends rarely interacted with her group of friends outside of class. That's not to say that she was snobbish at all; I never got that impression, although I'm sure that I rarely made any impression at all on her.
Lynn dated Randy Hatch when we were in high school, and they continued to date after graduation, eventually getting married. They had children, and though an odd coincidence, I crossed paths with Lynn again almost a quarter-century after our high school graduation when her daughter, Katie Hatch, came to North Cobb High School as a freshman. It seemed uncannily odd that the daughter of someone I knew in high school would end up attending the school where I taught--a school located fifty miles away from West Rome High School, where Lynn and I graduated.
And now, almost ten years after that, my path and Lynn's had once again crossed.
She was still the same Lynn I had known before: friendly, engaging, with that same smile. She told me that they had moved to Blue Ridge after her daughters graduated (I knew that Katie had a sister, but I didn't know her). Katie is in her third year of veterinary school now. Lynn's selling some antiques--she mentioned that she had a couple of booths upstairs--and obviously was working at the sales counter of the store as well. Taken by surprise, I didn't take the time to ask the many questions that have come to mind since then; I hope that I cross paths with her and we get to speak again.
I was surprised that Lynn even recognized me, to be honest. Thanks to heredity, I have far less hair than I did when we were in high school; thanks to exercise and a more careful diet, there's about seventy fewer pounds of me than there was when I met her while I was teaching at North Cobb. I also had a beard and much longer hair when I taught at North Cobb; now I'm clean-shaven and my hair is shorter (ironically, almost exactly the same length that it was when I was in high school!). We often deal with people without truly looking at them; at my store, I must ring up a hundred people a week without really studying their faces to see who they are and what they look like. Oh, I recognize many of them, but I rarely scrutinize them; thus, I don't know if I would recognize someone with whom I had attended high school thirty-five years ago.
There are all too few people from high school that I've heard from over the years. I am in e-mail contact with Sven Ahlstrom, one of my best friends from school; I crossed paths with Greg Carter once, several years ago, but have heard from him only once since then; my contact with Gary Steele went from occasional to non-existent when Gary moved and gave no forwarding address or phone number. I saw a photo and article about Judi Harwell in the Rome News Tribune last year; I heard from Debby Ezelle a couple of times more than a decade ago; I exchanged a series of e-mails with Lon Rollinson a decade ago as well. I speak to Mrs. Astin from time to time and ask about her daughter, Pam, who I knew very well in high school; I haven't actually seen Pam in about fifteen years, though.
Seeing Lynn inspired me to pull out my West Rome High School yearbooks (alas, I no longer have my senior yearbook; I kept it in my classroom at North Cobb, and when I was forced to retire after my heart attack and heart surgery, it was one of those things that fell through the cracks and didn't make it home with me); there were many familiar faces and names, and I wonder where they are now and what they're doing. People moved around much less back then, so the majority of the people who were in my seventh grade class at West Rome Junior High were in my senior class at West Rome High School. I see them in the pages of the Watanyah and I can still remember their voices, their expressions, even where they sat in some of the classes that we shared. I'd like to know what paths their lives have taken; chances are, though, that I never will.
I can only hope that life has been as kind to them as it has to me, and I hope that they held on to their grace and charm and vitality in the same way that Lynn has. One can ask for little more than that...
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Happy Birthday, Mom
Today is Mom's birthday. Had she not succumbed to emphysema, she would have been celebrating her 73rd birthday later today, going out to lunch with Dad and her twin sister and my uncle Red and Kim and Susan and me, talking and laughing and enjoying the day in the way that we always did.
When Robert E. Howard's mother died, he took his life shortly thereafter, denying the world all the wonderful tales he might have written in the remainder of his life had he not cut it so short. I can understand how he spiraled into such an inconsolable darkness that he felt it could not end; while I have not plummeted to such an abyss of spirit, I think I have been buffeted by the ebbs and flows of depression ever since Mom died. Losing her left a void that none of us have been able to fill.
As I watch videotapes of bygone happy times, I regret the fact that Mom was almost always the photographer and rarely the photographee. She loved to work the video camera, and Dad never seemed that interested, so Mom is the unseen voice in most family videotapes. On days like this, I watch those tapes, knowing I won't see her, but also knowing that I will at least hear her voice once again.
I miss that voice so much. I spoke to Mom almost every day of the last ten years of her life, and spoke to her several times a week in the many years before that. I knew her phrases, her responses, her words, and I fear that I took them for granted. I guess I never really considered that they would be silenced so soon.
As bittersweet as Mom's birthday is for me--and as sad as I still am about her death--I know that it must be immeasurably worse for Dad. A lot of people are happily married, but Dad was more than that--he had found the woman who balanced him, whose strengths complemented his, and around whom he had built his life. He is surrounded by memories of those happy times, and I can understand why also slides into emotional shadows as her birthday nears.
Happy birthday, Mom. I miss you.
When Robert E. Howard's mother died, he took his life shortly thereafter, denying the world all the wonderful tales he might have written in the remainder of his life had he not cut it so short. I can understand how he spiraled into such an inconsolable darkness that he felt it could not end; while I have not plummeted to such an abyss of spirit, I think I have been buffeted by the ebbs and flows of depression ever since Mom died. Losing her left a void that none of us have been able to fill.
As I watch videotapes of bygone happy times, I regret the fact that Mom was almost always the photographer and rarely the photographee. She loved to work the video camera, and Dad never seemed that interested, so Mom is the unseen voice in most family videotapes. On days like this, I watch those tapes, knowing I won't see her, but also knowing that I will at least hear her voice once again.
I miss that voice so much. I spoke to Mom almost every day of the last ten years of her life, and spoke to her several times a week in the many years before that. I knew her phrases, her responses, her words, and I fear that I took them for granted. I guess I never really considered that they would be silenced so soon.
As bittersweet as Mom's birthday is for me--and as sad as I still am about her death--I know that it must be immeasurably worse for Dad. A lot of people are happily married, but Dad was more than that--he had found the woman who balanced him, whose strengths complemented his, and around whom he had built his life. He is surrounded by memories of those happy times, and I can understand why also slides into emotional shadows as her birthday nears.
Happy birthday, Mom. I miss you.
Friday, September 15, 2006
In the Queue
Sometimes people surprise you.
I was at the post office today to send a few packages registered mail, which meant I had to stand in line rather than doing everything at the USPS website. There were about six people in line when I got there, and for every person who completed his/her transaction, another person joined the queue, so the line remained about six people long. There were only two windows open, since it was lunch time, and that meant that the progress was a bit slow.
I worked my way to the front of the line just as an elderly woman with obvious health problems came in. She moved laboriously with a cane, and she had a nasal cannula and an oxygen tank that led me to believe that she must have emphysema as well. Almost immediately after I saw her, the clerk called for the next customer. I walked back to her and said, "Ma'am, would you like to exchange places with me?" She looked surprised and grateful as she made her way towards te window.
"Hey, I've been waiting in line, too!" One apparently fit mid-20's man said.
"No problem--I'm not moving her up in line, I'm exchanging places with her. Your place in line is exactly the same as it was," I said as I moved to the last place in line. The guy still looked irritated, but he couldn't argue with the fact that he was still fourth in line.
And then, less than a minute later, the woman who was next in line stepped out of line and walked behind me, taking a place in line immediately after me, just as she had been before I exchanged places with the elderly woman.
A few seconds later, the second person in line did the same thing. Then the third. Now the man who had complained was first in line. Then the man behind him did the same thing. Now, rather than being the sixth person in line, I was the second, immediately after the man who had complained.
No one said a word about it. But everyone seemed to have a little bit more of a smile than they had prior to the arrival of the elderly woman. Everyone except for one man, that is...
I was at the post office today to send a few packages registered mail, which meant I had to stand in line rather than doing everything at the USPS website. There were about six people in line when I got there, and for every person who completed his/her transaction, another person joined the queue, so the line remained about six people long. There were only two windows open, since it was lunch time, and that meant that the progress was a bit slow.
I worked my way to the front of the line just as an elderly woman with obvious health problems came in. She moved laboriously with a cane, and she had a nasal cannula and an oxygen tank that led me to believe that she must have emphysema as well. Almost immediately after I saw her, the clerk called for the next customer. I walked back to her and said, "Ma'am, would you like to exchange places with me?" She looked surprised and grateful as she made her way towards te window.
"Hey, I've been waiting in line, too!" One apparently fit mid-20's man said.
"No problem--I'm not moving her up in line, I'm exchanging places with her. Your place in line is exactly the same as it was," I said as I moved to the last place in line. The guy still looked irritated, but he couldn't argue with the fact that he was still fourth in line.
And then, less than a minute later, the woman who was next in line stepped out of line and walked behind me, taking a place in line immediately after me, just as she had been before I exchanged places with the elderly woman.
A few seconds later, the second person in line did the same thing. Then the third. Now the man who had complained was first in line. Then the man behind him did the same thing. Now, rather than being the sixth person in line, I was the second, immediately after the man who had complained.
No one said a word about it. But everyone seemed to have a little bit more of a smile than they had prior to the arrival of the elderly woman. Everyone except for one man, that is...
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Time After Time
Since my last entry, my nephew Cole and his wife Christy have closed on their house; they've found that the due date for their baby is April 14th, which is one day later than Dad's birthday; and Cole and Christy are halfway moved into their home. They've paid rent on their duplex through September 20th, so they're not facing an urgent deadline to move; as a result, they've been able to move gradually and much less stressfully than mine and Susan's typical move (every move we've made except one was on a 24 to 72 hour deadline, which means that you start out with the intent of moving methodically and deliberately, and you end up tossing things in boxes at random just to get 'em out of the old house while you still have a moving fan available).
It's hard to believe that Cole, at the age of 21, has a 1600 square foot house with central heat and air; a computer; digital cable and a PVR; cable modem access; an HDTV; a dolby digital surround sound stereo system... the list goes on. I'm not talking about Cole in particular, really; I'm talking about the ever-rising standard of living that makes it possible for a couple married less than a year to have all of these things as part of a normal middle class existence.
A year after Susan and I were married, we couldn't have possibly bought a home; we had one small window air conditioner that semi-cooled one room in our house; we had an electric typewriter; we had a cheapo Singer stereo system (yes, the same Singer that makes sewing machines used to sell stereo systems); we had a 15" black and white television (didn't get our first color television of our own until we had been married for three years). And we considered ourselves solidly middle class; we had more than many of our friends who were our age.
Those who talk about the middle class pinch and family budget woes ignore the fact that our standard of living as a culture has risen exponentially with each decade. What is considered basic middle class now would have been upper-middle ten years ago and lower-upper-class ten years before that. Our economy makes it possible for people to have a tremendous quality of life for a much smaller investment than ever before.
I'm sure that, if Dad ever got on the internet and read this, he would point out that what Susan and I had after a year of marriage was phenomenal compared to what he and Mom had after their first year of marriage. And if my grandmother were still alive, she's undoubtedly point out how much better Dad and Mom had it than she and my grandfather did when they had been married a year.
Pretty amazing, when you think about it. And I have to wonder what will be considered a "middle class necessity" for Cole and Christy's child when he or she turns 21...
It's hard to believe that Cole, at the age of 21, has a 1600 square foot house with central heat and air; a computer; digital cable and a PVR; cable modem access; an HDTV; a dolby digital surround sound stereo system... the list goes on. I'm not talking about Cole in particular, really; I'm talking about the ever-rising standard of living that makes it possible for a couple married less than a year to have all of these things as part of a normal middle class existence.
A year after Susan and I were married, we couldn't have possibly bought a home; we had one small window air conditioner that semi-cooled one room in our house; we had an electric typewriter; we had a cheapo Singer stereo system (yes, the same Singer that makes sewing machines used to sell stereo systems); we had a 15" black and white television (didn't get our first color television of our own until we had been married for three years). And we considered ourselves solidly middle class; we had more than many of our friends who were our age.
Those who talk about the middle class pinch and family budget woes ignore the fact that our standard of living as a culture has risen exponentially with each decade. What is considered basic middle class now would have been upper-middle ten years ago and lower-upper-class ten years before that. Our economy makes it possible for people to have a tremendous quality of life for a much smaller investment than ever before.
I'm sure that, if Dad ever got on the internet and read this, he would point out that what Susan and I had after a year of marriage was phenomenal compared to what he and Mom had after their first year of marriage. And if my grandmother were still alive, she's undoubtedly point out how much better Dad and Mom had it than she and my grandfather did when they had been married a year.
Pretty amazing, when you think about it. And I have to wonder what will be considered a "middle class necessity" for Cole and Christy's child when he or she turns 21...
Monday, August 28, 2006
Stupid TV Night on Fox
I'm about ready to give up on Prison Break and Vanished, Fox's Monday-night dramas.
Tonight on Prison Break, a character whose hand was chopped off with an axe at the end of the first season had his hand reattached by a veterinarian... and as soon as it was sewn on, he was able to move it, to grip things, and to kill the poor vet who thought he was doing a good thing. Now bear in mind that only a day or so (at most) is supposed to have passed since the end of the previous season. This character has been lugging his severed hand around in a cooler. Apparently a vet can accomplish in an hour or so what takes a team of surgeons, neurosurgeons, and immunologists months: attach a limb and make it totally usable with full strength and dexterity. It doesn't really matter what happens from here on: at this point, the story has ventured so far into the stupid that it can't come back.
Then, on Vanished, we have more Atlanta stupidity. Last week, we had someone refer to the city of "Shomblay." They were probably talking about "Chamblee," which is pronounced "sham-blee." It would have taken all of thirty seconds for someone to check this, but they didn't bother. Then we had Southern style plantation homes in Atlanta, which are about as rare here as they are in Los Angeles. Tonight, we had someone refer to the city of Dunwoody (Dunwoody isn't a city, it's an area with no clearly determined borders); then later on, we had a shot of an underground city below the streets of Atlanta. My guess is some moron heard discussion of "Underground Atlanta" and pictures this city with multi-story building located deep beneath the modern city of Atlanta. 'Tain't so, McGirk. Underground Atlanta is a seamy little blend of second-rate shops, bars, and a few restaurants a few steps below current street level; a more appropriate name would be "sunken living room Atlanta." The old city of Atlanta was burned by Sherman, remember--that whole Civil War "March to the Sea" thing? Again, five minutes of research wold have told them this was sheer idiocy.
And how did they discover this "lost city of Atlanta," as I call it? Well, they were looking for a car that went into a long tunnel and never came out the other side. Try to find such a tunnel anywhere in Atlanta; the longest "tunnel" we have is a couple of hundred yards, max, and it's really an underpasss more than anything else.
This is about as dopey as someone having someone travel from Disneyworld to the San Juan Capistrano via subway in five minutes, or having someone drive to Catalina Island over the Catalina Bridge, or having some jog from Brooklyn to Schenectady. It's bad research, bad writing, and it's pretty much unforgiveable as far as I'm concerned. So as of tonight, both shows are off the viewing list. And I hope that Fox considers hiring writers for their shows next year...
Tonight on Prison Break, a character whose hand was chopped off with an axe at the end of the first season had his hand reattached by a veterinarian... and as soon as it was sewn on, he was able to move it, to grip things, and to kill the poor vet who thought he was doing a good thing. Now bear in mind that only a day or so (at most) is supposed to have passed since the end of the previous season. This character has been lugging his severed hand around in a cooler. Apparently a vet can accomplish in an hour or so what takes a team of surgeons, neurosurgeons, and immunologists months: attach a limb and make it totally usable with full strength and dexterity. It doesn't really matter what happens from here on: at this point, the story has ventured so far into the stupid that it can't come back.
Then, on Vanished, we have more Atlanta stupidity. Last week, we had someone refer to the city of "Shomblay." They were probably talking about "Chamblee," which is pronounced "sham-blee." It would have taken all of thirty seconds for someone to check this, but they didn't bother. Then we had Southern style plantation homes in Atlanta, which are about as rare here as they are in Los Angeles. Tonight, we had someone refer to the city of Dunwoody (Dunwoody isn't a city, it's an area with no clearly determined borders); then later on, we had a shot of an underground city below the streets of Atlanta. My guess is some moron heard discussion of "Underground Atlanta" and pictures this city with multi-story building located deep beneath the modern city of Atlanta. 'Tain't so, McGirk. Underground Atlanta is a seamy little blend of second-rate shops, bars, and a few restaurants a few steps below current street level; a more appropriate name would be "sunken living room Atlanta." The old city of Atlanta was burned by Sherman, remember--that whole Civil War "March to the Sea" thing? Again, five minutes of research wold have told them this was sheer idiocy.
And how did they discover this "lost city of Atlanta," as I call it? Well, they were looking for a car that went into a long tunnel and never came out the other side. Try to find such a tunnel anywhere in Atlanta; the longest "tunnel" we have is a couple of hundred yards, max, and it's really an underpasss more than anything else.
This is about as dopey as someone having someone travel from Disneyworld to the San Juan Capistrano via subway in five minutes, or having someone drive to Catalina Island over the Catalina Bridge, or having some jog from Brooklyn to Schenectady. It's bad research, bad writing, and it's pretty much unforgiveable as far as I'm concerned. So as of tonight, both shows are off the viewing list. And I hope that Fox considers hiring writers for their shows next year...
Amazon Dot Scam?
Further research reveals that I have been victimized at least once before by the "higher prices for established customers who buy numerous products in the same category" system at Amazon.com although I dismissed my other mistake as a routine discrepancy.
Forgetting that I had ordered Veronica Mars Season 2 from home already, I placed an order for the DVD set from the store. That meant that I ended up getting two copies from Amazon--one that I ordered at home (where the computer automatically logs me in under my Amazon account, so the computer recognizes me by name) and once at the store (where I "shop blind"—that is, the computer doesn't know who I am until after I've placed the item in my shopping cart, at which point the price is already set).
I reviewed the two invoices, and the price I paid for Veronica Mars Season 2 from Amazon when I ordered under my name was $41.80. the price I paid when I bought the same DVD set "ordering blind" was $37.99. That means that I paid 10% more, apparently because Amazon's sales-tracking software noted that I tended to buy numerous DVD sets of television programs. The system seems skewed to increase prices for frequent customers who make numerous purchases in the same product areas.
So those of you who tend to shop at Amazon.com, be careful... you could be paying far more than you might have to!
(And I checked using the "known shopper" versus "blind shopper" system, and the same Samsung 46" LCD television that was $2699 when I shopped as a known shopper was only $2549 when I shopped blind.)
I have real trouble believing that any of this is accidental...
Forgetting that I had ordered Veronica Mars Season 2 from home already, I placed an order for the DVD set from the store. That meant that I ended up getting two copies from Amazon--one that I ordered at home (where the computer automatically logs me in under my Amazon account, so the computer recognizes me by name) and once at the store (where I "shop blind"—that is, the computer doesn't know who I am until after I've placed the item in my shopping cart, at which point the price is already set).
I reviewed the two invoices, and the price I paid for Veronica Mars Season 2 from Amazon when I ordered under my name was $41.80. the price I paid when I bought the same DVD set "ordering blind" was $37.99. That means that I paid 10% more, apparently because Amazon's sales-tracking software noted that I tended to buy numerous DVD sets of television programs. The system seems skewed to increase prices for frequent customers who make numerous purchases in the same product areas.
So those of you who tend to shop at Amazon.com, be careful... you could be paying far more than you might have to!
(And I checked using the "known shopper" versus "blind shopper" system, and the same Samsung 46" LCD television that was $2699 when I shopped as a known shopper was only $2549 when I shopped blind.)
I have real trouble believing that any of this is accidental...
Amazon Antics
Had a very frustrating experience with Amazon.com today--and that's surprising, because I had come to think of Amazon as the most reputable of all internet retailers.
I noticed Saturday that Amazon had a pretty good price on the Sony Bravia 46" LCD television, so I had done some homework on that model; I thought it would be a good fit for our living room, which is still outfitted with a 10-year-old ProScan 36" tube television. Amazong had it for $2299 plus $49 shipping; before I sprung for that kind of money, I decided to check pricing elsewhere.
Yesterday and today, I checked BrandsMart, Circuit City, Best Buy, H.H. Gregg's, CompUSA, CostCo, and Sam's; no one had the television at that price. So I came home, logged into Amazon.com, clicked on the set, started to place my order...
And saw that when the set went into my cart, it came up at $2399. A hundred dollar increase. I went back to the page, and the same page that had ten seconds earlier said $2299 now said $2399... but down below it, all the related info still referred to the $2299 price (including a link that said I could buy the set plus a wall mount for $2399, and another that said that 57% of the people who inquired about that set ended up buying the Sony Bravia for $2299). At that point, I did a quick PDF save of the screen as proof that I was being flimflammed, and called Amazon. I was told that the price just so happened to have gone up at the precise moment I was placing my order, and there was nothing they could do.
However, at the very same time I was being given that explanation, I went to another computer in the house that was on a different ISP (thus a different IP address),went to Amazon.com, then checked on the price of the same television without logging in under my name. It came up at $2299. I went back to the other computer, refreshed the screen, and it was still $2399. There was the proof right in front of me: Amazon.com had increased the price on a product for a long-standing customer who had spent thousands with them, while quoting a lower price to a nameless shopper. Without logging in, I placed the item in my shopping cart, then took a screen capture with a time display from another site in the background to prove just when I was doing this. I clicked Check Out Now, and then I logged in. At that point, the set was now available to me at the $2299 price, so I made the purchase. I then tried it again, on that same computer; I logged in first, checked on the television, and it came up a hundred bucks higher.
Do you smell sleaze?
The person I had on the phone at the time quit trying to scam me once I told him what evidence I had and what screen captures I had made; within a moment, he just hung up.
I'm going to check into filing an FTC complaint tomorrow. I'm also going to try to talk to someone at Amazon.com about this practice. In the meantime, if you do business with these guys, you might want to check prices before you log in to your account; you'd be surprised what you might save!
I noticed Saturday that Amazon had a pretty good price on the Sony Bravia 46" LCD television, so I had done some homework on that model; I thought it would be a good fit for our living room, which is still outfitted with a 10-year-old ProScan 36" tube television. Amazong had it for $2299 plus $49 shipping; before I sprung for that kind of money, I decided to check pricing elsewhere.
Yesterday and today, I checked BrandsMart, Circuit City, Best Buy, H.H. Gregg's, CompUSA, CostCo, and Sam's; no one had the television at that price. So I came home, logged into Amazon.com, clicked on the set, started to place my order...
And saw that when the set went into my cart, it came up at $2399. A hundred dollar increase. I went back to the page, and the same page that had ten seconds earlier said $2299 now said $2399... but down below it, all the related info still referred to the $2299 price (including a link that said I could buy the set plus a wall mount for $2399, and another that said that 57% of the people who inquired about that set ended up buying the Sony Bravia for $2299). At that point, I did a quick PDF save of the screen as proof that I was being flimflammed, and called Amazon. I was told that the price just so happened to have gone up at the precise moment I was placing my order, and there was nothing they could do.
However, at the very same time I was being given that explanation, I went to another computer in the house that was on a different ISP (thus a different IP address),went to Amazon.com, then checked on the price of the same television without logging in under my name. It came up at $2299. I went back to the other computer, refreshed the screen, and it was still $2399. There was the proof right in front of me: Amazon.com had increased the price on a product for a long-standing customer who had spent thousands with them, while quoting a lower price to a nameless shopper. Without logging in, I placed the item in my shopping cart, then took a screen capture with a time display from another site in the background to prove just when I was doing this. I clicked Check Out Now, and then I logged in. At that point, the set was now available to me at the $2299 price, so I made the purchase. I then tried it again, on that same computer; I logged in first, checked on the television, and it came up a hundred bucks higher.
Do you smell sleaze?
The person I had on the phone at the time quit trying to scam me once I told him what evidence I had and what screen captures I had made; within a moment, he just hung up.
I'm going to check into filing an FTC complaint tomorrow. I'm also going to try to talk to someone at Amazon.com about this practice. In the meantime, if you do business with these guys, you might want to check prices before you log in to your account; you'd be surprised what you might save!
Saturday, August 26, 2006
You Say It's Your Birthday...
Well, actually it's my birthday—as of about 29 minutes ago...
This is one of those birthdays that seems numerically significant, although there's no reasonable explanation as to why it should. I was born in 1953; as of today, I am 53 years old. Having shortened my birth year to 53 for most of the 20th Century (when we never thought that much about the fact that the year 2000 might require a four-digit year to clarify which century we're talking about) it seems metaphysically significant that I am 53 this year; there's some cosmic balance that has been achieved, although one that will have little impact on me or anyone else. And what a simple achievement it was—all I had to do was stay alive for 53 years!
Since my birthday is on a Saturday, some of my friends commemorated the occasion a day early, realizing that they might not see me on the day of my naissance. Brett gave me a copy of Scott Beatty's training guide for would-be Batmen... it's lots of fun, and I joked about using it on my nightly "patrols." He also gave me a bag of Lindt extra-dark chocolate truffles, which are remarkably rich and at the same time mellow without the bitterness of some extra-dark chocolates; I've written about them previously here, in fact.
Whitney, also catering to my affection for rich dark chocolate flavor, prepared an exceptional chocolate soufflé that undoubtedly contained inordinate amounts of cocoa; it had great tongue appeal as well as a full-bodied but not overpowering chocolate flavor. I had never had a chocolate soufflé before, but I couldn't have asked for a better introduction!
My bestest friend Bob Wayne called this evening, and we actually had almost a half an hour to talk, catch up on things, and even joke around a litle bit. Bob is a true kindred soul, someone with whom I share so many things in common it's uncanny. It always brightens my day to have a chance to talk with him; I look forward to a time when we can talk even more frequently.
Later today (I had to strike the initial word I typed, since it was "tomorrow" and it's now 46 minutes into the 26th as I continue my nattering), Susan and I will drive to Rome and spend a few hours with Dad and Kim. Don't know if Cole and Christy and Jess and Adam will make it or not. Cole and Christy are closing on a house on Monday, and are probably hip-deep in packing and preparing for the move, since they have four days to vacate the duplex they were renting; Jess has two jobs plus college on her mind, and seems to have less spare time than ever before. It still amazes me sometimes to realize that they're busy pursuing their own lives as adults; I'll always remember them as those energetic, enthusiastic children of years past, when all of us were young and healthy and blissfully carefree.
I'm not so much a big birthday person, to be honest. I don't like to mention my birthday to others, because I think it seems like I'm trolling for gifts or cards or greetings. My birthday is significant to me in some ways, but not in the usual "I'm getting older" ritual; I feel only a few minutes older than I was when I was still 52, some 52 minutes ago (aha—yet another bit of numerical synchronicity!). I enjoy and feel appreciative that there are some who feel my presence is sufficiently meaningful that they wish to acknowledge it with a kind word or a gift or a moment of recognition, but I never think enough of my birthday to expect or desire others to go out of their way to celebrate it. We all have too much of our own lives to celebrate, to experience, and (sometimes) to endure; to expect someone to put all that aside seems irrationally egocentric. Of course, I can be as egocentric as anyone (and often moreso!)...
There are times when I can get wistful to the point of melancholia considering birthdays—not that I regret having them, mind you, but I do sometimes regret how they remind me of so many days that have passed by sans celebration, sans recognition. Sometimes we're so busy living the days that we don't take the time to really appreciate the thousands of significant moments that comprise each and every one of them. Birthdays, in reminding us of the eventfulness of one day, can sometimes underscore our tendency to overlook the eventfulness of all the others.
Sometimes I wish I had the tenacity to contact friends on my birthday and just say thanks—thanks for all the days brightened, all the memories evoked, all the happy moments enhanced, all the sorrowful burdens lessened by shared sadness. Perhaps we should spend a little bit of our birthdays letting others know that they have made the years worthwhile... but to do so might seem in itself to be another way of saying "it's my birthday," which would defeat the whole purpose, wouldn't it?
It's my birthday... has been for an hour and three minutes now. Thanks for caring!
This is one of those birthdays that seems numerically significant, although there's no reasonable explanation as to why it should. I was born in 1953; as of today, I am 53 years old. Having shortened my birth year to 53 for most of the 20th Century (when we never thought that much about the fact that the year 2000 might require a four-digit year to clarify which century we're talking about) it seems metaphysically significant that I am 53 this year; there's some cosmic balance that has been achieved, although one that will have little impact on me or anyone else. And what a simple achievement it was—all I had to do was stay alive for 53 years!
Since my birthday is on a Saturday, some of my friends commemorated the occasion a day early, realizing that they might not see me on the day of my naissance. Brett gave me a copy of Scott Beatty's training guide for would-be Batmen... it's lots of fun, and I joked about using it on my nightly "patrols." He also gave me a bag of Lindt extra-dark chocolate truffles, which are remarkably rich and at the same time mellow without the bitterness of some extra-dark chocolates; I've written about them previously here, in fact.
Whitney, also catering to my affection for rich dark chocolate flavor, prepared an exceptional chocolate soufflé that undoubtedly contained inordinate amounts of cocoa; it had great tongue appeal as well as a full-bodied but not overpowering chocolate flavor. I had never had a chocolate soufflé before, but I couldn't have asked for a better introduction!
My bestest friend Bob Wayne called this evening, and we actually had almost a half an hour to talk, catch up on things, and even joke around a litle bit. Bob is a true kindred soul, someone with whom I share so many things in common it's uncanny. It always brightens my day to have a chance to talk with him; I look forward to a time when we can talk even more frequently.
Later today (I had to strike the initial word I typed, since it was "tomorrow" and it's now 46 minutes into the 26th as I continue my nattering), Susan and I will drive to Rome and spend a few hours with Dad and Kim. Don't know if Cole and Christy and Jess and Adam will make it or not. Cole and Christy are closing on a house on Monday, and are probably hip-deep in packing and preparing for the move, since they have four days to vacate the duplex they were renting; Jess has two jobs plus college on her mind, and seems to have less spare time than ever before. It still amazes me sometimes to realize that they're busy pursuing their own lives as adults; I'll always remember them as those energetic, enthusiastic children of years past, when all of us were young and healthy and blissfully carefree.
I'm not so much a big birthday person, to be honest. I don't like to mention my birthday to others, because I think it seems like I'm trolling for gifts or cards or greetings. My birthday is significant to me in some ways, but not in the usual "I'm getting older" ritual; I feel only a few minutes older than I was when I was still 52, some 52 minutes ago (aha—yet another bit of numerical synchronicity!). I enjoy and feel appreciative that there are some who feel my presence is sufficiently meaningful that they wish to acknowledge it with a kind word or a gift or a moment of recognition, but I never think enough of my birthday to expect or desire others to go out of their way to celebrate it. We all have too much of our own lives to celebrate, to experience, and (sometimes) to endure; to expect someone to put all that aside seems irrationally egocentric. Of course, I can be as egocentric as anyone (and often moreso!)...
There are times when I can get wistful to the point of melancholia considering birthdays—not that I regret having them, mind you, but I do sometimes regret how they remind me of so many days that have passed by sans celebration, sans recognition. Sometimes we're so busy living the days that we don't take the time to really appreciate the thousands of significant moments that comprise each and every one of them. Birthdays, in reminding us of the eventfulness of one day, can sometimes underscore our tendency to overlook the eventfulness of all the others.
Sometimes I wish I had the tenacity to contact friends on my birthday and just say thanks—thanks for all the days brightened, all the memories evoked, all the happy moments enhanced, all the sorrowful burdens lessened by shared sadness. Perhaps we should spend a little bit of our birthdays letting others know that they have made the years worthwhile... but to do so might seem in itself to be another way of saying "it's my birthday," which would defeat the whole purpose, wouldn't it?
It's my birthday... has been for an hour and three minutes now. Thanks for caring!
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Twisting by the Pool
Not me, mind you... but there were some people who were engaging in dancing even though they obviously shouldn't attempt it in public.
Tonight there was a poolside party/concert at the neighborhood clubhouse; all tolled, about a hundred and a half folks showed up at sometime during the four hour event, which for our neighborhood is quite impressive indeed. We have 423 homes in Northampton, with a total "population" of about 1850, but it seems like everyone is so busy that it's tough to get many of them to show up for any single event. Somehow, though, this one clicked--and that's good! Now I hope that someone can figure out exactly what made it work so that we duplicate it.
Have I mentioned, by the way, that I am the president of the homeowners' association here? My motivation for doing so was pretty egocentric; I didn't like the facxt that the prior board had raised out dues 15% for what struck me as insufficient reasons, so I figured the best protection against further dues increases was to step up and become a part of the group that determines dues and other neighborhood policies. I'm pleased to say that there have been no dues increases while I've been on the board, problems have been kept to a minimum, and our financial status has actually improved due to some prudent investments of neighborhood reserve funds.
But that's dull stuff. The good news is that the neighborhood actually came together for an event and had a great time. I'm going to hope that it's the beginning of a trend.
Only bad thing... the band that performed at the poolside party didn't play a single Beatles or Crosby, Stills, and Nash song. Bummer...
Tonight there was a poolside party/concert at the neighborhood clubhouse; all tolled, about a hundred and a half folks showed up at sometime during the four hour event, which for our neighborhood is quite impressive indeed. We have 423 homes in Northampton, with a total "population" of about 1850, but it seems like everyone is so busy that it's tough to get many of them to show up for any single event. Somehow, though, this one clicked--and that's good! Now I hope that someone can figure out exactly what made it work so that we duplicate it.
Have I mentioned, by the way, that I am the president of the homeowners' association here? My motivation for doing so was pretty egocentric; I didn't like the facxt that the prior board had raised out dues 15% for what struck me as insufficient reasons, so I figured the best protection against further dues increases was to step up and become a part of the group that determines dues and other neighborhood policies. I'm pleased to say that there have been no dues increases while I've been on the board, problems have been kept to a minimum, and our financial status has actually improved due to some prudent investments of neighborhood reserve funds.
But that's dull stuff. The good news is that the neighborhood actually came together for an event and had a great time. I'm going to hope that it's the beginning of a trend.
Only bad thing... the band that performed at the poolside party didn't play a single Beatles or Crosby, Stills, and Nash song. Bummer...
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Ever wonder how you got here?
There are times when I feel like life isn't so much a carefully constructed plan as it is a series of bumps, bouncebacks, ricochets, and random events that get us to where we are. I've had people ask me about "the secret to my success," and I guess that they're serious about it—but I have no great words of wisdom to bestow. Oh, I can share a few of my philosophies and observations, but I can't delineate a Benjamin-Franklin-like plan for success, because that's not what happened.
If things had gone as I planned when I was fifteen, I would have pursued a career as a comic book artist. If things had gone as I had envisioned when I was eighteen, I would have followed Dad's footsteps as a journalist. If things had gone as Susan and I planned when I was twenty-one, we would have bought a house in Rome, where I would have continued to teach until retirement. The list goes on and on...
But we never plan for the unexpected twists, the lucky (and not so lucky) events. I never imagined, back when Susan and I did fanzines in the 1970s, that the same skills would carry over to Comic Shop News, which is basically a fanzine with much better pay. It never occurred to me, when MSA offered Susan an entry-level programming job back in 1977, that a move to Marietta would lead to so many changes. I never dreamed, when I agreed to help Artie Decker order new comics as an experiment in his store, that I would become a co-owner of that store five years later. I never planned on a spur-of-the-moment decision to buy a farmhouse in Rome in 1992 would become, in 1999, one of the best financial investments I ever made. And of course, I would have never believed that a near-fatal heart attack would ultimately result in my being in the best health of my life.
I wish I could describe a meticulously planned roadmap for my life, but I'd be lying if I did. John Lennon got it right... life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans...
There are times when I feel like life isn't so much a carefully constructed plan as it is a series of bumps, bouncebacks, ricochets, and random events that get us to where we are. I've had people ask me about "the secret to my success," and I guess that they're serious about it—but I have no great words of wisdom to bestow. Oh, I can share a few of my philosophies and observations, but I can't delineate a Benjamin-Franklin-like plan for success, because that's not what happened.
If things had gone as I planned when I was fifteen, I would have pursued a career as a comic book artist. If things had gone as I had envisioned when I was eighteen, I would have followed Dad's footsteps as a journalist. If things had gone as Susan and I planned when I was twenty-one, we would have bought a house in Rome, where I would have continued to teach until retirement. The list goes on and on...
But we never plan for the unexpected twists, the lucky (and not so lucky) events. I never imagined, back when Susan and I did fanzines in the 1970s, that the same skills would carry over to Comic Shop News, which is basically a fanzine with much better pay. It never occurred to me, when MSA offered Susan an entry-level programming job back in 1977, that a move to Marietta would lead to so many changes. I never dreamed, when I agreed to help Artie Decker order new comics as an experiment in his store, that I would become a co-owner of that store five years later. I never planned on a spur-of-the-moment decision to buy a farmhouse in Rome in 1992 would become, in 1999, one of the best financial investments I ever made. And of course, I would have never believed that a near-fatal heart attack would ultimately result in my being in the best health of my life.
I wish I could describe a meticulously planned roadmap for my life, but I'd be lying if I did. John Lennon got it right... life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans...
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