It appears that the map I published for friends and family showing the new house and surrounding points of interest includes a typo. When highlighting the schools they'll attend I spelt Grammar with an 'e'. "Grammer".
Dan Meader noticed this and he wrote back saying "Kelsey Grammer school? You didn't misspell grammar did you?"
I wrote back and said "It is the Kelsey Grammer school.... it's only two Niles away from our house."
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Monday, February 26, 2007
I Need MySpace Like I Need A Whole In MyHead
I recently found out that my older Brother, my niece Marissa and my niece Lindsey all have 'MySpace' accounts. In fact, several months back when Marissa and 'crew' were visiting for Lindsey's graduation, they all exclaimed how desperately I needed to have a 'MySpace' account and how cool it was and all that.... uh... crap. And I say 'crap' because, without meaning to be offensive to my family members, the whole 'experience' of MySpace is as unbearable to view as listening to Maria Carry and Whitney Houston singing.... singing... well, hell, just singing at all. After about 2 minutes of looking at MySpace i'm cringing and feeling the same irritating sensations that typically accompany listening to a styrofoam cooler squeaking on the back seat during a 30min drive to the beach. As somebody that's had a reasonable amount of exposure to design and usability, it's unbelievable that it's gotten the momentum it does.
I went ahead and I created a presence there just as a way to keep tabs on the family, and thankfully there's RSS feed support that I can subscribe to and avoid stepping foot into the mire that is MySpace. As I state on the 'About Me" blurb....
I don't mean to come off as a blog-snob, but holy crap... MySpace is the design equivalent of a Pee Chee in the hands of a 7th grader with a four-color click-pen.
I went ahead and I created a presence there just as a way to keep tabs on the family, and thankfully there's RSS feed support that I can subscribe to and avoid stepping foot into the mire that is MySpace. As I state on the 'About Me" blurb....
I have my own site, my family knows about it, but my brother and nieces are here, so I'm making myself accessible to them. Of course, it's all about reminding them to go to my real website and get off this lame myspace stuff. I mean, come on... are we still 12? Yeah, I don't think so.
I don't mean to come off as a blog-snob, but holy crap... MySpace is the design equivalent of a Pee Chee in the hands of a 7th grader with a four-color click-pen.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
The Danish Poet
In my younger years I'd made annual efforts to attend animation festivals as they rolled through town and were screened at the Camera cinemas. I love good, creative, artist animation, especially when the story is entertaining, heartwarming and human. I've not gone to a showing for some years but fortunately, there was an event at Apple this week that revived my interest. Unfortunately, I only had time to sit for a few, but one left a lasting impression. The Danish Poet. It's wonderful, funny, and touching. And it's up for an Academy Award as well. I hope it garners it the necessary recognition, and that it becomes available to the general public.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Why’d You Turn Out Like That?
I observe wide right-hand turns practically every day at work, and with rare exception, they’re completely unnecessary and idiotic. I work with some of the brightest minds in the computer industry but thank god they’re not designing roadways or teaching driving schools.
Driving into the underground parking at the office requires a right-hand turn into and down a short ramp, along side a card-reader which you pass your badge over to open the gate. But for some reason beyond my understanding, people seems to have an odd compulsion to first veer to the left, then make a broad and sweeping right hand turn, as if there’s no room to do so otherwise. But there is! There is plenty of room for even a Surburban to navigate this simple turn. But people, even those in Mini Coopers and Civics, still make it into a semi-circle turn. And I’ve actually driven behind people at the prior stoplight, where they’d squeezed through the right side of the road and into the bike lane to successfully make that sharp right-hand turn, only to witness them approach the parking garage turn as if they’re about to guide a Hummer into a compact parking space between two semi-trucks.
Last Friday was the worst. Friday morning, a guy driving ahead of me turned on his right-hand signal, veered completely into the left-hand turn lane that runs parallel to the garage entrance, only to then turn sharply back to the right, straight across the actual lane that he’d just careened out of and which I was still driving in, and down into the parking garage ramp. He was driving a frickin’ Honda. He had no reason to make the turn in such a fashion. Had I not anticipated it, he’d have clipped my front left side as I drove forward, reasonably thinking that somebody that moves into a left hand turn lane and turns on their right hand signal is really planning on making a left hand turn. At least he turned his signal on, which is more then some have done in the past.
this down as Pet Peeve #491 in an continuing series.
Driving into the underground parking at the office requires a right-hand turn into and down a short ramp, along side a card-reader which you pass your badge over to open the gate. But for some reason beyond my understanding, people seems to have an odd compulsion to first veer to the left, then make a broad and sweeping right hand turn, as if there’s no room to do so otherwise. But there is! There is plenty of room for even a Surburban to navigate this simple turn. But people, even those in Mini Coopers and Civics, still make it into a semi-circle turn. And I’ve actually driven behind people at the prior stoplight, where they’d squeezed through the right side of the road and into the bike lane to successfully make that sharp right-hand turn, only to witness them approach the parking garage turn as if they’re about to guide a Hummer into a compact parking space between two semi-trucks.
Last Friday was the worst. Friday morning, a guy driving ahead of me turned on his right-hand signal, veered completely into the left-hand turn lane that runs parallel to the garage entrance, only to then turn sharply back to the right, straight across the actual lane that he’d just careened out of and which I was still driving in, and down into the parking garage ramp. He was driving a frickin’ Honda. He had no reason to make the turn in such a fashion. Had I not anticipated it, he’d have clipped my front left side as I drove forward, reasonably thinking that somebody that moves into a left hand turn lane and turns on their right hand signal is really planning on making a left hand turn. At least he turned his signal on, which is more then some have done in the past.
this down as Pet Peeve #491 in an continuing series.
Monday, February 19, 2007
Home Bound And Gagged
We’re in escrow. We are buying a house. And for those of you that had been personally aware of the effort, yes, it’s that one we wanted, made a few offers on, and ended up walking away from. Last Thursday were were contacted by the seller and after further discussions, we reached a mutually acceptable agreement. This all happened between Friday and today, including the signing of the papers starting the process. Before then, we’d completely give up on that home and were just waiting for something else we wanted to surface.
We’re gonna be house-poor for awhile. We’ll be bound to a very tight budget in which trips, travel, tech toys and tequila will all be luxury items. Well, maybe not the last one. And I’d like to avoid the “how much” question, only because it’s painful enough to gag every time I think of it to myself, let alone having to actually speak the numbers out loud while watching your faces blanch and your eyes roll back in your heads while muttering “you eediot” under your breath.
Yes, we’re taking on some serious debt. But the location has everything we want, including excellent schools, end-of-culdesac location, proximity to friends and familiar places, and more. Everything else we’ve seen has looked like an interim step. Ultimately, my hope is that in a couple of years we’ll have some financial relief, and in 15 years, this may be the one place my children will have always know as “home”. So it’s worth it.
We’ll be taking possession 3/5, but still renting through 3/31, so we’ll have a decent overlap during which to do a bit of painting and such, and making the move easier on all of us.
We’re gonna be house-poor for awhile. We’ll be bound to a very tight budget in which trips, travel, tech toys and tequila will all be luxury items. Well, maybe not the last one. And I’d like to avoid the “how much” question, only because it’s painful enough to gag every time I think of it to myself, let alone having to actually speak the numbers out loud while watching your faces blanch and your eyes roll back in your heads while muttering “you eediot” under your breath.
Yes, we’re taking on some serious debt. But the location has everything we want, including excellent schools, end-of-culdesac location, proximity to friends and familiar places, and more. Everything else we’ve seen has looked like an interim step. Ultimately, my hope is that in a couple of years we’ll have some financial relief, and in 15 years, this may be the one place my children will have always know as “home”. So it’s worth it.
We’ll be taking possession 3/5, but still renting through 3/31, so we’ll have a decent overlap during which to do a bit of painting and such, and making the move easier on all of us.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Castles Made of Sand
I don’t know where you might be while you read this, but today, February 17th, the sun was shining brightly and it was a pleasant 72 degrees in the Bay Area. I’d offered to take care of the kids in the morning, and with a addition of a little water into the equation, I found the ideal way to kill some time. I frequently take them to the Apple campus to play. It’s completely enclosed, there’s a great set of sidewalks between the buildings and around the inside that make for perfect tricycle riding. There’s a large basketball court they can roll and bounce the balls on, and there’s an adjacent sand lot with a full size volleyball court. Oh, and a hose, with one of those awesome multi-spray nozzles, right at the edge of the sand. So, with buckets and shovels in hand, we planted ourselves on the outer edge and they took turns wetting down a small section of the sand for digging and building sand castles. It was like being at the beach in the middle of winter time. And believe it or not there were gardeners cutting the lawn nearby, sending the smell of fresh cut grass into the air around us. All that was missing was the smell of charcoal. :-)
Friday, February 16, 2007
Wisdom Teeth Meet Idiot Surgeon
The topic of a good friend's son having his wisdom teeth removed reminded me of my own experiences with this routine surgical procedure. I was about 16 or so. One significant memory of the event occurred the day after the surgery. I had eaten ice cream and taken pain killers while I patiently awaited the end of the Novocain's effects, and the return of sensation to my gums and lips. (I was missing the ability to speak clearly instead of mumbling incoherent gibberish as if I'd had my cheeks surgically sewn onto my gums.)
It was only the following morning, once the anesthetic had plenty of time to run it's course, that I started wondering why my speaking was not back on par. That, and the fact that one side of my mouth hurt more then the other side, prompted me to go check things out in the bathroom mirror. And guess what I found? They'd sewn my cheek onto my gum. literally. There was stitching in the gum that had crossed over and been threaded through the inner flesh of my cheek.
It was more frustrating then anything else. What kind of clod would sew a kids cheek to his gum? I was in no mood to go back and hassle with it being addressed by so-called "Professionals", so I dug up a pair of small sewing scissors, and I methodically cut the cheek free while leaving the rest of the stitches in place to heal as expected. That was my one "John McClane" moment.
Of course the Vicodin helped. :-)
It was only the following morning, once the anesthetic had plenty of time to run it's course, that I started wondering why my speaking was not back on par. That, and the fact that one side of my mouth hurt more then the other side, prompted me to go check things out in the bathroom mirror. And guess what I found? They'd sewn my cheek onto my gum. literally. There was stitching in the gum that had crossed over and been threaded through the inner flesh of my cheek.
It was more frustrating then anything else. What kind of clod would sew a kids cheek to his gum? I was in no mood to go back and hassle with it being addressed by so-called "Professionals", so I dug up a pair of small sewing scissors, and I methodically cut the cheek free while leaving the rest of the stitches in place to heal as expected. That was my one "John McClane" moment.
Of course the Vicodin helped. :-)
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Singapore Planning On My Part (updated 2/15)
I was very fortunate to have had an opportunity to travel internationally for Apple in the mid-late 90's. My role at the time had direct ties to the manufacturing process, specifically the techniques used to download the pre-installed software to the Mac's heading down the production lines, into boxes and out the doors to their destination countries. The most wonderful aspect of this was that, prior to even starting at Apple, if you to pull me aside and ask me to describe my dream job, i'd have said "Traveling Abroad and working with Macs". Yet this opportunity was not pursued, it simply manifested itself over time.
These travels all have some fantastic stories that accompany them, each with their own specific situations and memories, each unique, and each to be detailed here at some point, starting today with the one chance I had to visit Singapore. The country itself didn't leave as long and lasting an impression as did the numerous experiences I had in the span of just one week.
Prelude
Before going into too much detail about the experiences, it's essential to explain that my travels were not only tied to the manufacturing process, but to the revolutions, if not evolutions, in that process which were being piloted by a co-worker and friend in Ireland. Colm Murphy. Colm had come to the states at one point and helped to initiate a number of innovations in how Apple got software onto CPUs, which led to a great friendship, several patents, numerous coordinated trips to manufacturing sites around the world, and our own co-created super-secret project that we code named "Phileas Fogg", being an attempt to go around the world at Apple's bequest. :-)
It was on the first evening of my first overseas trip to Cork, Ireland that Colm and I sat in one of several dozen pubs downtown, nursing a Murphy's Irish Stout, and reviewing two very key and essential points regarding company sponsored travel.
Anything within reason can and should be expensed. Nothing is unreasonable when you're displaced on behalf of the company. It didn't take much to convince me, and another moment or two for me to embrace the concept. Yes, I expensed the beers. And this all plays directly into the first situation that occurred on my arrival at the Shangri-La Hotel.
Nightmare at 20,000 feet
The flight I took to Singapore was my first opportunity to experience International first class travel. This was well before Steve returned, and most company flights were Business Class. Somehow, I got bumped to First Class and I was seated in the top section of a 747, the space directly behind the cockpit. It was luxurious. I believe it was Virgin Atlantic but I might be wrong. The flight was a non-stop from San Francisco to Tokyo, where I'd be catching a connecting flight to Singapore. I believe the entire trip was 15+ hours of flight time if not more.
As is customary, the evening flight included dinner service, and a short time after, because we were still operating on 'Pacific Time', the lights were dimmed and people were allowed the opportunity to sleep. The seats in first class reclined completely to become a reasonably sized bed, and I was out like a light, thanks to a full stomach and a glass or two of Cabernet. Very good Cabernet.
At one point in the evening, perhaps early morning, I awoke and looked out the window. All was pitch black. I was clueless as to where we were. But something in the distance caught my eye. It was almost indiscernible, but with a good deal of patience and focused concentration, I could make out the most miniscule flash of light along the horizon. I figured it was nothing and drifted back to sleep.
Perhaps another 30 or 40 minutes later I awoke again and directed my attention out the window, wondering what became of, let alone what the source of the sporadic flashing was. After a brief wait I saw it again. Only much more distinct. And closer.
This was during the time of the Gulf War, and although I know in my waking state that the logistics had us nowhere near there, the sleep state I was in allowed my mind to reel with possibilities. I watch as the flashing gradually grew even closer, and wondered if it might be some actual explosions, on ground or midair. Either way, there was something out there, flashing, and we were flying in it's general direction.
I resisted my "Nightmare_at_20%2C000_Feet" Shatneresque impulses to abscond with the airline deputy's firearm, buckle myself in, open the emergency door and start shooting at the beast walking along the wing of the plane. Instead, I kept watching, wondering just how close we'd get, when I realized what I was actually seeing. It was a thunder storm. From above. And it was a spectacular sight. As we got closer and closer, I could see the outlines of numerous clouds, and they'd light up in an orange-yellow hue as each flash occurred. We never got so close that it made me imagine we had anything to worry about (does lightening strike upwards?) but we did fly along side it as I was able to really just watch in amazement.
This set the tone for the rest of the week. Confusion. Fear. Amazement. Immersion.
This squating crap is for the birds
Once we landed in Tokyo, I made my way through the airport and found my connecting flight with little time to spare. Just enough to make a much needed run to the mens room. And it was there that one of James Glanville's warnings echoed in my head. James was a co-worker in our team in Cupertino and had made numerous flights overseas himself. At the time i was surprised that he'd allow me to go instead of himself, but later, after tiring of the routine, I understood. At one point, well in advance of my starting these trips, James was relating the numerous cultural differences that were involved with visiting other countries, warnings about pick-pockets, driving on the opposite side of the road, cab driver scams, police planting false evidence for extortion purposes, and oh yes, that some restrooms in Singapore have 'squat toilets' instead of those you know and love. Yes, there I was, fuzzy minded from a lengthy flight, tired, a bit irritable, and in dire need of a moment or two of quality 'seated' time. Faced with the prospects of attending to this pressing need from a half-bent standing position, especially having not done so since, oh, the age of 3, just didn't seem too appaeling. Mind you, were I given an opportunity to have a practice round or two with towels and a nearby shower, I'd have considered it. But with no recent experience and another flight awaiting, suffice to say, I opted to tough it out.
Shangri-la de da
Upon arrival in Singapore, I took a cab or a shuttle to the hotel to check in. Apple had booked me in the Shangri-la Hotel, a very upscale hotel directly in the heart of the city and in walking distance to the main shopping district. I had scheduled my arrival to be on a Saturday afternoon instead of the typical Sunday. I always did that. I did so because I had learned that it was worth having a day to acclimate to the jet lag, and I also liked having an opportunity to familiarize myself with an area, especially one I'd not been to beforehand. There would be another employee from Sacramento arriving later that day, with Colm and Ken Fitzgerald Smith scheduled to arrive on Sunday. I'd have it all mapped out by then.
The room I was given was quite nice. It was nothing like a suite or anything ultra luxurious, but it was definitely a quality hotel, and it showed in the furnishing and decor, let alone the grounds of the hotel, which were beautiful and expansive. There was a great pool outside and an elaborate garden with koi ponds, paths and bridges. But it was humid. VERY humid, and even the room, with the AC cranked to the maximum, was uncomfortable.
I took a stroll along the main shopping street and explored the region, taking note of a few restaurants and, habitually, noticing a Harley Davidson dealership as well. I'd made a point by then of keeping an eye out for these, and on every international trip, I'd return with a hat for my brother that had the HD logo and the name of the city or country on it.
Upon returning from my brief stroll, I noticed a sign in the hotel lobby relating to an hourly shuttle service they had to their sister hotel, one at another spot across town. What better way to get an easy glimpse of the city then a free, air conditioned shuttle to the other side of town and back? So on I jumped.
I got settled in along side a window seat and as the van worked it's way across town, I caught glimpses of the downtown area, all pristine and clean, as you'd expect from a culture that canes people for vandalism (something I have no issues with, to be brutally honest). As we travelled out beyond the edge of the larger buildings we started to travel through some of the outer regions on main streets, past open markets, residential towers and vast housing complexes, and further towards the ocean. This was great, as I'd not really expected to be seeing the water's edge at this point, and the air started be become less humid and cooler as well.
I had no idea, no preconceived notion, of where this sister hotel would be or what it would look like, so you can imagine my surprise as the shuttle van made a right hand turn and started crossing a massive and very long bridge.... onto an island off the coast!
An Island Paradise
Part of me was worried... not understanding why we were leaving the mainland and heading out towards a large island. I started to wonder if, perhaps, I'd gotten on the wrong shuttle. This island had a massive 'park' of sorts on it, with people milling about in a vast garden area, and i could see a few casual rides there, like a water ride, right on the park. There was even a 'sky tram' suspended over the island and the pier area that visitors would ride across on. This was no hotel. It was some sort of 'amusement' park, and I was perplexed as to how this ended up being the destination of the shuttle.
The shuttle wove through an outer section of the park setting and disappeared down a lush, tropical, tree canopied 2 lane road, with no other vehicles. Along side the right window was the water's edge, and the city of Singapore beyond it. A few left and right and turns, and suddenly, we were making a semi-u-turn in front of the vast opening of a towering hotel, set at the back end of the island, facing out towards a vast ocean way, a few ships scattered about in the green blue waters.
Resorting to deceptive measures
My jaw dropped as I stepped out of the shuttle and into a huge, wide open lobby. there were no doors on either side of the entry, just wide open architecture into the lobby which had steps out of and down to the pool, beaches and water below. The cool ocean breeze all but eliminated any hint of humidity. There was an elaborate restaurant and bar to one side, complete with circulating bamboo fans and cane shutters. The hotel was crescent shaped, facing the ocean and overlooking a large pool lined with chairs, recliners, and an outdoor bar. It was like something out of a Bogart movie.
I took a seat in the lounge area of the open air bar, looking out through the windows, shutters folded out so there was fresh air circulating into the area, and I caught my breath. I had to. I needed a moment to just let the details settle in and start plotting. You see, there was no going back. I was here, and hell or high water, the only trip back to that other hotel better damned be one made just to pickup my bags.
So I started to think. The other Apple employee arriving that afternoon, Fahid, was an engineer from the factory in Sacramento. I'd never met him. Colm and Ken... them, I knew, and knew well that they'd be right in line with me as we moved our bags.
The only hitch, however, was not just about getting rooms, but getting them at the same rate as the hotel in town. By this time I'd managed to learn the in's and out's that Colm had introduced me to back in Ireland on my first trip, and I was well versed in the fine are of expense rationalization. But moving a set of business travelers from a hotel downtown to a beach resort, well, that had to be done delicately. And without detection.
A moment or two later I had my plan, and took action, approaching the more congenial looking receptionist at the front desk. I was greeted with a smile, exchanged pleasantries, and the first question i asked was "Are there many rooms available this week?"
"Yes" was the reply.
"Well, I've got a bit of a dilemma. Perhaps you can help me out." I continued. "You see, I'm traveling on business, and I'm actually staying at your other hotel in town, the Shangri-la".
"Oh, OK" came the response, with a hint of respect/recognition that I was already "A guest" by proxy.
"I'm traveling with Apple Computer. I and three other associates are arriving today and tomorrow. Accommodations were setup for the Shangri-la, but that was a mistake, as we were intended to be staying here." Ok, i stretched the truth a bit, but in a way, I was being completely honest, because as I stood in that lobby, looking out at the waters, the beach, the ships.... hell, the frickin' Casablanca bar... we were intended to be staying there. Fate had put me there for a reason. Fate had put me there to change all of our reservations.
The clerk behind the desk looked at their computer screen, clicked a few keys here and there, and smiling, said "We can accommodate you, sir".
I resisted the urge to grin, let alone do a cart wheel, because there was one hurdle left. The cost. Moving myself and the other's over would not be achievable if it meant having to explain the financial impact of jumping from an Apple Travel authorized and approved hotel to, uh, a "resort".
"Great", I nonchalantly replied to the news that they had space for us. "But just to be sure, it's important that the same rates are carried over, because all of the arrangements have already been coordinated. If I have to go back to Apple and the rates are higher, it'll be a paperwork nightmare. I can go back and say we paid the same but I can't go back and say we had to pay more. Can we move over at the same rate?"
The smile on the clerk faded to an inquisitive and puzzling stare. I started to realize that I might not pull this off. "Let me go talk to the Hotel Manager". And he walked away.
It seemed like I stood there for hours on end. It was probably only a minute or two, but the clock ticked loudly, voices slowed to low muddled tones and everybody moved as if there were walking in Jello. I remained calm and cool on the outside, but on the inside I was as on pins as needles, as if I were an aroused 19 year old standing outside my dream date's apartment, waiting on baited breath for the answer to my question "Can I come up for a cup of coffee?"
Just as the trembling in my knees was on the verge of becoming discernible, the clerk I'd spoken to returned, followed by another, more studious looking associate, clearly their manager. That alone signals the 'stalemate' point in these situations, as the ball hovers momentarily in the air, right at the net, and it's 50/50 on which way it'll fall. I'd either clear this hurdle or bring to down with the next exchange.
"How can I help you?" asked the manager. Questions like that in these kind of circumstances, when a request has been 'escalated to a manager' always puzzle me. One would expect there'd have been some discussion between the two prior to their reappearance and they know just how they can help without asking. But seeing that the man was about my age, and feeling like my best opportunity to pull this off required a very delicate yet focused approach, I calmly and kindly relayed in a "You know and I know this is a no-brainer and just a click or two of the keyboard" manner, the "alleged" error in bookings and the need to move my team over without adding to the bill that's already been coordinated.
He turned to his keyboard, clicked a few times, gazed at the screen, and looked up at me. With a casual smile, almost conveying the return response of "you sly little bastard, I'm onto your game, and I'd do the same in your shoes. Have fun". he then turned to his associate. "Set him up, it's fine." he calmly stated, and walked away.
I'd pulled off the biggest coup in my traveling history. I'd moved myself and 3 associates from a high rise hotel in the heat of the city to an cool, beach front island resort overlooking the ocean without adding a dime to our respective budgets.
Now I had to intercept those yet to arrive.
Trusting A Stranger
Having secured accommodations, I took a casual stroll around the pool, gazed out at the ocean, and reveled in the knowledge that this would be home base for a full week.
I relaxed for a brief period of time in the lobby as I awaited the arrival of the routine shuttle, and then boarded it to return to the Shangri-la back in the heart of town. The journey back across the island was all the more exhilarating, because I was now taking in the various locations and formulating a list of things I'd want to make sure and investigate once I settled in. You look at a place very differently when you're just passing through vs when you'll be there for awhile.
Once I arrived back downtown, I went straight to my room, grabbed my bags and returned to the lobby. I explained the "transfer" of my stay to the front desk, and I also left important messages for Colm, Ken and Fahid to not check in, but to board the shuttle instead, and to enjoy the ride to their relocation for the week. It was when I gave Fahid's name as a recipient of my message that I was advised that he had already arrived and checked in. Probably at the same time I was getting confirmation that we could move to the other hotel.
I called him in his room, introduced myself and invited him to join me in the lobby. Fahid appeared, and I cut right to the chase, explaining the island resort, that I and certainly Colm and Ken would be moving over there, and he should as well. This was Fahid's first business trip, and he was a tad reticent to twist things around on a moment's notice. I gave him my word and a modest 'crash course' in the principles around travel that I'd learned from my own experience and mentor Colm. This was doable. He gave in easily to my arguments in favor of making the leap to the other hotel. Sight unseen on his behalf, we reversed his 'check-in' at the front desk and had him assigned a room of his own at the Rasa Sentosa.
We gahered our luggage, one or two large bags apiece, and hailed a cab in lieu of waiting for the next shuttle. (Cabs, you see, could be expensed.) And off we rode towards the ocean. We wove through town, much along the same route as the shuttle had gone, and gradually approached the island, who's long spanning bridge became visible in the approaching distance.
The cab made the required right hand turn and began driving straight towards the island, the causeway to which loomed about 100 yards away. And that's when a police van screeched in front of us, blocking and stopping the cab, as two policemen exited their vehicle and surrounded ours on both sides.
My Midnight Express Checkout
A rather vocal and urgent exchange of words began between the two officers and our driver. The officers were relatively frantic, appearing agitated and angry, and the driver was struggling to make sense of the situation, as were we. At least the driver understood the language. Fahid and I just sat in the back, stunned, confused... and scared shitless. And I remembered James Glanville's warnings again. The escalated voices of the driver and police faded momentarily as my mind replayed the sounds of James describing international travel, particularly the references to "police planting false evidence for extortion purposes... purposes... purposes... purposes... purposes... purposes...". His words echoed in my head as my conscious thoughts returned to the two officers standing beside our cab, the driver motioning towards us during their conversation, and the door to the back seats suddenly being opened on the other side.
We were about to be detained.
We were told, in very harsh and broken english, to get out of the vehicle. We hesitated, trying to formulate and argument, if not just an acceptance that this was really happening. The policeman insisted again, with extreme impatience and frustration, that we exit. NOW. Meanwhile, the driver of our cab was opening the trunk, and extracting our luggage, setting it on the street behind the still running taxi.
Like a life flashing before ones eyes, the next 5 years played out in my mind in a millisecond. I was about to become a statistic, accused of having an illegal substances found in my bag or on my personage, conveniently discovered only a moment or two after being placed there by the accuser himself. We'd be instructed to pay an immediate cash fine, right then and there, directly to the officers, yet we'd not have near enough of the required extortion money to buy ourselves out of being hauled to a detainment center. I'd try in vain to convince a board of officials of my innocence as they'd roll their eyes and shake their heads, muttering indistinctly between themselves, while a clerk at the end of the table would nonchalantly press a stamp upon a pad of ink and slam it down upon a stack of forms, signifying unanimous approval on my internment orders. The sound would echo like a gavel in a hallow cavern. I'd be summarily bound, gagged, blindfolded and shuttled away to a remote, dank, moldy holding facility, shivering naked against the cold stinging spray of high pressured water as I am hosed down, de-liced and provided with musty, ill-fitting burlap clothing and brown, tattered, stained cloth boots that had clearly been worn by numerous others before me. Perhaps until and on their dying day. The rice bowl I'd be given twice a day, slid callously through the small opening in the bottom of the door into my light deprived cell, would be barely visible as I struggled to locate it in the dark without knocking it over. Portions of it's contents would writhe and slither out as I'd hold it against my chin, cupped in one hand as I'd frantically shovel its contents down my gullet with two grey, boney fingers on the other. Gaunt, pale, bearded, with cane-scars across my back and wincing from the light, I'd occasionally be taken to a small square room and given a brief opportunity to meet with a random US consulate representative. It'd never the same one twice, and they'd avoid eye contact while shuffling papers and bleakly relaying that they're submitting yet another appeal to the Singapore government. "Hang in there just a little longer" each would say, "while we try to straighten this out." All the while, their weakly empathetic demeanor would be contradicted by their underlying tension and fear, betrayed by their shaking legs, one of which would never be placed beneath the bare metal table, but instead, would be twisted, angled awkwardly, their foot always pointing towards the closed and heavily guarded door they'd just come in through.
Suddenly, without having time to have even processed what was taking place, one of the officers was inside the cab, quickly driving it in a semi-circle and speeding away with the cab driver as a passenger, leaving myself, Fahid, our bags and the other policeman standing in the middle of the road. The remaining cop then tried, again in very broken english, but far calmer now, to explain that there had been some sort of police related situation, and they had needed to "commandeer" the cab for official reasons. Perhaps a police pursuit in a bulky van leaves much to be desired and would have been a significant hinderance, whereas taking the relatively agile cab became an option the moment we'd been spotted turning towards the island. The remaining officer would drive of the rest of our way, taking us in the police van to the hotel instead of the cab. So there I stood, with trembling knees and a hands-free self-inflicted wedgie, loading my bags into the back of a police van and proceeding onto the island.
Once the shock subsided, the photo opportunity could not be missed, as Fahid and I both agreed that nobody would ever believe this. And therefore, here I am, sitting in the back of the van up against the metal bars separating myself from the driver, as we continue across the bridge and onto the island. (And yes, one might argue that the fanny pack alone was justification for my arrest and any subsequent punishment.)
It's a tough call, but when it comes to making a lasting impression when arriving at a resort, I'm not sure just what means of transportation are more suitable: a stretch black limo... or a Police van. We made it across the bridge, through the island roads and then circled around to the front of the Rasa Sentosa, where other guests stopped and stared, some clutching their belongings, as the doors to the back of the van swung open, and two occupants with baggage were released.
A Room With One Hell Of A View
Once we checked into our respective rooms, I made my way to the third or fourth floor, set my bags inside the rooms entrance, and went immediately to the window to draw back the curtain. My room at the Shangri-la had no view. None. It was actually a view of another building... a very close and claustrophobic view if anything. When comparing the two, I tend to think this room ended up offering a slightly better vista to greet and conclude each day with. Click the image below, or this link, to see the full size panoramic image taken from my hotel room.
Emerald Isle Arrivals
I'd made a point of leaving word for Colm and Ken back at the hotel the day before, but the following morning, knowing they'd be checking in that AM made me want to be completely certain that they had sufficient warning not to get too comfortable in the downtown hotel. I called again, leaving another message to call me first at the Rasa Sentosa before doing anything else. And later that morning, after enjoying a wonderful breakfast at the hotel restaurant, I was paged to the front desk with a phone call. It was Colm, he and Ken had arrived downtown and had received my messages. I instructed them to take the shuttle (not a cab. definitely not a cab!) to the Rasa Sentosa, and I'd meet them there.
About 40 minutes later, as the shuttle was arriving, and I went to the lobby and greeted my friends. I could see on their faces that, jet lag aside, they were bowled over at this great location. Colm kept muttering "Brilliant" in his distinctly thick Irish accent, and Ken would append a casual "Oh, Yes" each time. They found their rooms, got settled in, and we regrouped to discuss the week's business agenda and to start focusing on the logistics of the work that lay ahead. Only instead of doing so in a cluster of confining chairs within the lobby of a high rise building complex, we did so pool side. as this clearly staged photo shows.
TO STILL BE CONTINUED.....
These travels all have some fantastic stories that accompany them, each with their own specific situations and memories, each unique, and each to be detailed here at some point, starting today with the one chance I had to visit Singapore. The country itself didn't leave as long and lasting an impression as did the numerous experiences I had in the span of just one week.
Prelude
Before going into too much detail about the experiences, it's essential to explain that my travels were not only tied to the manufacturing process, but to the revolutions, if not evolutions, in that process which were being piloted by a co-worker and friend in Ireland. Colm Murphy. Colm had come to the states at one point and helped to initiate a number of innovations in how Apple got software onto CPUs, which led to a great friendship, several patents, numerous coordinated trips to manufacturing sites around the world, and our own co-created super-secret project that we code named "Phileas Fogg", being an attempt to go around the world at Apple's bequest. :-)It was on the first evening of my first overseas trip to Cork, Ireland that Colm and I sat in one of several dozen pubs downtown, nursing a Murphy's Irish Stout, and reviewing two very key and essential points regarding company sponsored travel.
Anything within reason can and should be expensed. Nothing is unreasonable when you're displaced on behalf of the company. It didn't take much to convince me, and another moment or two for me to embrace the concept. Yes, I expensed the beers. And this all plays directly into the first situation that occurred on my arrival at the Shangri-La Hotel.
Nightmare at 20,000 feet
The flight I took to Singapore was my first opportunity to experience International first class travel. This was well before Steve returned, and most company flights were Business Class. Somehow, I got bumped to First Class and I was seated in the top section of a 747, the space directly behind the cockpit. It was luxurious. I believe it was Virgin Atlantic but I might be wrong. The flight was a non-stop from San Francisco to Tokyo, where I'd be catching a connecting flight to Singapore. I believe the entire trip was 15+ hours of flight time if not more.
As is customary, the evening flight included dinner service, and a short time after, because we were still operating on 'Pacific Time', the lights were dimmed and people were allowed the opportunity to sleep. The seats in first class reclined completely to become a reasonably sized bed, and I was out like a light, thanks to a full stomach and a glass or two of Cabernet. Very good Cabernet.
At one point in the evening, perhaps early morning, I awoke and looked out the window. All was pitch black. I was clueless as to where we were. But something in the distance caught my eye. It was almost indiscernible, but with a good deal of patience and focused concentration, I could make out the most miniscule flash of light along the horizon. I figured it was nothing and drifted back to sleep.
Perhaps another 30 or 40 minutes later I awoke again and directed my attention out the window, wondering what became of, let alone what the source of the sporadic flashing was. After a brief wait I saw it again. Only much more distinct. And closer.
This was during the time of the Gulf War, and although I know in my waking state that the logistics had us nowhere near there, the sleep state I was in allowed my mind to reel with possibilities. I watch as the flashing gradually grew even closer, and wondered if it might be some actual explosions, on ground or midair. Either way, there was something out there, flashing, and we were flying in it's general direction.
I resisted my "Nightmare_at_20%2C000_Feet" Shatneresque impulses to abscond with the airline deputy's firearm, buckle myself in, open the emergency door and start shooting at the beast walking along the wing of the plane. Instead, I kept watching, wondering just how close we'd get, when I realized what I was actually seeing. It was a thunder storm. From above. And it was a spectacular sight. As we got closer and closer, I could see the outlines of numerous clouds, and they'd light up in an orange-yellow hue as each flash occurred. We never got so close that it made me imagine we had anything to worry about (does lightening strike upwards?) but we did fly along side it as I was able to really just watch in amazement.
This set the tone for the rest of the week. Confusion. Fear. Amazement. Immersion.
This squating crap is for the birds
Once we landed in Tokyo, I made my way through the airport and found my connecting flight with little time to spare. Just enough to make a much needed run to the mens room. And it was there that one of James Glanville's warnings echoed in my head. James was a co-worker in our team in Cupertino and had made numerous flights overseas himself. At the time i was surprised that he'd allow me to go instead of himself, but later, after tiring of the routine, I understood. At one point, well in advance of my starting these trips, James was relating the numerous cultural differences that were involved with visiting other countries, warnings about pick-pockets, driving on the opposite side of the road, cab driver scams, police planting false evidence for extortion purposes, and oh yes, that some restrooms in Singapore have 'squat toilets' instead of those you know and love. Yes, there I was, fuzzy minded from a lengthy flight, tired, a bit irritable, and in dire need of a moment or two of quality 'seated' time. Faced with the prospects of attending to this pressing need from a half-bent standing position, especially having not done so since, oh, the age of 3, just didn't seem too appaeling. Mind you, were I given an opportunity to have a practice round or two with towels and a nearby shower, I'd have considered it. But with no recent experience and another flight awaiting, suffice to say, I opted to tough it out.Shangri-la de da
Upon arrival in Singapore, I took a cab or a shuttle to the hotel to check in. Apple had booked me in the Shangri-la Hotel, a very upscale hotel directly in the heart of the city and in walking distance to the main shopping district. I had scheduled my arrival to be on a Saturday afternoon instead of the typical Sunday. I always did that. I did so because I had learned that it was worth having a day to acclimate to the jet lag, and I also liked having an opportunity to familiarize myself with an area, especially one I'd not been to beforehand. There would be another employee from Sacramento arriving later that day, with Colm and Ken Fitzgerald Smith scheduled to arrive on Sunday. I'd have it all mapped out by then.The room I was given was quite nice. It was nothing like a suite or anything ultra luxurious, but it was definitely a quality hotel, and it showed in the furnishing and decor, let alone the grounds of the hotel, which were beautiful and expansive. There was a great pool outside and an elaborate garden with koi ponds, paths and bridges. But it was humid. VERY humid, and even the room, with the AC cranked to the maximum, was uncomfortable.
I took a stroll along the main shopping street and explored the region, taking note of a few restaurants and, habitually, noticing a Harley Davidson dealership as well. I'd made a point by then of keeping an eye out for these, and on every international trip, I'd return with a hat for my brother that had the HD logo and the name of the city or country on it.
Upon returning from my brief stroll, I noticed a sign in the hotel lobby relating to an hourly shuttle service they had to their sister hotel, one at another spot across town. What better way to get an easy glimpse of the city then a free, air conditioned shuttle to the other side of town and back? So on I jumped.
I got settled in along side a window seat and as the van worked it's way across town, I caught glimpses of the downtown area, all pristine and clean, as you'd expect from a culture that canes people for vandalism (something I have no issues with, to be brutally honest). As we travelled out beyond the edge of the larger buildings we started to travel through some of the outer regions on main streets, past open markets, residential towers and vast housing complexes, and further towards the ocean. This was great, as I'd not really expected to be seeing the water's edge at this point, and the air started be become less humid and cooler as well.I had no idea, no preconceived notion, of where this sister hotel would be or what it would look like, so you can imagine my surprise as the shuttle van made a right hand turn and started crossing a massive and very long bridge.... onto an island off the coast!
An Island Paradise
Part of me was worried... not understanding why we were leaving the mainland and heading out towards a large island. I started to wonder if, perhaps, I'd gotten on the wrong shuttle. This island had a massive 'park' of sorts on it, with people milling about in a vast garden area, and i could see a few casual rides there, like a water ride, right on the park. There was even a 'sky tram' suspended over the island and the pier area that visitors would ride across on. This was no hotel. It was some sort of 'amusement' park, and I was perplexed as to how this ended up being the destination of the shuttle.
The shuttle wove through an outer section of the park setting and disappeared down a lush, tropical, tree canopied 2 lane road, with no other vehicles. Along side the right window was the water's edge, and the city of Singapore beyond it. A few left and right and turns, and suddenly, we were making a semi-u-turn in front of the vast opening of a towering hotel, set at the back end of the island, facing out towards a vast ocean way, a few ships scattered about in the green blue waters.
Resorting to deceptive measures
My jaw dropped as I stepped out of the shuttle and into a huge, wide open lobby. there were no doors on either side of the entry, just wide open architecture into the lobby which had steps out of and down to the pool, beaches and water below. The cool ocean breeze all but eliminated any hint of humidity. There was an elaborate restaurant and bar to one side, complete with circulating bamboo fans and cane shutters. The hotel was crescent shaped, facing the ocean and overlooking a large pool lined with chairs, recliners, and an outdoor bar. It was like something out of a Bogart movie.
I took a seat in the lounge area of the open air bar, looking out through the windows, shutters folded out so there was fresh air circulating into the area, and I caught my breath. I had to. I needed a moment to just let the details settle in and start plotting. You see, there was no going back. I was here, and hell or high water, the only trip back to that other hotel better damned be one made just to pickup my bags.
So I started to think. The other Apple employee arriving that afternoon, Fahid, was an engineer from the factory in Sacramento. I'd never met him. Colm and Ken... them, I knew, and knew well that they'd be right in line with me as we moved our bags.
The only hitch, however, was not just about getting rooms, but getting them at the same rate as the hotel in town. By this time I'd managed to learn the in's and out's that Colm had introduced me to back in Ireland on my first trip, and I was well versed in the fine are of expense rationalization. But moving a set of business travelers from a hotel downtown to a beach resort, well, that had to be done delicately. And without detection.
A moment or two later I had my plan, and took action, approaching the more congenial looking receptionist at the front desk. I was greeted with a smile, exchanged pleasantries, and the first question i asked was "Are there many rooms available this week?"
"Yes" was the reply.
"Well, I've got a bit of a dilemma. Perhaps you can help me out." I continued. "You see, I'm traveling on business, and I'm actually staying at your other hotel in town, the Shangri-la".
"Oh, OK" came the response, with a hint of respect/recognition that I was already "A guest" by proxy.
"I'm traveling with Apple Computer. I and three other associates are arriving today and tomorrow. Accommodations were setup for the Shangri-la, but that was a mistake, as we were intended to be staying here." Ok, i stretched the truth a bit, but in a way, I was being completely honest, because as I stood in that lobby, looking out at the waters, the beach, the ships.... hell, the frickin' Casablanca bar... we were intended to be staying there. Fate had put me there for a reason. Fate had put me there to change all of our reservations.
The clerk behind the desk looked at their computer screen, clicked a few keys here and there, and smiling, said "We can accommodate you, sir".
I resisted the urge to grin, let alone do a cart wheel, because there was one hurdle left. The cost. Moving myself and the other's over would not be achievable if it meant having to explain the financial impact of jumping from an Apple Travel authorized and approved hotel to, uh, a "resort".
"Great", I nonchalantly replied to the news that they had space for us. "But just to be sure, it's important that the same rates are carried over, because all of the arrangements have already been coordinated. If I have to go back to Apple and the rates are higher, it'll be a paperwork nightmare. I can go back and say we paid the same but I can't go back and say we had to pay more. Can we move over at the same rate?"
The smile on the clerk faded to an inquisitive and puzzling stare. I started to realize that I might not pull this off. "Let me go talk to the Hotel Manager". And he walked away.
It seemed like I stood there for hours on end. It was probably only a minute or two, but the clock ticked loudly, voices slowed to low muddled tones and everybody moved as if there were walking in Jello. I remained calm and cool on the outside, but on the inside I was as on pins as needles, as if I were an aroused 19 year old standing outside my dream date's apartment, waiting on baited breath for the answer to my question "Can I come up for a cup of coffee?"
Just as the trembling in my knees was on the verge of becoming discernible, the clerk I'd spoken to returned, followed by another, more studious looking associate, clearly their manager. That alone signals the 'stalemate' point in these situations, as the ball hovers momentarily in the air, right at the net, and it's 50/50 on which way it'll fall. I'd either clear this hurdle or bring to down with the next exchange.
"How can I help you?" asked the manager. Questions like that in these kind of circumstances, when a request has been 'escalated to a manager' always puzzle me. One would expect there'd have been some discussion between the two prior to their reappearance and they know just how they can help without asking. But seeing that the man was about my age, and feeling like my best opportunity to pull this off required a very delicate yet focused approach, I calmly and kindly relayed in a "You know and I know this is a no-brainer and just a click or two of the keyboard" manner, the "alleged" error in bookings and the need to move my team over without adding to the bill that's already been coordinated.
He turned to his keyboard, clicked a few times, gazed at the screen, and looked up at me. With a casual smile, almost conveying the return response of "you sly little bastard, I'm onto your game, and I'd do the same in your shoes. Have fun". he then turned to his associate. "Set him up, it's fine." he calmly stated, and walked away.
I'd pulled off the biggest coup in my traveling history. I'd moved myself and 3 associates from a high rise hotel in the heat of the city to an cool, beach front island resort overlooking the ocean without adding a dime to our respective budgets.
Now I had to intercept those yet to arrive.
Trusting A Stranger
Having secured accommodations, I took a casual stroll around the pool, gazed out at the ocean, and reveled in the knowledge that this would be home base for a full week.
I relaxed for a brief period of time in the lobby as I awaited the arrival of the routine shuttle, and then boarded it to return to the Shangri-la back in the heart of town. The journey back across the island was all the more exhilarating, because I was now taking in the various locations and formulating a list of things I'd want to make sure and investigate once I settled in. You look at a place very differently when you're just passing through vs when you'll be there for awhile.
Once I arrived back downtown, I went straight to my room, grabbed my bags and returned to the lobby. I explained the "transfer" of my stay to the front desk, and I also left important messages for Colm, Ken and Fahid to not check in, but to board the shuttle instead, and to enjoy the ride to their relocation for the week. It was when I gave Fahid's name as a recipient of my message that I was advised that he had already arrived and checked in. Probably at the same time I was getting confirmation that we could move to the other hotel.
I called him in his room, introduced myself and invited him to join me in the lobby. Fahid appeared, and I cut right to the chase, explaining the island resort, that I and certainly Colm and Ken would be moving over there, and he should as well. This was Fahid's first business trip, and he was a tad reticent to twist things around on a moment's notice. I gave him my word and a modest 'crash course' in the principles around travel that I'd learned from my own experience and mentor Colm. This was doable. He gave in easily to my arguments in favor of making the leap to the other hotel. Sight unseen on his behalf, we reversed his 'check-in' at the front desk and had him assigned a room of his own at the Rasa Sentosa.
We gahered our luggage, one or two large bags apiece, and hailed a cab in lieu of waiting for the next shuttle. (Cabs, you see, could be expensed.) And off we rode towards the ocean. We wove through town, much along the same route as the shuttle had gone, and gradually approached the island, who's long spanning bridge became visible in the approaching distance.
The cab made the required right hand turn and began driving straight towards the island, the causeway to which loomed about 100 yards away. And that's when a police van screeched in front of us, blocking and stopping the cab, as two policemen exited their vehicle and surrounded ours on both sides.
My Midnight Express Checkout
A rather vocal and urgent exchange of words began between the two officers and our driver. The officers were relatively frantic, appearing agitated and angry, and the driver was struggling to make sense of the situation, as were we. At least the driver understood the language. Fahid and I just sat in the back, stunned, confused... and scared shitless. And I remembered James Glanville's warnings again. The escalated voices of the driver and police faded momentarily as my mind replayed the sounds of James describing international travel, particularly the references to "police planting false evidence for extortion purposes... purposes... purposes... purposes... purposes... purposes...". His words echoed in my head as my conscious thoughts returned to the two officers standing beside our cab, the driver motioning towards us during their conversation, and the door to the back seats suddenly being opened on the other side.We were about to be detained.
We were told, in very harsh and broken english, to get out of the vehicle. We hesitated, trying to formulate and argument, if not just an acceptance that this was really happening. The policeman insisted again, with extreme impatience and frustration, that we exit. NOW. Meanwhile, the driver of our cab was opening the trunk, and extracting our luggage, setting it on the street behind the still running taxi.
Like a life flashing before ones eyes, the next 5 years played out in my mind in a millisecond. I was about to become a statistic, accused of having an illegal substances found in my bag or on my personage, conveniently discovered only a moment or two after being placed there by the accuser himself. We'd be instructed to pay an immediate cash fine, right then and there, directly to the officers, yet we'd not have near enough of the required extortion money to buy ourselves out of being hauled to a detainment center. I'd try in vain to convince a board of officials of my innocence as they'd roll their eyes and shake their heads, muttering indistinctly between themselves, while a clerk at the end of the table would nonchalantly press a stamp upon a pad of ink and slam it down upon a stack of forms, signifying unanimous approval on my internment orders. The sound would echo like a gavel in a hallow cavern. I'd be summarily bound, gagged, blindfolded and shuttled away to a remote, dank, moldy holding facility, shivering naked against the cold stinging spray of high pressured water as I am hosed down, de-liced and provided with musty, ill-fitting burlap clothing and brown, tattered, stained cloth boots that had clearly been worn by numerous others before me. Perhaps until and on their dying day. The rice bowl I'd be given twice a day, slid callously through the small opening in the bottom of the door into my light deprived cell, would be barely visible as I struggled to locate it in the dark without knocking it over. Portions of it's contents would writhe and slither out as I'd hold it against my chin, cupped in one hand as I'd frantically shovel its contents down my gullet with two grey, boney fingers on the other. Gaunt, pale, bearded, with cane-scars across my back and wincing from the light, I'd occasionally be taken to a small square room and given a brief opportunity to meet with a random US consulate representative. It'd never the same one twice, and they'd avoid eye contact while shuffling papers and bleakly relaying that they're submitting yet another appeal to the Singapore government. "Hang in there just a little longer" each would say, "while we try to straighten this out." All the while, their weakly empathetic demeanor would be contradicted by their underlying tension and fear, betrayed by their shaking legs, one of which would never be placed beneath the bare metal table, but instead, would be twisted, angled awkwardly, their foot always pointing towards the closed and heavily guarded door they'd just come in through.Suddenly, without having time to have even processed what was taking place, one of the officers was inside the cab, quickly driving it in a semi-circle and speeding away with the cab driver as a passenger, leaving myself, Fahid, our bags and the other policeman standing in the middle of the road. The remaining cop then tried, again in very broken english, but far calmer now, to explain that there had been some sort of police related situation, and they had needed to "commandeer" the cab for official reasons. Perhaps a police pursuit in a bulky van leaves much to be desired and would have been a significant hinderance, whereas taking the relatively agile cab became an option the moment we'd been spotted turning towards the island. The remaining officer would drive of the rest of our way, taking us in the police van to the hotel instead of the cab. So there I stood, with trembling knees and a hands-free self-inflicted wedgie, loading my bags into the back of a police van and proceeding onto the island.
Once the shock subsided, the photo opportunity could not be missed, as Fahid and I both agreed that nobody would ever believe this. And therefore, here I am, sitting in the back of the van up against the metal bars separating myself from the driver, as we continue across the bridge and onto the island. (And yes, one might argue that the fanny pack alone was justification for my arrest and any subsequent punishment.)
It's a tough call, but when it comes to making a lasting impression when arriving at a resort, I'm not sure just what means of transportation are more suitable: a stretch black limo... or a Police van. We made it across the bridge, through the island roads and then circled around to the front of the Rasa Sentosa, where other guests stopped and stared, some clutching their belongings, as the doors to the back of the van swung open, and two occupants with baggage were released.
A Room With One Hell Of A View
Once we checked into our respective rooms, I made my way to the third or fourth floor, set my bags inside the rooms entrance, and went immediately to the window to draw back the curtain. My room at the Shangri-la had no view. None. It was actually a view of another building... a very close and claustrophobic view if anything. When comparing the two, I tend to think this room ended up offering a slightly better vista to greet and conclude each day with. Click the image below, or this link, to see the full size panoramic image taken from my hotel room.
Emerald Isle Arrivals
I'd made a point of leaving word for Colm and Ken back at the hotel the day before, but the following morning, knowing they'd be checking in that AM made me want to be completely certain that they had sufficient warning not to get too comfortable in the downtown hotel. I called again, leaving another message to call me first at the Rasa Sentosa before doing anything else. And later that morning, after enjoying a wonderful breakfast at the hotel restaurant, I was paged to the front desk with a phone call. It was Colm, he and Ken had arrived downtown and had received my messages. I instructed them to take the shuttle (not a cab. definitely not a cab!) to the Rasa Sentosa, and I'd meet them there.
About 40 minutes later, as the shuttle was arriving, and I went to the lobby and greeted my friends. I could see on their faces that, jet lag aside, they were bowled over at this great location. Colm kept muttering "Brilliant" in his distinctly thick Irish accent, and Ken would append a casual "Oh, Yes" each time. They found their rooms, got settled in, and we regrouped to discuss the week's business agenda and to start focusing on the logistics of the work that lay ahead. Only instead of doing so in a cluster of confining chairs within the lobby of a high rise building complex, we did so pool side. as this clearly staged photo shows.
TO STILL BE CONTINUED.....
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
I’ll PAY for the Bullet. Really. Please.
What am I paying taxes for? What am I working for the first 1/4 of a year, annually, to fund? Hmm…Maintaining roads….check. Enabling law enforcement… check. Provide for the common defense… check. Cloth, feed and provide shelter for complete and utter scumbags contributing absolutely positively nothing of any benefit to our society on the whole, while actually harming complete innocents… check. Confirmed by an article in Saturday’s San Jose Mercury News, detailing the 800 year sentence given to one of two child molesters who were living and ‘operating’ way to close to home for my own comfort. And to be clear, the other side of the world would be way to close, let alone a dozen or so miles away.
My initial reaction to the headline was “serves them right”. Then I thought about it for a moment and realized that I’m being punished, not them. My tax dollars, ones that should go to such greater and more pressing needs such as education, health care, and global warming just to scrape the surface, are instead going towards incarcerating and caring for people for the rest of their lives, when they don’t contribute anything to the greater good of our world. In fact when you really think about it, the food, clothing, education and health care they’ll have access to are probably superior to that available to most lower-milddle class citizen that actually play a positive role in our world. Seriously…. you think these guys w/have a co-pay? I don’t think so. And it’s unthinkable to me that they’re gonna be riding on my dime.
Perhaps there’s some arguments in favor about “the sanctity of human life”. But in a world in which the rights of the victim take a back seat to the rights of the criminal, I’m not inclined to lean in so liberal a direction. And as a parent, my ‘midway point’ of reasons is to resolve the issue with a pair of rusty garden sheers and a cigarette for cauterizing the wound, a mandatory GPS locator embedded via a procedure performed in the prison shower by a team of large, aggressively brutal rapist inmates, and oh yeah, a fully supervised work program in which he’s spending every day for the rest of his life contributing to society in some seriously significant fashion, utilizing either their individual sklll sets and strengths, or if nothing else, fixing roads on a chain gang.
I mean seriously, how can anybody argue in favor of a child molester having any rights, especially after “3 strikes”? And worse over, why should our society bear the costs associated with keeping the bastard alive unless there’s a benefit to doing so? Call me harsh if you wish, but that’s how I see it. The cost of a single bullet can’t be more then the 1/100th of the administrative costs spent just getting the human slime from his holding cell to the courtroom.
My initial reaction to the headline was “serves them right”. Then I thought about it for a moment and realized that I’m being punished, not them. My tax dollars, ones that should go to such greater and more pressing needs such as education, health care, and global warming just to scrape the surface, are instead going towards incarcerating and caring for people for the rest of their lives, when they don’t contribute anything to the greater good of our world. In fact when you really think about it, the food, clothing, education and health care they’ll have access to are probably superior to that available to most lower-milddle class citizen that actually play a positive role in our world. Seriously…. you think these guys w/have a co-pay? I don’t think so. And it’s unthinkable to me that they’re gonna be riding on my dime.
Perhaps there’s some arguments in favor about “the sanctity of human life”. But in a world in which the rights of the victim take a back seat to the rights of the criminal, I’m not inclined to lean in so liberal a direction. And as a parent, my ‘midway point’ of reasons is to resolve the issue with a pair of rusty garden sheers and a cigarette for cauterizing the wound, a mandatory GPS locator embedded via a procedure performed in the prison shower by a team of large, aggressively brutal rapist inmates, and oh yeah, a fully supervised work program in which he’s spending every day for the rest of his life contributing to society in some seriously significant fashion, utilizing either their individual sklll sets and strengths, or if nothing else, fixing roads on a chain gang.
I mean seriously, how can anybody argue in favor of a child molester having any rights, especially after “3 strikes”? And worse over, why should our society bear the costs associated with keeping the bastard alive unless there’s a benefit to doing so? Call me harsh if you wish, but that’s how I see it. The cost of a single bullet can’t be more then the 1/100th of the administrative costs spent just getting the human slime from his holding cell to the courtroom.
Monday, February 12, 2007
106 Degrees of Separation Anxiety
When I got a call Friday from my wife, who was caring for not only 3.5 year old twins, but her own very bad cold, I was more than willing to make an effort to help out by coming home as early as possible. But the cards dealt us once I got there had been shuffled without our knowing it, and the hand played out in a way neither of us could have anticipated. Within a matter of minutes of my arrival, just after my son had awoken from his nap, my daughter started to stir as well. She’s never one to rise from afternoon naps in the best of moods, and this was no exception. But it quickly became apparent that something was not quite right.
Both of the kids have been coughing during the last week. He’s been on the mend while she’s been getting a bit worse. So when I was carrying her out from her room and she was coughing heavily, and deeply, it was no surprise. What was a surprise, however, and not to be gross or graphic, was that it was only a few moments or so later that she was bringing up a great deal of phlegm and mucus. So much so that I ended up taking her to the bathroom so she had a place to, well, ‘expel’ into.
Now, as any parent will tell you, these moments are a paradox. The last thing you want to deal with is your child throwing up. But the truth is that it’s really the second to last thing, because the absolute last thing you want is for your child to be throwing up without you there to help them. It’s gotta be scary being sick, and even more so to be in a situation like that without mom or dad there to help and comfort. So as unpleasant as it was, there was something deeply rewarding about being there to help and to comfort, as were my own parents there for me so many years ago.
Once things seemed to subside, I instructed her to lean back in my arms and catch her breath as I sat with her. I wanted her to relax, as the worst seemed to be over and my wife was still hoping to retreat into the back room for some much needed recuperation of her own.
As she lay back in my arms, her breathing became short and shallow. Her eyes were semi-closed, and her body was slowly becoming heavier and heavier as she began to go limp. At that point, I touched her forehead and she was burning up.
I told my wife, and she got the ear thermometer and took her temperature as I held her prone in my arms.
Her temperature was 106.5.
If anybody out there knows of a single ear-thermometer that can actually, consistently, acquire an accurate temperature every time, please send me one, because they totally suck and are completely unreliable. I’ve taken a temperature 4 times in each ear on more then one occasion and gotten 8 completely different results that range over three to four complete degrees. Therefore, when we use these, I do so with great reservation and very little faith in their accuracy, but more as a general ‘ballpark’ measuring tool, from which to gauge the potential severity of a situation. Even I know that allowing for a couple degrees of error, 106.5 still ends up being too high for comfort. My wife was quite adamant about the immediate need to take her directly to the hospital. And I’m glad I did. In ratty sweatpants that don’t stay up, a musty shirt, socks without shoes, in the rain. I was off to the car, buckling her in, and speeding to a nearby emergency room.
It’s so damned close but that drive took forever, and I would reach back at the stoplight to feel her forehead, which was still quite hot to the touch. She’d answer my occasional question as we drove, but barely audible when she did so. Her breath remained shallow and she continued to cough sporadically as well. All I could do was try and reassure her, and in some ways, myself, that everything would be alright.
Upon arrival, I scooped her out of the car and quickly walked across the rain soaked parking lot in my stocking feet while holding her against my chest with one hand and holding up my slipping sweatpants with the other. When I got to the window, the attending nurse immediately knew who we were, because my wife had proactively called them after I left so they knew I was on my way, how high her temperature was, and to be ready for us.
As we stood waiting for them to take her in, my phone rang. I’d been asked to call home as soon as I got there but I’d not had a chance yet, and this was my wife calling to check in. But the walls were lined with signs specifically instructing visitors to turn off their cellphones, and I wanted to comply. Even though this seems like something that was implemented back in the early 90’s, along with airline bans, when cellphones were about the size of a carton of cigarettes. The research and advancements in technology seems to have reduced the the number of planes suddenly dropping out of the sky to zero, from the inconceivable earlier figures of, uh… zero. Right along side the radio frequency of an incoming cell phone call in an emergency room to suddenly causing defibrillator voltages to double, craftmatic beds to tri-fold patients and pacemakers to adopt the rhythmic back-beat of a Justin Timberlake ringtone.
Lame. So I took the call. You can’t expect a mother to not feel anxious about the state of a daughter just rushed to the hospital with a very high fever. Signs be damned. Just then, we got the ‘green light’ to go into triage, so I cut things short and took her back for an examination. They took her temperature and even though she was still very very hot, the reading was about 102.5, far from the earlier testing, but still something to attend to. After getting some children’s tylenol, the physician came in and after examining her, said he wanted to do some blood work and and x-ray. This seemed a bit excessive to me, as it was looking pretty much like this was just a cold or minor infection, but they wanted to rule out more severe issues like pneumonia and such.
My daughter was a trooper. She did wonderfully. They took blood and she didn’t wince. She even said it did not hurt [it was a very small needle]. She sat properly and patiently for a couple of x-rays as well, and handled the long wait to get through all of this like a trooper, thanks in part to some apple juice and inflated glove distractions. Of course this all took place over at least a two + hour span of time, during which I was sure to keep my wife informed by, yes, using my cell phone. Just about the time my daughter was starting to appear to be more then ready for this all to be over, the doctor returned with the results of the test.
Pneumonia.
Yep. The tests i’d scoffed at the need for actually did reveal an infection in her lungs, and that she has Pneumonia. So we’ll be semi-quaranteed for a few days and she’ll be on antibiotics. And once they conveyed that message they also gave her a pretty serious shot, and it was probably one of the most difficult things to do, because it really did hurt her and she cried a cry I’ve not heard often, one of true pain. But once it was over, she was feeling better about it, yet just as we were driving away in the car, she made it clear that she did not want to come to this doctor’s office any more.
Both of the kids have been coughing during the last week. He’s been on the mend while she’s been getting a bit worse. So when I was carrying her out from her room and she was coughing heavily, and deeply, it was no surprise. What was a surprise, however, and not to be gross or graphic, was that it was only a few moments or so later that she was bringing up a great deal of phlegm and mucus. So much so that I ended up taking her to the bathroom so she had a place to, well, ‘expel’ into.
Now, as any parent will tell you, these moments are a paradox. The last thing you want to deal with is your child throwing up. But the truth is that it’s really the second to last thing, because the absolute last thing you want is for your child to be throwing up without you there to help them. It’s gotta be scary being sick, and even more so to be in a situation like that without mom or dad there to help and comfort. So as unpleasant as it was, there was something deeply rewarding about being there to help and to comfort, as were my own parents there for me so many years ago.
Once things seemed to subside, I instructed her to lean back in my arms and catch her breath as I sat with her. I wanted her to relax, as the worst seemed to be over and my wife was still hoping to retreat into the back room for some much needed recuperation of her own.
As she lay back in my arms, her breathing became short and shallow. Her eyes were semi-closed, and her body was slowly becoming heavier and heavier as she began to go limp. At that point, I touched her forehead and she was burning up.
I told my wife, and she got the ear thermometer and took her temperature as I held her prone in my arms.
Her temperature was 106.5.
If anybody out there knows of a single ear-thermometer that can actually, consistently, acquire an accurate temperature every time, please send me one, because they totally suck and are completely unreliable. I’ve taken a temperature 4 times in each ear on more then one occasion and gotten 8 completely different results that range over three to four complete degrees. Therefore, when we use these, I do so with great reservation and very little faith in their accuracy, but more as a general ‘ballpark’ measuring tool, from which to gauge the potential severity of a situation. Even I know that allowing for a couple degrees of error, 106.5 still ends up being too high for comfort. My wife was quite adamant about the immediate need to take her directly to the hospital. And I’m glad I did. In ratty sweatpants that don’t stay up, a musty shirt, socks without shoes, in the rain. I was off to the car, buckling her in, and speeding to a nearby emergency room.
It’s so damned close but that drive took forever, and I would reach back at the stoplight to feel her forehead, which was still quite hot to the touch. She’d answer my occasional question as we drove, but barely audible when she did so. Her breath remained shallow and she continued to cough sporadically as well. All I could do was try and reassure her, and in some ways, myself, that everything would be alright.
Upon arrival, I scooped her out of the car and quickly walked across the rain soaked parking lot in my stocking feet while holding her against my chest with one hand and holding up my slipping sweatpants with the other. When I got to the window, the attending nurse immediately knew who we were, because my wife had proactively called them after I left so they knew I was on my way, how high her temperature was, and to be ready for us.
As we stood waiting for them to take her in, my phone rang. I’d been asked to call home as soon as I got there but I’d not had a chance yet, and this was my wife calling to check in. But the walls were lined with signs specifically instructing visitors to turn off their cellphones, and I wanted to comply. Even though this seems like something that was implemented back in the early 90’s, along with airline bans, when cellphones were about the size of a carton of cigarettes. The research and advancements in technology seems to have reduced the the number of planes suddenly dropping out of the sky to zero, from the inconceivable earlier figures of, uh… zero. Right along side the radio frequency of an incoming cell phone call in an emergency room to suddenly causing defibrillator voltages to double, craftmatic beds to tri-fold patients and pacemakers to adopt the rhythmic back-beat of a Justin Timberlake ringtone.
Lame. So I took the call. You can’t expect a mother to not feel anxious about the state of a daughter just rushed to the hospital with a very high fever. Signs be damned. Just then, we got the ‘green light’ to go into triage, so I cut things short and took her back for an examination. They took her temperature and even though she was still very very hot, the reading was about 102.5, far from the earlier testing, but still something to attend to. After getting some children’s tylenol, the physician came in and after examining her, said he wanted to do some blood work and and x-ray. This seemed a bit excessive to me, as it was looking pretty much like this was just a cold or minor infection, but they wanted to rule out more severe issues like pneumonia and such.
My daughter was a trooper. She did wonderfully. They took blood and she didn’t wince. She even said it did not hurt [it was a very small needle]. She sat properly and patiently for a couple of x-rays as well, and handled the long wait to get through all of this like a trooper, thanks in part to some apple juice and inflated glove distractions. Of course this all took place over at least a two + hour span of time, during which I was sure to keep my wife informed by, yes, using my cell phone. Just about the time my daughter was starting to appear to be more then ready for this all to be over, the doctor returned with the results of the test.
Pneumonia.
Yep. The tests i’d scoffed at the need for actually did reveal an infection in her lungs, and that she has Pneumonia. So we’ll be semi-quaranteed for a few days and she’ll be on antibiotics. And once they conveyed that message they also gave her a pretty serious shot, and it was probably one of the most difficult things to do, because it really did hurt her and she cried a cry I’ve not heard often, one of true pain. But once it was over, she was feeling better about it, yet just as we were driving away in the car, she made it clear that she did not want to come to this doctor’s office any more.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Gotta Try and Shake Off This Creeping Malaise
I’m continuing to feel apathetically lackluster. There’s certainly a number of factors at play including weather, workload, yadda yadda yadda, but for some reason I’m just not excited about anything. A good friend wrote and asked if all was good, and I replied that all is ‘there’; not good, not bad, just ‘there’. I’m hoping for some down time on my TNL tomorrow to just immerse myself into some writing in progress and a good cup of coffee.
Meanwhile, the line “Gotta stay awake, gotta try and shake off this creeping malaise” from the Pink Floyd song titled “Dogs” has been echoing in my head over the past week, so I’m going to post the lyrics here with the hope that doing so helps ‘exercise’ the senstations.
BTW, These are incredible lyrics. This is why the first CD I ever purchased was “Animals”. They’re brilliant and capture a vivid sense of competitive isolation, obligation, and complacency. And no…. don’t feel compelled to associate these too literally to my own state of mind, and don’t call the suicide prevention hotline either. I’m fine. :-)
You gotta be crazy, you gotta have a real need
You gotta sleep on your toes, and when you’re on the street
You gotta be able to pick out the easy meat with your eyes closed
And then moving in silently, down wind and out of sight
You gotta strike when the moment is right without thinking.
And after a while, you can work on points for style
Like the club tie, and the firm handshake
A certain look in the eye, and an easy smile
You have to be trusted by the people that you lie to
So that when they turn their backs on you
You’ll get the chance to put the knife in.
You gotta keep one eye looking over your shoulder
You know it’s going to get harder, and harder, and harder as you get older
And in the end you’ll pack up, fly down south
Hide your head in the sand
Just another sad old man
All alone and dying of cancer.
And when you loose control, you’ll reap the harvest that you’ve sown
And as the fear grows, the bad blood slows and turns to stone
And it’s too late to loose the weight you used to need to throw around
So have a good drown, as you go down, alone
Dragged down by the stone.
I gotta admit that I’m a little bit confused
Sometimes it seems to me as if I’m just being used
Gotta stay awake, gotta try and shake off this creeping malaise
If I don’t stand my own ground, how can I find my way out of this maze?
Deaf, dumb, and blind, you just keep on pretending
That everyone’s expendable and no-one has a real friend
And it seems to you the thing to do would be to isolate the winner
And everythings done under the sun
And you believe at heart, everyone’s a killer.
Who was born in a house full of pain
Who was trained not to spit in the fan
Who was told what to do by the man
Who was broken by trained personnel
Who was fitted with collar and chain
Who was given a pat on the back
Who was breaking away from the pack
Who was only a stranger at home
Who was ground down in the end
Who was found dead on the phone
Who was dragged down by the stone.
Meanwhile, the line “Gotta stay awake, gotta try and shake off this creeping malaise” from the Pink Floyd song titled “Dogs” has been echoing in my head over the past week, so I’m going to post the lyrics here with the hope that doing so helps ‘exercise’ the senstations.
BTW, These are incredible lyrics. This is why the first CD I ever purchased was “Animals”. They’re brilliant and capture a vivid sense of competitive isolation, obligation, and complacency. And no…. don’t feel compelled to associate these too literally to my own state of mind, and don’t call the suicide prevention hotline either. I’m fine. :-)
You gotta be crazy, you gotta have a real need
You gotta sleep on your toes, and when you’re on the street
You gotta be able to pick out the easy meat with your eyes closed
And then moving in silently, down wind and out of sight
You gotta strike when the moment is right without thinking.
And after a while, you can work on points for style
Like the club tie, and the firm handshake
A certain look in the eye, and an easy smile
You have to be trusted by the people that you lie to
So that when they turn their backs on you
You’ll get the chance to put the knife in.
You gotta keep one eye looking over your shoulder
You know it’s going to get harder, and harder, and harder as you get older
And in the end you’ll pack up, fly down south
Hide your head in the sand
Just another sad old man
All alone and dying of cancer.
And when you loose control, you’ll reap the harvest that you’ve sown
And as the fear grows, the bad blood slows and turns to stone
And it’s too late to loose the weight you used to need to throw around
So have a good drown, as you go down, alone
Dragged down by the stone.
I gotta admit that I’m a little bit confused
Sometimes it seems to me as if I’m just being used
Gotta stay awake, gotta try and shake off this creeping malaise
If I don’t stand my own ground, how can I find my way out of this maze?
Deaf, dumb, and blind, you just keep on pretending
That everyone’s expendable and no-one has a real friend
And it seems to you the thing to do would be to isolate the winner
And everythings done under the sun
And you believe at heart, everyone’s a killer.
Who was born in a house full of pain
Who was trained not to spit in the fan
Who was told what to do by the man
Who was broken by trained personnel
Who was fitted with collar and chain
Who was given a pat on the back
Who was breaking away from the pack
Who was only a stranger at home
Who was ground down in the end
Who was found dead on the phone
Who was dragged down by the stone.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Be Clear
In a recent conversation with a co-worker, I made a reference to having seen a mutual friend going somewhere. The statement was along the lines of “I saw Bill going for Donuts”. And then our conversation continued along other lines. A few days later, that same co-worker commented “I thought you said you saw Bill going for Donuts, but when I saw him shortly after that, he had been off-campus and had to rush back.” After sharing a little more details, we realized that my seeing him walking off-campus towards the donut shop resulted in my assumption that he was headed there, while my co-workers assumption was base on an expectation that the donuts were on campus.
I raise this point because frequently find myself struggling to ensure that statements I make are accurate, clear and concise. Yet I seldom succeed. And I also struggle with ambiguities in statements that are made to me, the specifics and details of which can dictate my actions and conclusions.
Here’s a classic example, one my wife knows all to well, and has learned to take in stride (somewhat) after many years of being married to an engineer. The question “Is it cold outside” is like nails on a chalk board to me. Why? Because ‘cold’ is relative. Cold, to me, might not be cold to you. And I’ve been on both sides of the coin in regards to answering that question or acting on it’s answer, only to find myself being told “You said it wasn’t cold… I’m freezing” or to find myself sweating in a coat because it’s not that cold to me. I find myself cringing when somebody says something like “I know we should have it 5 days after they deliver the software to QA and 10 days after they sign off in legal… do you know if they’re on track?”, when “they” is not defined, and could be legal, QA or even the team delivering the software.
I know it’s picky, and I know that people tend to generally expect or apply some sort of personal subjectivity to questions of this nature, but idiosyncrasy number #231 on my DSM4 assessment indicates an obsessive desire to be compulsively literal, while my actions and practices fail to support these needs within my daily routines, resulting in the sporadic bingeing on high-fat foods, turrets when driving, run on sentences and failure to appropriately capitalize the letter ‘i’.”
My own over-the-top perspective aside, there’s still a strong need and case for clarity in communications. Perhaps it need not be taken to the “nervous twitch” level I take it. I needn’t feel compelled to respond to opinion based questions about the weather, a movie review, or praise of a restaurant with the knee-jerk Dennis Miller disclaimer of “…that’s just my opinion, I could be wrong”, but I do try and make a conscious effort to say things like “It’s not to cold to me”, “I enjoyed that movie” or “I don’t care for the food there myself”, instead of “hell yah, it’s freezing”, “That was the best movie ever”, or “that restaurant sucks!”. When it’s subjective or an opinion, people should state it as such.
It harkens back to Ken Braly, and the two words: “Be Clear”. Ken and I worked at Apple in the early 90’s and we were in the same organization, and occasionally the same meetings, but we didn’t have daily interactions. It was not until I left Apple and joined Muze Productions that I worked closely with Ken, and was introduced to his practice, philosophy, and even his personalized license plate, of being clear. At the time, I was less obsessive about clarity, and I can recall many a discussion in which I’d ramble in circles around a point as he patiently waited for me to get to it. And today, at least once a week, I find myself remembering that license plate and the point behind it.
And there are even times I question if it’s a good thing.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)