When you don’t have cancer.

There aren’t greeting cards that congratulate a person on not having cancer.  I checked.

I don’t mean a card that says “We’re glad you’re not one of the 12,251,757 who are diagnosed annually!” kinda cards.  I mean a card that says, “We’re glad your doctor came back and said what he thought could’ve been cancer never was!”

You’d think there’d be outward celebrations everywhere of patients’ elation at being told a growth or “potential positive” test came back as non-cancerous.  There must be.  But of course you’d never know, especially by the lack of greeting cards and also by the lack of Google results.

And here’s where I got to thinking:  The instant you hear from your doctor:  “The tests came back; It’s not cancer!” you’re supposed to thank the doctor, slink away, celebrate internally, and hold deference to those 12,251,757 others worldwide who aren’t told that.  And more so to the 7,627,761 who die each year worldwide because of cancer.

Cancer’s a shitty thing to deal with.  After all, more than 62% of those who are diagnosed never beat it.  But there’s a place in our lives to support cancer patients, to celebrate individual patient triumphs, and to support causes that help fight it.  And that place is not when my doctor has just told me that I don’t have cancer.

Because the rest of us who are told “you could have cancer” should become the Kanye West to the real cancer patients’ Taylor Swift and invite yourself on stage, paw at the mic, apologize for your exuberance, then lay into why life is so fucking great that a medical professional and his or her team of laboratory scientists have determined that the growth, or lump, or “odd-acting” cells of which you had to provide a sample is not cancer.

And here’s why you — who’s just been told the best fucking news that you’ve probably been told in your life — should celebrate:

• You got the call from the doctor’s office urging you to come in for an appointment.
• You got the stack of lab orders asking for every possible bodily fluid you could provide.
• You showed up to the doctor wondering if you had just months to live.
• You had to hear “some of your lab tests came back and they looked worrisome.”
• You went numb not comprehending much after hearing “It could be cancer.”
• You had to endure the agony of the near-boilerplate answer to all of your questions, which was: “We just won’t know until we conduct more tests.”
• You had to go to sleep every night worrying if you would be fine eventually.
• You had to bust your ass to think positive about what you would do with whatever amount of time left you would have.

So for these and an unending list of the other similar considerations, those of us who are eventually told by our doctors that what was biopsied, what was scanned, or what was removed wasn’t cancer, are allowed to celebrate.  Because it’s only after someone is given the time and space to celebrate his or her good news can that person then help yet another person (including cancer patients) celebrate their news worth celebrating.

Everyone gets their chance.

Which face do you believe?

Which face do you believe::
When you learn someone has two?

Which face do you believe:
When you learn a friend is gay after having known him or her as otherwise.

Which face do you believe:
When you are told your sibling is not a product of the dual-human dance that produced you.

Which face do you believe:
When a friend reveals a crush when all you see is a platonic relationship.

Which face do you believe:
When someone fed you liver but told you it was steak.

Which face do you believe:
When someone admits to a crime that shatters what you thought represented him or her.

Which face do you believe?

Priorities, stupid!

Saw an old pal post something that I thought was rather interesting.  It made me chuckle, but it also made me realise things are really — horrendously — out-of-order in more ways than the obvious.

A national deficit that can only be displayed with scientific notation, gas that costs more per-gallon than organic milk, 9% unemployment … no big deal.
Raise the price of Netflix and you start a civil war!

Here’s an explanation, but don’t bitch to me!

As I sip my diet Coke in seat 3B aboard a flight to California, I’m thinking back to a conversation I had with a couple of Twitter friends just 36 hours ago about airfares and how wildly those fares fluctuate from minute to minute or even seat to seat.  I figure, I’ve got five hours to kill, so I think I’ll tackle that general inquiry with a little bit of “Airfares, he wrote.”

I’m not an airline industry dilettante, nor am I an expert in airline revenue management.  But I have advised clients in the industry enough to have had to understand the pricing “end goal.”  So let’s see how well I can breakdown a seemingly complex topic via a light narrative to give folks insight into how airline fare pricing and strategy works.

For this example, I’ll use a theoretical airline and route that carries ten passengers flying from a destination named ‘Point A,’ to another destination called ‘Point B.’  Everything in-between (no pun intended!) will be ultra-simplified leaving out things such as fluctuations in fuel prices and the financial impact of ground delays (for example, due to weather or equipment failure) on this ten-passenger flight.  The ten passenger scenario fits very nicely into the roundabout percentages (each seat representing a percentage of passengers affected on a flight elsewhere) and how those affected groups impact the expense and revenue dynamics of an everyday flight.

The easiest way to understand how the pricing process works — again, in spite of this not necessarily representing the industry’s expert workflow — is to do this backward.  So we’ll start the story here, with Star Spangled Airlines and their flight from Point A to Point B and the variables it knows will impact this flight.  Things like:

• The cost for fuel to accomplish this flight is estimated to be $1,000.
• The cost for human resources and other operational items is estimated to be $500.
• The airline’s government fees are estimated to be $100

Star Spangled Airlines’ Revenue Manager, who is in charge of pricing seats for the airline now knows that this flight, in order to simply break even must sell fares totaling at least $1,600.  Mr. Revenue says that if Star Spangled Airlines only makes $400 profit on this flight, “he’s doing business just fine.”  So the goal has been set:  Star Spangled Airlines needs to sell ten seats, all totaling $2,000 in fares, to meet its goal set by pricing guru Mr. Revenue.

Running Tally; chart reference:  Flight expenses of $1,600 highlighted in red.

It’s six months before this Star Spangled flight even takes off.  Mr. Revenue is looking for a way to kick start the process to fill seats on this flight, and he instructs Star Spangled Airlines’ marketing manager to offer a sale of seats on this flight.  After one week of a “published fare sale,” Star Spangled Airlines has sold two seats at $100.  That’s 20% of the flight’s total seats at half the price of the average per-seat cost that Mr. Revenue had set as a goal.  But since Mr. Revenue authorized the sale, he realises he must authorize other means to make-up the loss in revenue.

Running Tally; chart reference:  Flight expenses of $1,600 with 2 seats at $100/each in revenue; Current loss is $1,400

Star Spangled Airlines’ Mr. Revenue calls the airline’s “Load Manager” to discuss what the anticipated load factor (capacity and demand) will be for this flight from Point A to Point B.  Ms. Load says there’s always one commuter (common term for a frequent flier who uses a specific route) who books late, but doesn’t mind paying more.  Otherwise, Ms. Load indicates the flight is expected to be at or near capacity.  Mr. Revenue interprets that to mean he may sell 9 or 10 seats.

Note:  I’ve oversimplified the responsibilities of a ‘load planner’ in order to convey a general concept instead of explaining the intricacy involved in what a load planner does and who he/she interacts with to ascertain anticipated capacity as well as potential demand for a particular flight.  To get a better understanding of what an actual load planner does for an airline, you can view a sample job description for the position.

Great information from Ms. Load, Star Spangled’s load manager.  Based on Ms. Load’s information, Mr. Revenue holds one seat (which will not be available for sale until a few days before the flight departs), but prices that seat at a minimum of $300.  This is in consideration for that commuter who is likely to book and pay early.  Make a mental note of this particular seat.

Star Spangled’s Mr. Marketing rings Mr. Revenue to say a competitor airline has released a fare promotion for a similar flight and now, seats for this competitor airline are selling for $50.  Worried that his flight might be too empty to break-even because he’s being undercut by a competitor, Mr. Revenue authorizes another fare sale at $50 each for anyone buying in the next month.  Mr. Marketing says the sale is wildly successful.   They sold 30% of the flight at $50 per seat; so three seats at $50 were sold.

Running tally; chart reference:  Flight expenses of $1,600 with 2 seats at $100/each, and now 3 seats at $50/each in revenue; Current loss is $1,250

Now that Star Spangled’s competitor has completely sold-out of its undercut seats, there are no $50 seats available anymore.  Star Spangled realigns its fares on the flight from Point A to Point B at $175.  This is a strategy Mr. Revenue and Mr. Marketing have devised in order to entice people to buy this fare, but keep it close to its original break-even-per-seat fare.  And it seems to work; two seats or 20% of the flight are sold at $175 each.

Running tally; chart reference:  Flight expenses of $1,600 with 2 seats at $100/each, another 3 seats at $50/each, and now 2 seats at $175 each in revenue; Current loss is $900

At this point Ms. Load calls Mr. Revenue to say, “Look, you’ve got just 20% of the flight available, not counting that one seat you left out of inventory assuming Mr. Commuter will take it.”  Mr. Revenue already knows this and he realises why Ms. Load is calling:  How is he going to make-up the lost revenue so far if he wants to simply break-even?  Can he even make the $400 profit, which was his goal?  Mr. Revenue runs the risk of tarnishing his good reputation as a great revenue manager.  He’d be scheduling a flight and pricing it in a way that LOSES money for Star Spangled Airlines.  Not a good look.

Mr. Revenue does a bit of research on this route from Point A to Point B.  Only three airlines serve this particular route and of those three, only the under-cutting competitor flight (which is sold out, if you remember) will arrive at roughly the same time as Star Spangled Airlines’ flight.  The timing of a flight’s departure is significant because many in many cases, arrival times impact the demand for a particular flight.  Now Mr. Revenue realises his flight with just 30% available (made up of the 10% for Mr. Commuter and the free-and-clear 20% available), will be in high demand.  As a result, Mr. Revenue reprograms fares on the remaining seats on this flight to now sell at a minimum $500 per seat.

But before seats are sold, Mr. Revenue reaches out to Star Spangled Airlines’ sales manager to see if traffic to internet fare sites and Star Spangled’s own site show interest in the flight.  Mr. Sales says:  Yes, demand is high; There were thousands of website hits doing fare research for this  specific trip from Point A to Point B.  Mr. Revenue then tells Mr. Sales he’s slicing available inventory in half.  Essentially, half of the remaining 20%  (which doesn’t include that set-aside fare for the yet-to-materialise Mr. Commuter) will be priced at $700 and the other half left at $500.  Mr. Sales obliges, and now when passengers search for seats and fares on the trip from Point A to Point B they’ll see varying fares; there’ll be one fare for $500 and another fare for $700.  Keep in mind, there is still that seat being held “just in case.”

Five days before this trip departs, the two remaining seats are sold; one for $500 and the other for $700.  Mr. Revenue is delighted, his flight is looking up after all.  But he’s still nervous, so he releases the set-aside seat guessing that Mr. Commuter would’ve booked by now.

Running Tally; chart reference:  Flight expenses of $1,600 with 2 seats at $100/each, another 3 seats at $50/each, 2 seats at $175 each, and now 1 seat at $700 and another at $500; Current profit is: $300

At this point, Mr. Revenue has almost reached his original goal of generating a profit of $400 for this trip from Point A to Point B.  The simple math tells him that if he just prices the last remaining seat that he’s released (originally it was being held for Mr. Commuter, if you recall) at $500, he’ll look like a superstar.  Not only will he increase profit for this flight (which means he exceeds his goals and impresses the airline’s top brass).  Mr. Revenue prices this last seat at $500.  It’s up for grabs; anybody can take it!

And someone does take that last seat.  Ms. Jane Q. Flyer paid $500 for this last seat.  In a perfect world, this flight will take-off completely full, and will turn a profit for Star Spangled Airlines a decent $800.  Not bad — If you believe in perfect worlds, that is.  And if so, there’s no need to read any further.  Based on this ‘perfect world’ flight, and referring to the left chart below, Star Spangled Airlines spent $1,600 on this flight from Point A to Point B and took-in revenue of $2,400 with a net profit of $800.  Stellar — of course, in this ‘perfect world’ — for Mr. Revenue!

But let’s give Mr. Revenue some excitement in his life as an airline revenue manager.

Turns out, Ms. Jane Q. Flyer isn’t the “Mr. Commuter” Mr. Revenue had been advised about.  And in fact, one day before the flight, Mr. Commuter shows up to purchase a seat on this flight.  Anyone who’s experienced Murphy’s Law realises, things happen.  And in thinking this, airlines will often overbook flights.  So Ms. Load sees no problem in assuming 1% of the passengers on this flight from Point A to Point B will either show up too late to fly or miss the flight altogether.  As a result, Ms. Load releases a “+1″ seat, which will overbook the flight.  She then advises Mr. Revenue to sell this additional seat at the cost commensurate with the value of a proverbial “impossible-to-find” seat.  Mr. Revenue obliges, and sells this seat to Mr. Commuter for $750.

Keep in mind, the highest-priced fare for this trip was $700.  Which means even if the passenger who paid the most so far doesn’t show up, Star Spangled Airlines still anticipates to make a profit on this flight.  Everyone’s excited!  Mr. Revenue, Ms. Load, Mr. Sales, and Mr. Marketing all meet for beers after work and praise each other for doing their respective jobs well.

Fast forward to flight day:  As passengers start to check-in, Ms. Load calls Mr. Revenue to say because this flight is overbooked, she’s monitoring who’s checked-in so far.  She says it’s 90% checked-in, which means there is 1 seat left, but potentially two passengers who still haven’t checked-in.  An hour prior to departure, the flight is 100% checked-in and Ms. Load calls Mr. Revenue to say she’s crossing her fingers that the last passenger doesn’t show up.  But Ms. Load’s done some research and she finds that the only passenger not checked-in is Mr. Commuter.  Since Mr. Commuter buys “full fare” airfares, he can cancel or modify his reservation without a fee, so Ms. Load tells Mr. Revenue, not to worry since Mr. Commuter sometimes decides at the last minute not to fly.  Mr. Revenue is eager to see this flight off, so he just waits.

Now it’s 45 minutes to departure and an alert appears on-screen for the agents managing the boarding of the flight; “Checked-In Status OB.”  This means there are now 11 passengers checked-in for a 10-passenger flight.  Gate agents will need to start asking for volunteers to surrender a seat.  Ms. Load isn’t worried; she calls Mr. Revenue and says, this route is full of leisure travelers and someone — perhaps even two — will volunteer their seats.  Mr. Revenue isn’t worried either.  Alas, Ms. Load was right, one volunteer appeared at the gate desk; it’s the $700 passenger.

But if you’ll recall, it’s this $700 passenger whom Mr. Revenue earlier figured wouldn’t cause the flight to take a loss even if this passenger didn’t make the flight.  Look back carefully though, the assumption of this passenger not having the potential to cause a loss was based on this passenger not showing up.  The assumption wasn’t based on this passenger volunteering a seat.  This matters because in cases of overbooked flights where passengers are “bumped,” the airline is expected to compensate such passengers.  A “bumped” passenger is a confirmed ticket holder who has been denied boarding (read: he has not volunteered) because a flight is overbooked.  In this case, a “bumped” passenger is provided a level of compensation that may or may not be lower than the value of compensation offered to a passenger who offers his/her seat for an overbooked flight.

So back to the $700 passenger and the seat that has now been volunteered.  Gate agents have provided Mr. Volunteer with an $800 travel voucher good for a future flight.  Content, Mr. Volunteer is rebooked on a different flight.  And now Star Spangled Airlines can proceed with a departure of its flight from Point A to Point B — with its ten passengers.

Everyone seems happy, except Mr. Revenue.  And here’s why:  The expense and revenue dynamics of this flight have now changed.

Refer to the chart below and notice that the passenger who had originally paid $700 for the flight has been replaced in Seat 10 by the passenger — yes, Mr. Commuter! — who paid $750 (highlighted in yellow).  That’s an increase in revenue, so what’s the big deal?  The big deal is:  This flight has incurred an additional $800 in expenses (also highlighted in yellow) that represents the compensation provided to the $700 passenger who had volunteered his seat.  And that small move of one seat, roughly 1% of the flight’s seats, eliminated the ‘perfect world’ profit of $800 down to a paltry $50 in profit.

And with that, Mr. Revenue has missed his profit goal.  Sad for him.  Yet, while our ten sample passengers probably had the times of their fare-sale-loving lives in Point B, real life awaits them in Point A along with another set of variables that will inevitably impact the pricing structure on any given flight from Star Spangled Airlines.  Or on any other airline trying to eek out a  sustainable business model.

[Cue old lady piano music as I ride away on my basketed bicycle.]

But just in case you either don’t believe my scenario — which, I repeat, is a generalisation-turned-short story — or would prefer a more direct, straight-from-their-mouth-to-your-ear delivery on how airlines price fares on their flights, I offer a couple resources; namely:

• An explanation from The Cranky Flier (2009), who also happens to be on Twitter as @CrankyFlier and who runs a popular aviation-related blog called CrankyFlier.com
• An expose done by CNBC about American Airlines (2003) and that airline’s answer to “How many fares do you offer per flight?”

Meat, Gays, and Fatsos

Nothing but a great dinner to bring people together.  And nothing but the subjects of meat, gays, and fatsos to strike-up conversation during a good dinner, right?

Right!  Or, well, “Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em!” comes to mind. Something like that, anyway.

When you’ve got busy and varied lives among friends, the not-frequent-enough dinner together is always a good place to decompress, so I look forward to these.  And they never really disappoint!  Whether as a matter of the food, the company, or the conversation, (or everything all around) these dinners really do make me feel alive.

Yesternight’s dinner was especially good all around.  The prime rib, roasted veggies, and dessert were good.  And as always, the company was stellar.  Sometimes it’s a whole gaggle of us and other times — like this time — it’s just a couple of us.

We dug right in.  First topic (and isn’t it always?) was about life — the whole alphabet from acrimony to zeal.  Whose life is coming along swimmingly? No one.  Whose life is everything they ever needed? No one.  Whose life had more shit in it than a public restroom? You couldn’t shut the gang up.

Someone was having husband problems.  This couple comprises two gay males; successful, independent, living from two homes, middle-aged, husbands having problems.  The honeymoon had come and gone like acid-wash jeans so their mid-cycle mini-crisis boiled down to this:  One husband is not openly-gay.  I know, I know…  The issue, though, doesn’t linger, so it’s not a problem for them per se.  It just re-appears when things come to a head, on whatever the subject is at that moment, which actually isn’t very frequent.  This time it was rekindling the romance.  I digress, because their reconciliation is not my point here.

My point is the closetedness.  Like a baseball cap covering a baldspot, being in the closet for some is a movable shield that is worn when the situation warrants it.  And like that baseball cap, some days you wear it snugly and other days, it’s barely hanging onto your shiny orb.  Some gays are torn between being openly gay and circumstances in work life, community life, or even home life that don’t permit the openness that might be desired.  Other times, it’s just plain inability to own a self identity.  In this case, I think it’s a little of both.  And that’s why the husband who is not closeted is able to cope with the husband who is.  Apparently you don’t need to wear a “baseball cap” to have sex. <wink>

We had other stuff to talk about as we chewed on our prime ribs.  The conversation continued on mundane stuff like who’s traveling where, whose car is in need of the heave-ho, or who’s just had a shitty mess of a day.  But our quiet moment was broken-up by me peeking at Twitter.

At that moment, I saw a twitter post which read:  “Guess the cool kids still make fun of the fat kids. Messed up.“  This was from a tweeter who is portly.  You know, as I’m portly; as all of us who isn’t a waist-size 26″ rail-thin A&F spokesguy is — maybe not portly, but — not the ideal body shape.  So I replied with a simple sad face.  The reply back showed even more angst:  “yup, hate feeling like I’m in high school again.“

I shared with the group.  Shit, I had to share.  Here we were, noshing on a pound each of dead cow smothered in butter-sauteed mushrooms, sipping diet Cokes (insert fat-lady-in-muumuu-buying-cake-and-diet-coke joke here), and some asshole on twitter was making fun of someone who just didn’t look svelte enough apparently to garner a nod.  Such sophomoric bullshit.

So there’s nothing I could do but be supportive.  I consider this tweeter more than an acquaintance, and I know the punch line to many fatso jokes, so— really! — I knew his pain.  There are assholes out there in the world who seem to think acceptance is a private country club where put-downs are votes from the co-op board on his or her admission.  But there will always be assholes like that.  Some days, those assholes get thrown out of their country club for being uncouth.  And that’s when us fatsos laugh loudest.

But this gets me to a larger point and one in which that closeted husband of a friend of mine plays as key a role as my corpulent compatriot does.

This closeted friend wields a luxury that my fellow fatso doesn’t have: The power to play the audience.  Whenever it suits him, this pal can throw on his cloak of gay invisibility and exist in that double life of his, in many cases with nary a peep.

Whereas, my twitter friend is there, being fat.  He’s got a target painted on his forehead that only small-minded dipshits seem to see.  Seriously, there’s only so much an overweight person can “suck in,” so life goes on remembering that size ‘husky’ exists.

The world isn’t fair.  No one — especially not my twitter friend — was asking for special treatment.  And there’s no moral here.  I don’t have a cauterising thought that will solve the social ills that gays and overweight folks experience.

But we (my faithful group of friends) did, for that evening, come full circle.  The din of judgmental hisses about this friend being married to someone who’s in the closet really faded after everyone realised that there were things all of us wore as badges of honour that were indivisible,  part of our own pursuits of happiness.  After all, individuality is a part of the human experience.

Tough shit for anyone who either didn’t agree or had something disparaging to say about the humans we excel at being.  And whatever it was that we wore proudly, whether that was our weight, our religiosity, or our sexuality, or anything else, at least we excelled at something other than being assholes.

Unfollow.

As yet, not memorialised by Merriam Webster in the form being used here, unfollow is mostly a verb.  I take it to indicate an action of either detaching from or unsubscribing from an individual, a cause or a group (or some other noun) within the realm of social media or any other online environment.

For example, when you decide to no longer receive the tweets of a specific tweeter, you unfollow that tweeter.

And it was the action of unfollowing that was topic du jour on Wednesday because of a blog post by my pal @Lavagal.  Someone unfollowed her, which is described in the blog post.  Later, I reached out to that someone to ask what the criteria was that caused the unfollow.  I was curious after all because I unfollow a lot.  I keep a tight list of those I follow and whom I have following me.

I’ve been a part of Twitter since 2008 and for more than a year now, I’ve kept the number of my Twitter follower/following comrades at the same level –roughly 800 –on purpose.  Not that 800 is a magic number, it’s just that that’s where my Twitter headcount seems to hover.  I deny about 90% of the requests I get from those who want to follow me and I rarely follow new tweeters –but that’s neither here nor there for this post.

It was the unfollowing that was the subject of conversation –at least on Wednesday.  And in the constant tending of thorns, weeds, and buds that is my Twitter rose garden, I look at a many number of highs, lows, and eeks that reach out to me from the thousands of tweets I flick through each day.  From all of this, I unfollow; And sometimes I follow.

First, a few reasons that might cause me to unfollow folks:

• Minors. I do not follow and nor have I approved follow requests from those who are under 18.  I’m not putting on a PBS edutainment show, nor do I aim any of what I tweet toward anyone but adults.  Therefore, if you haven’t lived for at least 6,570 days, I’m not interested.
• Bigots. Folks who tweet thoughts of disparagement of others who cannot help themselves will not last long in my list.  There are enough things in my life to worry about that I don’t need to be a part of or read anyone’s bullshit about why certain folks either should go to hell or why said bigot’s G-d said he or she is allowed to hate.  Plain and simple:  Fuck off!
• Dumbasses. Tweeters whose sensibilities nestle somewhere between the mentality of stars from MTV’s Jackass collection and pre-pubescent school children, I will not tolerate for long either.  A snide remark is fine.  A crude joke is acceptable, too.  But when everything you tweet surrounds calling folks by other body parts or you never show –even for fleeting seconds –the part of your brain your mother insisted should be shown on family days, then I’m out.
• Stale. Stale can refer to two types of people.  First, if I haven’t interacted with you in quite some time, I’m probably gonna ask you to collect your things and leave the room.  And second, if your prose is full of utter crap that’s staler than a left-open bag of Hydrox, I don’t want you in the party.
• Boilerplaters. Folks who do nothing but retweet useless shit; Or who comment on quotes, other posts, or useless headlines and references won’t last long either.  If it became acceptable to yell out loud while standing on the sidewalk useless drivel like “Be kind to yourself, the world loves you!’ then I might reconsider this stance.  But until then, shove it.
• Jacks in the box. Someone who uses Twitter to wave ‘Hi!’ or say to ‘Hello!’ to everyone who passes within his eyeshot is someone I won’t keep either.  If all I ever got were phone calls from friends who said “Hi!” but then proceeded to hang up, do you think I’d be friends with that dope for any time longer than what it takes to say “don’t call me ever again!”?  Yup, voted off the island.
• Same-as-me folks. It is not substantially impressive to be categorised by the same traits in which I consider myself categorised for me to keep you hanging around.  I don’t care if you consider credit unions superior to other financial institutions for everyday folks (as I do), nor do I care if you think a fiscally conservative politician rocks the day (as I do).  If I needed similarities in the folks with whom I interact frequently, I’d attend a political convention or join a cult instead of let you lurk on my Twitter lawn.  Thanks for coming! Buh-bye!
• Extremists. And here, I don’t mean fundamentalists who think way outside ‘the norm.’  I mean folks whose points of view tend to center on being the best or the shittiest.  The vast majority of these folks use terms like ‘FML’ or ‘NFW’ willy-nilly.  They may even project extreme glee with overuse of expressions like ‘OMG’ or ‘FTW.’  Ever watch a [video] Saturday Night Live skit about ‘Penelope?’  Folks like Penelope fit into this category.  And to these Penelope-ists, I say, GTFO.
• Pigeon-holers. Nothing to do with orifices [wink].  Instead, if all you do is place people into categories and imbue a feeling that you think folks are speaking out of turn or out of place, then the heave-ho you will go.
• Hyper-followers. If the number of folks you follow –or who are following you– includes a comma, the likelihood of my unfollowing you will increase.  Further, if that comma-hung figure is made up of five or six digits, I’m probably not going to consider giving you a consideration.  It’s simple:  I don’t want folks who are here to collect numbers, nor do I want folks who beg, steal, or buy followers.  These folks get the cherry-on-top that is called the “unfollow-and-block.”  Piss off!

And of course, because I do enjoy the company of certain tweeters, a few considerations on why I follow the folks I do follow are also worth a mention:

• Conversationalists. If you’ve got things to say, know how to reply, and enjoy the interaction that is a bona fide conversation, I’m there.  I’m following.
• Experts. If you’re an expert in something –anything! –I’m happy and rather enjoy reading your tweets.
• Considerate antagonists. I enjoy debate and I appreciate considerate advocacy of opinions or stances opposite of my own.  It’s refreshing.
• Comics. I fully believe in making a joke out of everything –yes, everything!  So folks who can find the humour or lighter side in any situation, I welcome.  If you’re deft at showing your comedic talents in 140 characters or fewer, I’m there for sure.
• Owners. I don’t care what you own –like a store or restaurant.  Rather, I mean if you own your opinions, your causes, and your points of view and live in a consistency that is palpable, I’d like to follow you –and I will do so willingly!
• Benevolents. If you’re gracious, warm, and generous in your spirit, then I’m a happy fan of yours.  What you hold dear or where or for what cause you’re most gracious is not at stake here, it’s that you’re inclined to be the source of support is why I’d want to be a follower.
• Financial industry junkies. Definitely a follow.  I don’t mean a banker.  Nor do I mean an investor.  I mean a bona fide financial industry junkie.  If you can cite sections of Federal Code from memory or if you can use the word ‘tranche’ in a sentence without guidance from Google, then I’m a definite follower.
• Motoring mavens. If you can pronounce and know who is attached to the name Csaba Csere, I’m your follower.  Appreciation of a fine automobile is not everyone’s bag, I realise; But I enjoy owning and driving vehicles of all types and I enjoy the company of tweeters who don’t have to Google terms like ‘ECM’ and ‘b-pillar’ or who don’t have to ask what make a vehicle is when I say it’s a W220.
• Fatties. Not the overweight kind, the urbane kind.  If you enjoy enjoying life with good food, good company, and good culture, I’d like to follow you.
• Fuckers. No, put your penis away.  Rather, if you let fly the occasional curse word –hell, it can be every other word (I don’t specifically look out for or seek it, I’m fine that you do.  You may also not ever utter a swear word, but if your tolerance for conversations that include them is under control, then I’m happy to follow you.

Life is inherently dynamic so these ten thumbs-up and ten thumbs-down considerations don’t exist in vacare absolutus.  But I certainly take note of who exists in my Twitter world and more generally who’s around me in the realm of social media that I occupy.  Because it’s from this world that we all act as bouncers as @Lavagal acts for the discotheque that is each of our ‘IRL’ spaces.  How else would we know which person from Twitter, or anyone from any of it if at all, gets a pass through the unhooked velvet rope and onto the dance floor of  a shared meal?

Twitter is Haggis

Twitter is haggis.  It really is.  It was a haggis of a place when I landed in 2007.  And to some extent, it still is a haggis of a place –a sack of many kinds of ingredients, trying each of their best to co-habitate and mingle with the intent that someone out there will enjoy the haggis as a whole.  Or in the ambitions of a few, to stand out as a favourite spice or part.

From the sheep intestine that twitter.com is to the organs that are the constant newsfeed posted by @BreakingNews and others to the blood and gravy that are the repetitions of ‘social media experts,’ and finally to the spices and suet made up of all the characters whom I follow whose tweets vary widely from topics like gay rights to announcements of new car purchases from Bentley Motor Cars.  Absolutely a haggis!

You just never know what you’re gonna get.  I like that uncertainty. I’m sure many of my Twitter friends stick around because of the zeal for that uncertainty, too.  Some of them want flavour in their lives!

As if I we didn’t have enough of it in our own worlds book-ended by hypertension medication refills and homeowners association payments.  We still cling to being a part of the peanut gallery in others’ uncertainty.  Nonetheless, it’s all still an uncertainty.  We enjoy it.  We enjoy the haggis.

But like with a hearty haggis, the twitterverse will find itself an unwanted crunch here and there.  And sometimes a downright unappetizing piece of innard that just doesn’t deserve to sit on the shiny side of flatware will appear.  We’re experts –we, the twitter collective –at the haggis, so we rebury it in our simmering offal and our dish continues to develop while we hope that the offending piece simmers away to a chewable texture.  But sometimes that something foul never boils down and it falls on a particular spice or ingredient to tackle that cibus non grata.

I think I’m the pepper in haggis.  I’m wry (dry, really), very flaky and extremely versatile –I can enhance savoury but also tickle the senses on the sweet, too.  More importantly, I’m resolute in my spiciness.  It’s difficult for me or anyone else to apologize for the flavour I bring.  Some folks love pepper, others really dislike it.  But for most, there’s hardly ever a notice that pepper is even mixed in.  That is, of course, until pepper is completely gone.  Then the wondering begins about what pepper really does to affect the pot and how it bring flavours out from so many other ingredients.  Pepper brings a little earthiness to everything, but never takes itself too seriously.  That, of course, is salt’s job.  I’m pepper; I digress.

Yesterday I came across a tweet, which was a reply to what I thought was an awfully presumptuous tweet:  “How unqualified do you have to be that the only job you can get is working at a mall kiosk?” The reply (which I found first) retorted: “Sorry [...] at least that person is working rather than being a burden – nothing wrong w/ being gainfully employed.” So in my pepper duties, I tweeted ‘Hear, Hear!’ –unequivocal in my support for the retort.

I added my spice.  The haggis was supposed to continue stewing.  But the reply I received after my interjection was akin to a gelatinous piece un-gluing from the suet.  Based on the reply I received, it felt like that iceberg of tallow was going rogue.  It began to try things not suitable for haggis.  Its oiliness was about to throw off the balance of the stock.

The  initial reply: “The [grump] in me is annoyed for not being able to walk through the mall [without] being bothered every 20′ by a kiosk seller….” Ahh, I misinterpreted the original tweet; Or so I thought.  And to signify my so desu ne, I replied “LOL yes, I’m not a fan of that. Have not been to a mall on purpose in quite some time anyway.”

Things would return to normal; we were cooking the haggis again.  Until more greasiness of the rogue former-suet began to spread.

“…but I would not call that ‘gainful employment’” was thrown back at me.  I am adept at making light of situations even while pursuing my endgame.  So I took a stab:  “well, Congress itself can’t decide what “gainful employ” means since many believe it [should] be defined against the economy at-hand.” And yet another stab, “but if I use [the Social Security Administration's] definition, [people] *ARE* gainfully employed if they make at least $1,000/month if not blind.”

Out of nowhere, a friendly comment was made that –I thought –helped move the discussion even lighter.  “[Malls] have become like the ancient markets of the old silk road.  [In] your face, cutthroat competition.  [I] kinda like it.”

Ingredients, it seemed, still believed the haggis could be saved.  A noble but later-ineffective reinforcement of stray vein came out of nowhere to try to lasso that fatty spoiler, but ‘veiny’s’ efforts were in vain.

There was no winning or losing; this was just a friendly game of “I really want to know what you meant.”  But before I took any further steps, I was a little shocked:  “I made more than a $1k a month [in] high school. If you can’t make $1k a month, you aren’t trying hard enough.” That’s what was sent to me.  Ahh, good snapshot into someone’s thinking I thought.  So I engaged; “Some of us didn’t work in [high school] but I [could never] presume to say what a [comfortable] income is for ANYone, no [matter what] I need to ‘survive.’” It continued.  I was hit with another reply; this time:  “my materialistic needs outweigh my desire to be lazy hence I could never be one of those people who take advantage of the system.” But then I felt I had to explain further:  “[I'm] not even a democrat (I know, laugh :p) yet i still don’t assume EVERYone making under a certain [dollar amount] is taking [benefits from the system.]“

Greasy or not, the haggis continued to cook.  Other ingredients were oblivious to the excessive greasiness.  But I figured I’d take the subordinating role I signed-up for as pepper and let the dish fix itself.

It made sense to me to simply kill the conversation even if additional replies came my way.  I ended with “I’m sure we could wax on bout our philosophies of employ,  but I was making a [point] that: I can’t presume who’s job is [better or worse than] my own [requirements.]“ There were no other replies.  But I got a very clear picture of an individual’s values.

‘Making nice’ is an indelible and noticeable trait among Hawaii residents, and today’s discussion would not have been complete without that.  Though, it came from an unrelated onlooker; “sounds like a topic we should discuss over martinis and lap dances… i smell tweet up! lol”

So in a last ditch effort, a yard of Guinness offered itself as a reward for a fine accompaniment to a haggis that really could still be saved.  But alas, that offer came and went.  The grease still slicked the surface.  What ingredients did notice the ruckus went back to their simmering stations and the others that didn’t continued to add their own flavour, almost on-schedule and completely oblivious.

I chalked-up the experience as a learning one.  Twitter provides opportunities to learn on so many levels, and from so many opportunities; This was no different.  Some experiences are long, tough, and chewy.  Others, instead are small, delicious, and excite the senses. What we –as users of Twitter –get, though, are opportunities not just to learn or draw experiences, but simply to re-mingle, and to join the crowd once again on your own terms.

We, that same collective that is the haggis, continue to cook just hoping for more ingredients to balance the greasiness from today or the blandness that might be tomorrow, but we continue to cook.  Every now and then, a kind cook will skim the top to increase our potency or will split the batch to let us develop in our own pots.

Whether that ingredient is me, you, or someone else; Or that cook is me, you, or another someone else:  We continue to make the haggis.  And me, you, someone else, or we return whenever we are hungry.

When the lights go down in the city…

First line of that precious and oddly-sanguine Journey song, Light.  The song makes me smile as it triggers neural links to San Francisco — oh and the people there whom I love, the never-enough time I spend there, and the closer-than-you-think crisp alpine air that’s there.

And even in spite of it being a fave, the song reminds me of the part of the day that I hate most:  dusk.

Dusk haunts me.  Haunting like the long afternoon shadows that run toward it.  Haunting like magenta that, to me, isn’t a natural colour.  Haunting like its kindred unnatural colour periwinkle that sometimes dances with magenta as that couple of ‘unnaturals’ waltzes, fading to the darkness of dusk.  Haunting.  Just haunting.

Dusk doesn’t cripple me.  I’m not struck with fear like I suppose someone would be struck if he or she were afflicted with depression.  Nor am I paralyzed by it.  I’m not even anxious because of it.  It’s just there, irritating me in my everyday life.

I pause for it every day, though.  There’s just something about dusk that forces a pause.  Well, I pause.  I dunno what others do, if anything at all.  It’s like dusk is a visual reminder — ugh, of those unnatural colours again LOL — that the daylight has expired and that (like it or not) the things we do that require daylight will need to wait until the next day.  And I think that’s why dusk begs me to pause.  I hate having things end.  I’m forced at that end of anything to take note of what I had set out to do, what I was able to do, and however unfortunate, what it is that’s left to do.  As if I hadn’t already known an ‘eternity’ isn’t really available for anything I want to do.

So dusk robs me of eternity.  I’m lucky in that it doesn’t rob me of sanity, nor of my own internal and outward serenity.  It just sits there, heavy at the end of any day — because g*ddamn it, they’re all good, aren’t they?! — reminding us that either we place a marker where we left off or throw that marker toward wherever light comes back to greet us… you know, to continue doing what we were doing when the lights go down in the city.

Beautiful yet meaningless homework.

What a beautiful piece of craftsmanship.  Our family crest carved into a solid piece of mahogany; obviously Dremel’d, sanded, oiled and varnished — clearly created with pride and care.

At first, I was going to congratulate my brother and his family on what I figured must’ve been a family adventure to some far-flung foreign locale where they had to have picked-up this wooden chevron from a broken-English-speaking townsperson selling wares to foreigners.

But before I could take it all in and figure out where this piece of family pride was from, my sister-in-law plucked it off the bookshelf where it had been set prominently and pointed it out.  “Isn’t this a great school project?” Yeah, it’s nice.  But whose project?! “Kid1′s project; his year-end family history project for social studies.”  Wow.  Yeah, very nice.  [Meanwhile, Kid1 is 12!] “But he got an ‘I’ for it.”  [That's an 'I' for incomplete.] “That stupid teacher said he didn’t put much effort into it.”  Oh, how’d the teacher explain that?  “I dunno.  There was obviously a lot of effort put into this.”  Yeah, sure looks like it.  “Go eat!”

Whew!  Saved by the hunger.  I was ordered to “Go eat!” — my brother and his wife were hosting a small get-together.  The food and family camaraderie during dinner made up for that conversation between my sister-in-law and I of teacher put-downs and consternation at a son’s possible failure to advance to the next grade for lack of a satisfactory social studies grade.

Dinner was great.  Smalltalk ensued during dessert as the kids found their respective ways to visual splendor a la iPod Touch and Nintendo Wii and the adults fattened up on bread pudding and lattes.  We’re not the dietetic clan, that’s for sure.

Anyway, the conversation rolled around back to the school project.  I didn’t know where to begin or interject, so I let Kid1′s parents do all the talking — you know, the doting parents; my brother and his wife.  Besides, they were quite proud to speak about it anyway.  It turns out:  When the project instructions came home, my brother was told that he should commandeer the instructions from Kid1, head out to the neighbourhood hardware store and figure out a project to create that reflected the intent of the subject matter.  And that’s how the wooden motif came to be.  “Interesting,” I thought to myself.

More like “deceitful!” is what I should’ve said aloud.  This parental deceit intervention was to help bolster Kid1′s already-mediocre grade in social studies.  But really, it’s a wonder the kid wasn’t flunked outright and parents called on the carpet for clearly abetting this fraud on homework.  By the way, Kid1 didn’t flunk.  The ‘I’ happened awhile back and he’s since advanced with the rest of his class (but that’s for another blog post).

I guess I have two beefs; 1) My brother and his wife meant well but clearly were not helping their child both in developing his skills, but also in helping his educators understand at what capacity or willingness to learn this child floats in; and 2) Are these teachers for real? I may not have gotten the entire story, but somehow, shouldn’t an educator have a responsibility to call a spade a spade and send a note home that says, “The kid gets an ‘A’ if you can prove he did this with little adult intervention; otherwise, he must redo it on his own!”?

I mean, seriously!  A finely-carved relief of a family crest, made out of mahogany — it’s a hardwood, by the way — is obviously not the work of a pre-pubescent 12-year old.  And the teacher’s an ass for not saying it was obvious in its fraud.  Don’t me started (more than I am already) on the parents being asses for trying to ‘fix’ this social studies grade mess.

And here sits the kid, from what I can tell, complacent in proving his worth.  I cringe because he’s probably learning all the wrong things from two sets of enablers.

Oy vey!

I was inspired to share the story because of a @Lavagal I know whose parenting worries bleed out into her blog sometimes.

This woodcarving tromperie happened several grades back, though.  Kid1′s doing better now; he’s come into his own and is a responsible and astute kid.  The great kid he is is proven in that I don’t think this mess caused any lasting harm to him.  I’m told his school projects sometimes look like crap, but the grades he gets for them now are real.  And his parents have nothing but praise and only an overseeing eye for him.

Thankfully, their Dremel was donated to charity, too.

You eat. You love. You live.

The 82-year old mother of New York Times contributor and humorist Henry Alford made mention of the nature of her eating habits, by explaining:

“So when they served cherry cobbler for dessert that night in the dining room, I thought, I better take this back to my room and eat it tomorrow. For breakfast.”

And so began a ‘true as true ever comes’ story Henry wrote for the New York Times today.  What a great piece!  There’s classic Henry prose in this piece; it makes for an easy read.  But more importantly, the message is all about how life being lived in the grandest form you can muster probably becomes a part of how long you actually get to mener le grande vie as it were.