Monthly Archives: January 2014

Two days off…

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Some of you may have noticed that I played hooky for two days this weeks, leaving the ivy covered halls of jeffreytharp.com without new posts on both Friday and Saturday. It wasn’t quite intentional, but I don’t exactly feel guilty about it either. Trust me when I say that posting seven days a week – through vacations, holidays, illness, and any number of other distractors – is a brutal pace. Don’t take that as a 538px-Concussion_mechanics.svgcomplaint, though. Given unlimited time and no requirement to feed myself, maintain an income-generating job, and keep up with the occasional outside interest, there’s not many things I would rather do than sit here tapping on the keys. So yeah, sometimes I’m just going to let it rest for a day or two

I think what’s happening is that I’m slowly trying to work my way into a new schedule – probably a slightly less intense six day a week kind of deal. Fridays are currently the front runner for my “day off.” That’s mostly because by the time I wade through a work week and make it to Friday, my brain has turned to some kind of viscous jell that can’t manage much in the way of coherent thought. I figure if one of the treatments for concussion is strict rest and minimizing activities that require extreme concentration, giving the old brain box a day off is probably a good idea. After all, five days in the office certainly feels like being beaten about the head and neck with a blunt object, so the treatment and recovery process should be more or less the same, no?

What Annoys Jeff this Week?

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1. US Postal Service. I know they’re everyone’s favorite whipping boy. I’ve taken them to task a time or two myself, but I like to think it’s not a knee jerk reaction. When a bunch of people are talking about having a craptastic delivery experience, there’s probably at least some truth to the notion. Really, it could all be avoided if the package I ordered last Monday with an estimated delivery date of last Saturday had any sign of ever leaving its point of origin in Oklahoma. Sure, I know first class mail isn’t an overnight service, but it doesn’t seem excessive to expect the post office to, at a minimum, avoid losing track of a package that has a tracking number printed on it. At the very least, they might want to actually respond to a customer request for information from time to time. As a historic institution, I want to like the USPS, but there’s generally a reason I’m willing to pay a few dollars more to ship items through a more reliable provider.

2. McDonald’s. I’ve noticed two things about the local McDonald’s here in scenic Elkton. 1) They’ve never gotten my drive thru order 100% correct; and 2) When I go inside to complain and get the order corrected, the place looks like a damned sty. I’m not a regular, but sometimes you just want a Big Mac and super-salty fries. All I’m saying is that having had the experience of spending more years working at a McDonald’s franchise than I want to admit, the kind of service and level of cleanliness I see here definitely wouldn’t have passed muster back in the day. Im not saying I liked cleaning stainless or sweeping the lobby and more than these guys do, but I do think the standards 19-odd years ago were definitely better. Then again, that seems to be endemic, so maybe it’s just society in general that’s pissing me off and McDonald’s is just a symptom.

3. Harvey Weinstein. So Harvey has decided that he is going to make a movie taking on the NRA because he “doesn’t think we need guns in this country.” I guess violence is bad, except when it’s being used as a plot point to generate billions in revenue from such peaceful films as Reservoir Dogs, Pulp Fiction, Kill Bill Vol. 1 & 2, Grindhouse, Rambo, and Django Unchained. I’m not sure Harvey commands the moral high ground on this one. Pot, meet kettle.

Charity…

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Every year, Uncle Sam sponsors the Combined Federal Campaign (CFC), the government’s officially sanctioned one-stop-shop for its personnel to donate to the cause of their choice through direct payroll deduction. Every year from Thanksgiving to New Years you’re inundated with emails, meetings, kick off events, more emails, and unofficial peer pressure to give, give, give. I’m told that it’s better now than it was “in the olden days,” when signing up was damned near compulsory (unofficially, of course).

We got a bulk email this afternoon thanking everyone for participating this year, but noting ominously that we had only achieved 72% of the stated local goal and that as a result babies would go hungry, kittens would be drowned, and veterans of the Spanish-American War wouldn’t get the recognition they so richly deserved. OK, maybe that wasn’t exactly what the email said, but taking a bit of artistic license, that’s what I read. At any rate, I could have done without the reminder that there was still time to dig a little deeper.

I don’t generally give to CFC, preferring to do my donating directly with the groups I’m interested in supporting rather than through a 3rd party. This year, though, even that didn’t happen. After three long years without a raise, losing 5% of last year’s salary to furlough days, and spending a week sitting home because of how “non-essential” I am, I opted out almost completely, shepherding my limited funds available in case they needed to be deployed much closer to home. If that sounds at all bitter and jaded, well there’s a good reason for that.

There are a lot of worthy causes out there, but when push comes to shove, I’m my own favorite cause… and when the elected powers that be continually tell federal employees that they’re a drain on society and busy themselves dinking with our pay and benefits at every opportunity, it’s a good assumption that I’m just not feeling the spirit of generosity. There’s just something about being kicked in the stones repeatedly that seems to not set one afire with the joy of “giving back.” In fact, to me the only surprise in this whole story is the CFC didn’t miss their mark by way more than 28%. If nothing else, it’s an excellent example of actions having consequences.

Magnetic…

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From the time I got my license in June 1994 until October 2011, the only accidental damage I ever had to a vehicle was the occasional cracked windshield. Admittedly, the Jeep’s flat glass seemed to have an unnatural attraction to rocks kicked up at highway speed, but still that was just the cost of doing business. Since October 2011, the tide has turned. I can’t unnamedseem to go six months without the telltale screech of rending sheet metal. A parking meter jumped out and tagged my left turn signal, a crease appeared in my rear bumper shortly thereafter for reason or reasons unknown, an old man in an F-150 faked me out with his turn signal and cost me a new front end, and today I’ve got a softball sized dent on the left bedside from an unfortunate run in with the grill and hood of a Chevy.

Big Red is a trooper, though. Dents, dings, a new front end and she just keeps doing her thing. Now we’re off tomorrow morning to the body shop for the latest repair estimate. Given the relatively recent completion of my new front end, I’m trying to keep this one off the books at the insurance company. Unfortunately I can already hear my credit card screaming in protest. 2013 was basically punctuated by one headache after another. It’s becoming more obvious by the day that 2014 isn’t going to offer much in the way of relief, but just more of the same.

I love my Tundra, but she’s a rolling accident magnet… and if she wasn’t so damned close to being paid off, I’d think hard about trading her in on something that might not have so much bad mojo attached.

The taming of the American truck…

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Note: Over in the “About” tab, I once promised that this wasn’t going to be a place you’d necessarily want to come to hear a discussion about “how big my engine is.” I hope you’ll forgive this one small exception to policy without demanding that I redefine the blog, its purpose statement, or who I am as a writer.

I’ve driven two Fords over the years. The first was a ’68 Torino GT with a 302 cubic inch (4.9L) small block V8 and 210 horses under the hood. The second was a 2006 Mustang GT with a 4.6L V8 and 300 horses. Of course I realize nether of those are trucks, but they do speak to my general taste in engine size and configuration. My current ride is a truck (though not a Ford) and it weighs in at 5.7L and 381 horsepower. Sure, the gas mileage in all three of these V8 wonders was crap, but they all had just a little more “go” to give every time I put my foot to the floor and that made every fuel stop worth the few extra dollars it cost.

Now I see Ford is in the process of neutering the venerable F-150 line, offering a paltry 2.7L V6 for the green-nicks who for some reason want a full sized truck that’s also profoundly underpowered. Ford’s only V8 offering will be their 5.0L, turning 360 horse. It’s a fine engine, but not what you expect in a class of truck that use to sport 6.2L and 411 horses. And certainly not the size engine I’d want under the hood of my truck.

Maybe the days of the throaty, powerful V8 engine are doomed as the world seems happy enough to putter around in underpowered 2.something liter rattle traps. If that’s the case, the Tundra and I are going to be acquainted for a long time to come, because I’ll run it until the floorboards rust through before I think that dropping a baby V6 into a full sized vehicle is a good idea. Fuel efficiency is well and good and smaller cars absolutely have a place in the fleet, but for the sake of all that’s holy can we please not turn all our trucks into Rangers and S-10’s?

Roast…

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I’m pretty sure I’ve covered this before, but it bears repeating – Roast beef is my favorite Sunday dinner. Of course it’s convenient, too. Seared on cast iron, laced with almost an entire garlic clove, plopped in the crock pot and surrounded by mushroom soup and dry italian dressing mix, dinner prep is basically finished by 8AM. Then there’s the smell. I love the way a roasting beef fills that house with that smell. And then, of course, there are the memories of long ago and far away family dinners. For me, roast beef is the working definition of comfort food. It’s something to savor.

I can’t really claim to be a foodie. I don’t rush off to try the great new restaurants or seek out a dining adventure. I’m sure I could cook just about anything, but dinner here at the Rental Casa de Jeff is always about simple home cooking. I can’t imagine anyone is shocked to find that I consider myself the quintessential meat and potatoes kind of guy. I don’t need or really want ostrich burgers, chilled monkey brains, or snake surprise. Keep the larder stocked with herbs and spices, carrots, celery, onions, and the basic cuts of chicken, pork, and beef and I’m both a happy cook and a happy diner.

Feeling…

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One of the great problems of running a blog as a one man show is that sometimes, no matter what’s going on or how many topics are buzzing around in your head, you just don’t feel like writing. Sadly, there’s no one stepping up to stand in the breach so the best you can do is drag the laptop towards you and tap out a post about how much you don’t feel like writing. Yeah, I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around it too… but since there’s now a post where there wasn’t one before, I’m going to just consider the effort a success and move on. Hopefully tomorrow the muse will get off her duff and give me something in the same zip code as inspiration.

What Annoys Jeff this Week?

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1. 2:30 PM. Everyone gripes and complains about early mornings. Those have always been pretty easy for me, even before long commutes and unholy start times turned me into a de facto morning person. The mid-afternoon is the part of the day I dread. It’s the time that turns me into a near catatonic meat sack. By the 2:30 mark on the typical weekday, I can’t pour coffee down my throat fast enough to do much more than keep up the basic appearance of not being asleep at my desk. Forget about being able to actually concentrate on something, I’m using all available power to keep myself from going face first into the keyboard. Fortunately, most days by about quarter of four, things start looking up a bit, happily just in time for the drive home. Although that’s convenient and all, it would be awfully nice not to feel like a zombie for a good third of every shift. Sadly, thus far, “more coffee” has not been the solution.

2. Price drops. I’ve noticed on the last few things I’ve ordered online, that a few days after I fork over my credit card number, the same item is available on the same site for slightly less than I paid for it. Of course most of these business are reputable establishments and would probably give me the discount if I spent 45 minutes finding my receipt, calling customer service, and complaining to two or three levels of CSR. Usually, though, the general hassle involved isn’t worth it to save the couple of dollars I’d end up getting back for the effort. Sometimes knowing time value and opportunity cost is a real pain in the ass.

3. iPhoto. I think it’s obvious that I’m deeply committed to the Apple family of products. My iPhone talks to my iPad which talks to my MacBook Pro which talks to my Mac Mini which talks to my AppleTV. Everything digital is basically available through any device all the time. It happens without much behind the scenes interface from me. And that makes me happy. But then we come to iPhoto, Apple’s dedicated photo management software. I’ll confess: I hate it. Like a good fanboy, I tried hard to like it, but I really do despise this little piece of software for not giving me control of the underlying file structure and letting me organize my pictures the way I had them filed on my PC in 2002. In this one little thing, Apple has made my life infinitely more difficult. I don’t need smart albums, or tags, events, or social media integration. I just need my photos stored in a logical file structure with folders, sub-folders, and sub-sub-folders that make sense to my OCD addled brain.

The guy with the blog…

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While I was home for Christmas, I managed to take care of a few odds and ends that needed doing. One of the little jobs I finished up involved needing to get a couple of documents notarized. I only mention what I was doing because it’s what triggered my best “aww shucks” moment as a blogger… and that would be getting recognized as “that guy with the blog” by someone I had never met.

Yep. Guilty as charged. For better or worse, I’m the guy with the blog. Of course in addition to being the guy with the blog I’m also a shameless whore, so I tried selling the nice notary public a copy of What Annoys Jeff this Week: 2013 in Review.

I’m not going to lie, it’s pretty awesome to be noticed. Now if I can just interest TMZ in some pictures, I think this whole writing thing is set to take off.

Cold, colder, coldest…

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The media have made a great story out of the grave menace to our way of life posed by the Polar Vortex of Doom. Rightly so, I suppose. It is cold out there after all. But there’s gohomearcticyouredrunksomething that’s been nagging at me since the early hours of this morning. I mean aside from vaguely wondering if I shouldn’t have left a faucet running while I was at work.

It was cold last night – somewhere in the low teens when I took the dogs out for last call around 10PM. A little after 6 this morning, I took them out again and discovered that it was still cold. It was still cold to the tune of about 3 degrees. The wind felt like it was blowing at more or less the same speed from more or less the same direction. On both occasions, I was more than well aware that it was, by my own definition, cold as blue hell. However, I can’t say that 3 degrees at 6AM felt substantively colder than 13 degrees at 10PM. This all leads me to believe at some level cold is simply cold.

There’s probably some very scientific method of proving that people sense degrees of coldness in different ways, but based on my purely unscientific experience over the last 24 hours, I’d be hard pressed to confirm that. I’m willing to go ahead and make a concession that I would probably be able to tell -30 from 10, but in a narrower range, it all just feels like worse than average cold to me. Then again, I’m not a devotee of cold weather. At best I consider the cold something to be avoided, hidden from, and beaten back using all the home heating weapons at your disposal… but really, unless I’m going to be stuck in it for hours on end, I don’t need gradations of cold. Unless there’s a tragic accident, I’m not going to be in it long enough to do more than notice that “sweet baby Jesus it’s cold out here.” That makes discussions of cold, colder, and coldest pretty much academic by my standards.