Mail call

One of the things that I hate about establishing a new business relationship, in this case switching my telephone service, is that I usually have to retrain them about my dislike of telemarketing and junk mail. As a routine I tell any new business that I don't want my name/telephone shared or used for marketing and to not put me on any marketing lists. Sometimes that works.
I recently switched my telephone service from a cable provider to a company associated with telephones and a ballpark in San Francisco. I repeated my standard request about not calling me or sending me anything. Keep my phone service going and I pay my bill on time. Deal?
In fact, I explicitly state "I don't want any contact from you except for my monthly bill."
Should be easy enough but you'd think I was the first person to make that request to this company.
Since switching I have received several automated calls asking if I am happy with my service. I wish they had an option that says "push one if you want us to stop bothering you."
Yesterday I got an automated phone call explaining why my recent bill may seem high. In the mail I got a notice about my "rewards plan", which I was not aware that I had done anything to earn. I called and it was explained that this is how I get the $100 check they promised for switching to this company. I told them I was fine with them sending me a check (I do have my price, it turns out) but once they've done that, "please stop sending me things".
I was told that I had to call another number for that request, which I did. You knew I would.
The customer service rep was polite but it does bother me that I have to confirm my account by providing my Social Security number and mother's maiden name "to ensure security", simply to stop getting junk mail. I could see the security procedures if I was requesting a service change but to stop telemarketing? Help, police! Someone stopped sending me junk mail!
I answered the questions and was told the process would take a few weeks to take effect. I grumbled in reluctant agreement.
Then I was told they would send me confirmation.
That's right: a letter confirming my request to not get any more letters.

Back(board) in the game

My doctor, the one taking care of my broken arm, said it's OK to resume normal activities, including tennis. And I do think I am improving since the last time I played. Today, while hitting the ball against the backboard at a local high school, I only lost one ball. Of course, had I not had a crowbar and a block of wood a second ball would have remained wedged between the backboard and the fence. But you gotta take your victories where you can. Even if that means using a crowbar and a 2 x 4.

Truth in advertising

For those who want a little more magic in their life, General Mills has managed to improve Lucky Charms. How about a little more nutrition while you're at it?

Technology (beeps)

Last night, as I was writing the previous post, I heard a beep. It was very out of place, so I walked to the kitchen to see what was going on. There aren't many appliances and the noise sounded identical to my microwave oven's timer, so I checked the microwave. No lights were flashing and there was nothing to indicate what was going on. So, just to be sure, I hit the Stop/Cancel button and went back to blogging.
About 20 minutes later I heard another beep. So I repeated the process, opening and closing the microwave. I also tested the smoke alarm, just to be sure.
Twenty minutes or so go by and I hear the noise again. So I go look at the microwave to get some information. I go to the General Electric website, figuring maybe there are some FAQ's or documents about this. With my dial up connection it takes about 20 minutes to download the user's manual (beep), which I peruse (beep) and find no mention of random beeping.
I'm baffled, but at least the movie I am watching, Diner, is keeping me somewhat distracted.

You know what word (beep) I'm not comfortable with? Nuance. (beep) It's not a real word. Like gesture. Gesture's a real (beep) word. With gesture you (beep) know where you stand.

I decided to reposition the chaise lounge that is my only piece of furniture when I hear a beep and notice it is coming from the opposite side of my living. Right about where ... hey, it's my cell phone that's beeping. I have no idea why my cell phone is beeping. Being a new cell phone I barely know how to make a phone call, but I turn off the phone and the noise stops.

I wonder if hearing aids make a beeping noise when you can't find them?

Check mate

I wrote a check Monday, which is something that I haven't done in a long time. Buying them is something I've done even less, thanks to on-line bill paying and a work-around that allows me to not have to buy checks. I keep an account (with a very small balance) at a bank that provides temporary checks on request.
The check I wrote was from an order that probably was a decade old. It had, as my address, a place where I hadn't lived in more than three years.
There is something to be said about writing out a check that makes you realize how you are spending your money. The experts say in a cash-less society, where every monetary transaction is done electronically, we spend more than if we were handing over green pieces of paper.
Let's face it, even though I have plastic in my wallet (in the form of a credit and debit card) I do feel a little more wealth with a nice new $20 bill. Or two.

Dear Diary

In the business of television there is but one Bible. It’s known as The Book. It’s the comparison of your station's programming versus your competitors, as conducted by research companies, most prominently, Neilsen.

The Book tells broadcasters and their advertisers who is watching what at a certain time. Those ratings determine how much money broadcasters can charge their advertisers. Advertising on a popular show = lot of money. Advertising when few are watching = not much money.
Programs are yanked of the air due to a bad Book. Careers are made, or ended, by a bad Book. News reports become special reports to help get a good Book.

When I was in broadcasting we tailored our programming to get a good Book. High on the agenda of staff meetings were discussions of the previous Book or the upcoming Book. While we always tried to attract viewers, we knew the bean counters upstairs depended on a good Book to keep the lights on and the paychecks from bouncing. Hence, a good Book is important to everyone in broadcasting.

When a Book was good, it was due to our excellent planning and execution. When a Book was bad, it was due to incompetent viewers who couldn’t fill out their survey properly. We knew they watched us, so why did they tell the research company they were watching Oprah when they were watching us? How hard could it be to write down the program you are watching, especially when so much is at stake?
I recently found out.

I got a phone call from Neilsen asking me if I wanted to participate. After agreeing, I was sent what is called a diary. It’s a booklet where I list the people in the household and fill out a form for every day of the week, indicating who is watching what. It seems pretty simple and it is, normally.
Nielsen also sends you five one-dollar bills. Yes, $5 for my week's efforts. Research has shown Neilsen (and they would know) that survey participants appreciate five one-dollar bills more than one five-dollar bill. I guess it’s the new math.

The first thing I noticed about the diary was how little space they give you to write the information (call letters, channel number and name of program). Having ample room to write anything is appreciated since my handwriting is lousy most of the time.
Then, a few days before the survey period was to start I broke my arm. Yes, the right arm that I normally write with. So now I was writing using both hands to hold my pen.
Did I mention that I was in pain for much of the time and taking Tylenol 3? One of the side effects of Tylenol 3 is that you don’t care much about writing down what program you are watching, never mind the call letters or the channel number. You really don't care what you are watching. Hence, a lot of entries for The Family Guy.

Plus, the recent digital conversion means awful reception if the wind is blowing. Or not blowing.
It was hard to take my diary duty seriously.
I did enjoy the power of having the diary. Face it, when you are watching tv you always wonder why some programs remain on the air. “Who watches this crap?”, right? Now, I had some input.
When I would flip through the stations and come across a particular local news program that I disliked, I would pause briefly and laugh. “No ratings for you!”, I said to the anchor on the local Fox affiliate. I said that several times while channel surfing. Then I’d go to the station that I felt like watching, or at least one that was more deserving of my time and comments to Nielsen.
I imagined an anchor losing his job because he annoyed me too much and fell one diary short for the week. That’s show biz, I guess.

It was strange to think that years ago, someone with a diary might have said the exact same thing when they saw my face on their television. Heck, I probably would have said it myself!

When the week was up I put my diary in the mail.
I felt sort of bad that I was in such lousy shape to take my obligation seriously. I mean, the comments to the anchors I hated were deserved, at least in my book, but sometimes I know I didn’t pay attention like I should have. Sometimes I dozed off as soon as I made my diary entry.
Sometimes I woke up and forgot what program I had intended to watch. I was grateful that my friends who are still in the business are not in this market. Had they been, I would have been much more attentive. I promise.
While I may not have been happy with my effort, I did realize that maybe I did as well as anyone else would have.
I’m sure we’ve all wondered how some programs stay on the air. Now we know the truth: it’s because someone with a diary in one hand has a bottle of powerful narcotics in the other.

Two-stepping on stage

I recently re-acquired a greatest hits cd of a band that I enjoyed years ago, Southern Pacific.
The band was popular in the late 1980's. It consisted of two members of The Doobie Brothers, and the music was really country rock but not in The Eagles sort of way.
Perhaps one of the reasons I enjoyed Southern Pacific so much is from the concert I went to in Medford. I think it was about 1989 or so. While Medford rarely got headline acts, it did get some artists that were on the way up or, more commonly, on the way down. Because it is a relatively small town with small venues, the crowds weren't huge and security was less restrictive as bigger arenas. I would say most concerts at the time were more informal than larger cities.

I bought two tickets for the Southern Pacific performance, reserved seating - second row. TS and I got to the arena (and I use the word arena loosely) and found someone in our seats. No big deal, we thought, as the show hadn't started. So we sat in the third row.
As the opening act came on the person whose seats we were in came and wanted to sit down. So we reminded the people in front of us that they were, in fact, in our seats.
That's when the trouble started. Well, not really. But it could have.
I showed the tickets.
They countered that they had been told (by the ticket seller) that it was general admission and the seat numbers didn't mean anything. I pointed out that was ridiculous and they were fools for believing it.
Since we were temporarily homeless I went to get a security guard to straighten things out.
I didn't want to cause a scene but I did want TS and I to sit down, in good seats like I had paid for and be able to enjoy the show.
The security guard came over and assessed the situation.
I whispered something to him, conferred with TS, and then the guard contacted someone on his walkie talkie.
TS and I were then escorted on to the side of the stage, stage right, where two folding chairs were set up for us. Just us.
We sat down and enjoyed the show. Just us and the band, about 15 feet away. No one else on the stage.
The view was great but the sound was awful.
Because we were on a concrete floor (rather than dirt, sawdust and rodeo droppings that the rest of the crowd were on) we were able to dance, especially the two-step which is my favorite. Southern Pacific had some songs that are great two-steppers.
After the concert I went over to the band and removed two set lists, which are the list of songs the band will play that night. A great souvenir. TS and I got to meet the band and I got my setlist autographed. I recall one of the musicians commenting that we were the couple dancing on the stage and he mentioned how much they enjoyed that.
I gave one set list, the one used by drummer Keith Knuden, to a good acquaintance, Dale, who played drums in a local band.
Dale died a decade later and Keith Knudsen died in 2005.
But the memory of that night lives on.

Dailing for Darwin

In the course of trying to straighten out medical bills and file a claim (see My spring break) I was on the phone for about two hours this morning calling medical offices.
Never did I get straight through to a person, instead I got a voice mail matrix that promised to speed up my access to information. It never did.
Each recording started out by saying "if this is a medical emergency, please hang up and call 9-1-1."
I remember when there was no 9-1-1 system and a massive public education campaign was conducted as 9-1-1 became the standard across the nation. Police cars and fire engines still promote 9-1-1 and I am sure that dialing 9-1-1 is taught in elementary schools.
Each time I heard this recording I tried to imagine a person in the midst of an emergency looking up a phone number in the phone book and dialing the seven (or ten) digits necessary, then hearing a recording saying they should call 9-1-1 instead.
"Shoot. I could have dialed three digits everyone knows instead of looking up the phone number and dialing the doctor's office directly. Darn. What's this? We don't need 9-1-1 anymore because Mommy's neck ran out of blood?"
I was thinking that a child is not likely to be dialing a seven digit number for help. An adult might. But if they don't know enough to call 9-1-1 by now, do we really them to survive?
Evolution exists for a reason, and that's not just to piss off the Bible belt.

Minding my space

Several years ago changes were made in federal laws regarding patient privacy when it comes to healthcare.
The resulting visible changes include signs and velvet ropes at the pharmacy and doctor's office asking you to give the person ahead of you space "to ensure patient privacy".
Personally, I think that's stupid. A dirty look at the person breathing down my neck usually works just as well. But I find the law even more ridiculous after a visit to the local medical office to get my elbow checked (see entry My spring break).
At the reception desk there were signs asking people to stand back and a little mat (that looks like part of a dance lesson) where you stand when you are on deck.
However, once I was called in to see the doctor I didn't wait in a tiny exam room with outdated magazines. No, I was taken to a large room with four exam tables, three of them occupied by other patients.
While waiting for the doctor I overheard his conversation with the teen who broke his wrist snowboarding and will require surgery because he continued to snowboard in a cast. I wanted to comment but hopefully the rolling of my eyes did the same thing. Yes, I also saw the conversation.
While waiting for the doctor I overheard his conversation with the elderly woman who broke her arm when she fell in her kitchen. Fortunately she was healing nicely -- I guess she decided not to snowboard while she was on the mend. From what I could tell her x-ray looked normal.
Maybe the hospital figures if you are in a cast the public knows you've broken a bone. Hence, you give up some privacy just by wearing a cast.
I find it totally ridiculous the hospital has signs so no one will hear me tell the receptionist "I've got a 11:45 appointment with Dr. Johnson" yet there is nothing in place to keep other patients from hearing (or seeing) me talk with Dr. Johnson about my actual condition and medical care. I'm glad I wasn't there for a prostate exam. Maybe they limit that room to only two patients.
As I left the hospital I stopped at the Member Services desk to mention this discrepancy in privacy protection. I was told that "it must be right because that's how we're doing it."
I didn't pursue the matter because I have a follow up appointment and, as they say, you don't complain about the service until after the waiter has brought your food.
I doubt complaining would change anything. But my irritation about the hypocrisy makes me realize that if I'm griping I must be feeling better.
The splint comes off tomorrow.

My spring break

"Taking a trip" took on a double meaning recently, thanks to what you see in the photograph on the left. I encountered it on a recent visit to California. The chrome rod was used to give the photo some perspective; it was not there when I fell and landed on my hands and knees.
The result is what a doctors call a radial crown fracture of my right arm -- and I am right handed. The good news is that I should have to wear a splint for only two weeks and the doctors say there doesn't appear to be any major damage. The bad news is that it still hurts, I can't use my right arm and that I was also told there's no major damage when I broke a finger years ago and ended up having surgery and a cast/splint for about four months. So I am a bit worried.
I've hiked countless miles in forests without any serious injuries and I break my arm on pavement.

Another problem are the questions my immobility brings. Face it, saying that I tripped on an uneven crack in the street makes me sound like a klutz. And that brings more questions and guffaws. I mean, it was the middle of the day and alcohol was not involved. How much more boring can a story get? Maybe I ought to wear a t-shirt with an explanation???

It also bothers me because I like to write and I try to write correctly as much as possible. With the splint I can not write with a pen at all and my typing leaves much to be desired because I can only use one hand. It is frustrating for me to not be able to write like I had. Not that I really feel like writing it but writing is important. I can't even write a grocery list or write down phone numbers. Nor can I sign my name.

I guess that's the breaks.

Read this: Ernest Hemmingway’s The Sun Also Rises

This review is posted a bit late in part because I forgot that I read the book.
Why this book is such a classic is beyond me. Maybe 1926 wasn't a very good year for writing? This is a semi-autobiographical tale of a group of expatriate writers who drink their way through Paris Spain. The running of the bulls and the bullfights in Pamplona being the highlights.
While the detail of the events and the atmosphere is well-captured, the characters all seem very similar to one another (maybe because they’re usually drinking or looking for a place to drink).

Read this: John Steinbeck’s Wayward Bus

This is considered by some to be a better Steinbeck story than Cannery Row and I think it's a pretty close second.
Wayward Bus is about a couple that runs small cafe and bus service on the south central California coast. Part of the story takes place at the cafe, when a group of passengers is stranded when the bus breaks down. The second half takes place once the bus has been repaired and is one the road. Given the title you know something will happen on the trip, it's only a matter of time and context.
Along the way we learn the secrets the various passengers are carrying to their destinations. The story's climax takes place very late on the voyage (and in the book), making it almost an afterthought. Hence, any redemption the characters encounter feels somewhat contrived. We learn which characters survive the journey intact, and we learn that the journey may have changed the lives of others. We never learn if any changes are long-term or just for a few minutes. But I guess that's why the story isn't called After the Wayward Bus.
While such a story arc could feel disjointed, Steinbeck's manner of writing, along with the cast of characters he's created, keeps the ride enjoyable.

Read this: John Steinbeck’s Cannery Row

Steinbeck calls Cannery Row “a stink” but his novel, set along the fish packing houses of Monterey Bay, is anything but.
I’ve visited Cannery Row countless times over the years but was never impressed with its current lack of character and surplus of kitsch. It sounds like the place has gone downhill since Steinbeck first made it famous.
The novel is a series of short stories about the misadventures of characters who may have actually lived and worked along Cannery Row during the Depression. The merchant, the biologist, the madam and the transients all share equal billing. They all seem to get along (mostly) and respect one another.
One of the interesting things about the stories is that none of the characters change much -- nor do they seem to want to. The vagabonds want a meal and a roof, but they don’t seem to mind their lifestyle. Yes, there are minor crimes, shipwrecks and even deaths, but as long as the occupants have a pint of “Old Tennis Shoes” life is good. Cannery Row truly seems like a content place.
This is a great book if you are looking for an easy and fun read, and don’t want to spend an hour to get through a chapter.
In his Cannery Row, Steinbeck will take you back and take you away.

Gratuitous eye candy

This is a picture I recently took of Lookout Point Lake, near Eugene, OR. Need I say more?

Close encounters of the Bruce kind

With the release of a new cd, his first ever Super Bowl half-time show and a tour starting in April, this is a good time to be a fan of Bruce. If you have to ask “Bruce who?”, you either don’t know me well or don’t recognize the man in the photo. I’ve been a fan since about 1981, when GM brought over a copy of Born to Run and urged me to listen because “he sounds like Meatloaf”. At the time it was a compliment.
Over the years I’ve spent a lot of time and money enjoying his music, both on album, cd and at concerts. Bruce’s music, that is, not Meatloaf’s.
In addition to just the music, there have been a lot of great memories. Sleeping on the sidewalk at Town & Country Village to be in line when the box office opened was one. I know, it doesn’t sound like much fun but looking back it was one of those crazy “kid” things to do. Concert goers these days have it so easy.
Two memories that stand out occurred with my friend, GJ-R. In 1988, during the Tunnel of Love tour, my reading of previous concert reviews showed that fans were being let into the arenas before the show started, usually in time to hear a few songs of the sound check -- that’s the performance of a few songs prior to the show, presumably to check the sound levels and speakers and whatnot.
GJ-R and I both got some time off from work and her mother got us tickets to the show in Tacoma, close to where GJ-R was from. It was my first trip to Washington so it was all pretty cool.
After spending the night with her folks, we made plans to get to the Tacoma Dome early. Waiting for the show to begin, we were able to press our ears to the doors to listen to some of the music, which was pretty neat itself. Then, the doors opened. Baby, we were born to run!
After showing our tickets (I don’t think there was much in the way of security in those days), GJ-R and I ran into the Dome, making our way down to the arena floor and then to the stage.
We were actually at the foot of the stage, looking up to the E Street Band playing a couple of Chuck Berry tunes. The house lights were on and the band members were wearing sweat suits -- generally looking like they had just gotten out of bed.
On a notepad I had (to write down the song list) I hastily scribbled something like “can you play Backstreets for my friend, attending her first Bruce concert?” I wanted to try to hand it to Bruce when they left the stage but for some reason (maybe the big man in the shirt that said SECURITY) I couldn’t/didn’t. Much to our surprise, that song was played a couple of hours later. It was a great show and getting in early was really a treat.
About eight years later GJ-R and I decided to attend two concerts of Bruce’s solo tour. I’d heard he was coming out after the show to meet with fans, so we figured we might have the chance to actually talk to him or something. This time, the logistics were a bit more complicated since GJ-R was now living near Tacoma and Bruce’s concert was in San Jose.
If my memory is correct, I drove down to San Jose while GJ-R flew down. The show was fun but no opportunities to meet the man himself. The next day GJ-R flew back to her home and I drove north to mine. I believe Bruce was playing a benefit in LA that day.
The following day I drove north to Portland and GJ-R drove south to Portland, rendezvousing in the City of Roses -- the site of that night’s concert.
That show was very good, our seats were closer than the previous concert and the sound seemed to be better inside the much smaller venue.
Afterward we went outside and waited (along with a couple of other fans) by the stage door. Yea, just like in the movies.
Some time had gone by when a van pulled up, presumably so Bruce could make a quick getaway. But after he came outside he didn’t get into the van -- he got on top of the van -- and started signing autographs and talking with the growing crowd.
I gave GJ-R the only scrap of paper I had (my ticket stub) and ran a few blocks to the car to get the camera out of the glove box. I returned a few minutes later and got some shots. I do recall shouting out “hey Bruce, how about a nice smile for the camera?” and he looked up, making a cheesy grin as I snapped the picture. I can’t recall how long he signed autographs, but we stayed as long as he did.
Afterward, we drove back to the motel and then walked to a nearby 7-Eleven for some snacks and a chance to soak in what had happened.
I saw Bruce perform again in 1999, going to concerts with TS, MB and GJ-R. GJ-R again came south for the show, and TS and I got stuck in snow on the way back north. TS and I saw two shows and both were very good, but putting up with the crowds and obnoxious people for the chance to watch video monitors from the upper deck just didn’t compare to my previous experiences. That was the last time I went to any of his concerts, not just because the experience has changed but because I’ve changed. I keep thinking to myself “it’s just not worth the hassle”.
Listening to music is a big part of living, I think. But it’s not just the notes and lyrics. It’s the experiences you have, sharing it with friends.
I can never hear The Knack’s My Sharona without thinking of standing with GM on the bouncing floor of Stanford’s Maples Pavilion. California Girls brings back memories of my first karaoke venture with my former roommate and good friend, Tim S. There is no way I can hear Southern Pacific’s A Thing About You without thinking of dancing with TS on the side of the stage at the Expo.
Good music + good friends = good times

I've been converted

I've been skeptical ever since the federal government announced the switch from analog television signals to digital. I've wondered how it will improve my life, aside from a clearer television picture for programs that I don't care for anyway. I vowed not to spend a dime on the conversion.
After ordering my $40 coupon, I finally found a store selling the converters for $40 (the same place I bought the Pee Chee folder from the previous post). So my cost: nothing. Which is exactly the maximum amount of money and effort I plan to put into "the switch".
I hooked up the box and a few minutes later saw some broadcast channels I couldn't receive with my rabbit ears. (Yawn.) I tried to set the box so I could scan the channels (and skip the religious channel) but that was very difficult to do as the instructions seemed to be in every language but English. No way to hook up my VCR without buying additional cables and splitters, but that's not something I care to address: my effort meter had run out. I'll get a dose of religion whenever I graze.
I know the conversion is supposed to be good for me and make the US more like other industrialized nations which have had digital broadcasting for years. The feds sell the old analog spectrum to generate money. I am not sure how the money will be used, but it will probably be wasted. Supposedly, the old analog channels will be used by telecommunications companies and public agencies, so maybe improved communications for public agencies is the only benefit. The feds spent a lot of taxpayer money to subsidize the switch (including to pay for my converter box), so that's a waste. There may be some jobs created in the conversion, but my box (and probably most of them) was made in China.
If it wasn't for a generous friend (BG) giving me her old set, I probably wouldn't own a TV at all.
I'll try to enjoy the improved (image) quality of the programming, but it sure seems like a big waste to me.

Not so Pee Chee

While looking for envelopes at a local department store, a familiar yellowish folder caught my eye -- a Pee Chee folder. For decades, these folders were everywhere -- with the ubiquitous athletes on the covers, usually modified with doodles created during boring lectures. The Useful Information on the inside pockets made them the place to turn when we had a question about converting time, mass or distance (this was before Google and the Internet, mind you). How did we manage to multiply 12 x 12 without our Pee Chee?
For nostalgia's sake I bought one (79 cents), figuring it might make an interesting (?) blog entry. Who knows? I might even use it someday.
Once I got home I realized that I had seen a Pee Chee folder more recently: right in my cardboard box full of papers and folders. I guess I am officially a packrat (and forgetful).
I compared the two (the older one is on the left) and noticed that, aside from changes in the drawings (and a UPC bar code on the newer version), they haven't changed much since my high school days when a Pee Chee was 2 for 25 cents. The Useful Information is identical, although it seems to be harder to read than it used to be.
Wikipedia says the Pee Chee is no longer made. Ebay shows that they haven't become collector's items -- yet.
Oh well, at least I now have another place to keep my homework. And should I ever need to know how many pints in a quart, I'll know just where to turn.

The horror of HR

I've mentioned previously my efforts at career advancement, particularly the expense. I have not tracked the amount of time namely because there is no point. I am not getting paid for the time and I am sure knowing the amount of time wasted (i.e., no offer) would not help my mental state.
Yes, it has been time wasted. At this point I think I've got my game down. I've read books, had coaching and very rarely gotten feedback from those I have met with. So going through the process for the experience is not productive, although I do try to keep an open mind and always appreciate feedback.
In previous years I have had some HR encounters that were downright injust. In about 2005, I drove five hours for an interview with a public agency. I arrived in plenty of time and was kept waiting about 20 minutes past my appointment time. When I was brought to the panel I was informed they were running behind and would have to cut my meeting short. So I had about ten minutes to answer some pre-selected questions. Twenty minutes later I was back on the road, facing another five hour drive back home. I didn't get that job.
A few years later I had another interview at the same agency. This time my drive was about 15 minutes. On the panel was a former coworker, who later told me they already had a candidate in mind and they were "going through the motions" because they had to. Well, at least my drive was short and there was some honesty. The former coworker told me I did very well and my research had been great, but she told me there was no way I was going to get the job. So maybe I did learn something: never again apply to that agency.
This week I had another usual encounter with an application process for a government agency.
I submitted my information on-line and then checked the status of my application. It said I was not qualified. I was shocked so I made a few calls.
What I found was that there is a glitch in the system that deleted my college degree -- the same degree that is part of the minimum requirements. Oh, the degree shows up on my profile but when I look at the printout the HR staff sees, it is simply not there. As Bluto said "seven years of college down the drain." Or in this case, four years of college omitted by computer error.
Had I not checked my status I would never have known why I was disqualified.
It makes me wonder how many times that has happened to other applicants. But more important, it makes me wonder how many times it has happened to me.

I hate to be paranoid about a process that I currently have to be a part of. I hate to feel like my complaints are just a case of sour grapes. But given the lousy treatment by some places, like no notification whatsoever or the feeling that I am causing people to do their jobs, it is clear that some departments just don't care about fairness or competency -- no matter how much those two qualities matter to me.

Read this: Mel Brooks' It's Good to be the King

Had I been more than a casual fan of director/writer/actor Mel Brooks, I would have really enjoyed this book. As it is, I thought the book was just OK. The most interesting parts (to me) where those about the movies I had seen, like Blazing Saddles and Young Frankenstein. I was surprised to hear the Gene Wilder role in Blazing Saddles was offered to Johnny Carson.

Read this: American Spy by E. Howard Hunt

A fascinating read about the covert world of Watergate burglar E. Howard Hunt, who seems to have been involved in nearly every one of this country's secrets since about the 1940's.
Though the bulk of the material is about the Watergate break-ins (there were actually two burglaries), he also writes about his involvement in the Bay of Pigs invasion, various coups and coup attempts and the Vietnam war. He was not involved in the JFK assassination (so he says).
While the book is insightful into the work of a spy/burglar/hired thug, it comes across too much as Hunt whining about things that went wrong and blaming others for his problems. Is the reader supposed to feel sympathy when a man with seemingly no conscious loses his wife in a plane crash? Why should we be surprised one of his children doesn't talk to him, when he asked that same child to hide evidence about his guilt in Watergate? Why is it the judge's fault that Hunt got a sentence he feels was too harsh?
I also have trouble following the exploits of a man who can rationalize criminal acts in the supposed interest of national security. How much of what was written is true, and how much is Hunt's own bravado?
If you can get past your dislike for truly unlikeable person, you may enjoy this book.