Two for Dancing Queen
Between us, the Man and I share a disparate taste in movies. Harry Potter, Harrison Ford, the ensemble casts of mockumentarian Christopher Guest... not what you'd call a strong thread of continuity there.
So would you figure I was straining at the leash to go see "Mamma Mia," and that he was more than willing to accompany? I'm not sure I even like Abba, or remember any of their songs except for the brain-gripping "Dancing Queen." But Meryl Streep and Pierce Brosnan singing Abba on a Greek Island -- gotta go!
We realize that if I can leave work on time today, we can make the late matinee showing of Momma Mia. It's a bit of a horse race though, and we jog up to the ticket counter in the very nick of time.
"Two for Dancing Queen!" I call out breathlessly. The man gives us our tickets and asks if we want popcorn or a drink. Distracted, I make Italianate hand gestures (the nice kind). "I mean, Momma Mia, two for Momma Mia."
He smiles, "I knew what you meant."
I don't think I was still for even one moment of the movie. Toes, knees, shoulders, head, vocal chords -- something was going the entire time.
In my imagination, I'm Meryl and the Man is Pierce. Gotta whisk him away to the Aegean Sea.
"You can dance, you can jive, having the time of your life
See that girl, watch that scene, diggin' the dancing queen"
Hero of the Day
Tom Sepa.
www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/200/07/31/BAPB1227KF.DTL
Officially listed as homeless, he holds down an internet sales job while camping out in Golden Gate Park. Tom has a car, a laptop, a cell phone, and a wireless card giving his laptop internet access even when he is out of wifi range (say, sitting cross-legged under the Eucalyptus trees in the park). He spends most days at the Zephyr Cafe, where Kristen and I have met to work on our erstwhile novels. He orders coffee, et al, puts on his headset, and starts work.
Tom is one of the increasingly stressed middle class. As do so many of us, he lived a couple of paychecks away from trouble. When he and his wife split (causes unstated; she left) he could no longer afford the rent on their house. After trying and hating some of the homeless-lodging options offered by the City, he decided it was smarter and safer to camp out.
He's on his way to saving $10,000 -- his goal before re-entering "normal" life. In San Francisco, it takes anywhere from $4,000--$8,000 to get into regular rentals, either apartments, flats, condos or homes.
If I directed an affordable housing and rent-to-own non-profit (one of my ephemeral goals) I would sign him up. Since I'm a writer, maybe I'll turn his story into a screenplay.
Tom, I may never meet you, but what you're doing really resonates with me. I hope your wife didn't leave because of anything sad, bad or scary you did. I hope you're a good guy, because I like believing in good guys. Regardless, I think your urban survival tactics are spot-on. I'm praying for the time when your tent will just be used for weekend getaways.
Comcast manipulating Port 25
Returned home from a business trip this weekend. My mother-in-law passed away while I was out of town, and I was hectic and harried to get home, help my husband and step-daughter, and communicate information via email to others.
Couldn't send email. Not from personal account or work account. Not Sunday when I got home, not Monday. Called Comcast, my current (emphasis on the temporary nature of the word current) internet provider. Turns out they had blocked our access to Port 25, the main, commonly used email port for email "client" programs such as Outlook, Thunderbird, Entourage, etc.
Why had they blocked it without telling us? They couldn't really say. Maybe we were using too much bandwidth, many be were sending so much email it looked like spam to them. A good work-around, they said, was to "upgrade" from the residential to the business internet service. Yeah, it costs significantly more, but much less chance of a "sending blockade."
Um, yeah, I don't send that much email, don't download much in the way of audio or video files, I'm a pretty low-impact user. Unless a "spam zombie" has taken over one of our computers and is using it to channel spam, I feel like I'm being played by comcast. At the very least, they should have called us first. My phone number is on the account, next to the section where I pay my bill on time every month for "unlimited email access."
Since this is email, I'll be going virtually postal. As long as I can't send email, I'll be telling the world what comcast is doing.
I asked them to unblock port 25 so I can contact people, and then if there really is some problem, show me the evidence of a bandwidth activity report. Show me that I'm sending more than 1,000 emails a day, which is the threshold they list on their website for concerns. And give me a refund for as many days as this was blocked. They said their "escalation" department had up to 72 hours to restore access. What!?! And they aren't authorized to issue a credit since "something you did" caused the red flag. Right... I've been out of town for five days and my husband has been with his dying mother. Pretty sure we've not been home sending emails.
I'm bulldogging this. Don't shut off PAID service for a spurious reason, particularly without calling me first to let me know they think there is a problem. I've been romancing the idea of getting all my service via satellite anyway. The packages are cheaper and it looks like the product will be better. Comcast, you're about to lose a customer. And I'm going to share my story with others.
An outstanding work of remarkable intimacy
I turned to the right, seeking to communicate "taken, uninterested, just browsing, please don't talk to me,' to the man approaching rapidly from the left. As he drew closer, I became enraptured with the clearance paperback bin ("no really I'm busy").
"Hi there," he said, undeterred by my body language, "what are you looking for?"
I turned only my head and smiled sadly to discourage him, "Just browsing," and began inching my gaze back to the unwanted bin.
"Looking for some light summer reading, or something--" he glanced at my hand "--for your husband or kids?"
I was in an odd intersection in the bookstore, kiosks and tables of random categories surrounded me, all grouped vaguely at the openings of diagonal aisles. Behind me beyond the escalators were periodicals and the attached coffee shop.
He persevered, "I can help you find what you want..."
I succumbed to a conversation, "What I really want are the books I left at home. I'm here on a business trip and forgot to pack them."
He began to suggest books he had read, books he wanted to read. His enthusiasm was palpable and unwanted. Before I disengaged, he recommended a book with jacket blurbs shouting "groundbreaking," "extraordinary," "remarkable intimacy!"
Unsold, I returned to my own quiet and enjoyably aimless wandering. I didn't want to read an extraordinary book. I wanted something less work than groundbreaking. Something entertaining and well-written, yes, but remarkable intimacy? No. Remarkably intimate and extraordinary books take a high level of engagement. Groundbreaking books usually push you to think or care. I just wanted something pleasant to read while falling asleep in my hotel room.
Come to think of it, I'm not sure I even want to WRITE a remarkable book. I'd like to write an entertaining and briskly-selling book, something enjoyable for all of us. But extraordinary feels like a lot of work. Groundbreaking would require vigorous intellectual investment. And remarkable intimacy? Wouldn't that reveal a little too much of me to my readers? I don't think I want to be that well known.
