So, over the course of doing a few small jobs around the house (that should have been done months ago), I've gained some wisdom on hardware stores that I felt like passing on. It is the following:
-Look for the old guy.
You know who I'm talking about. The world-weary senior citizen wearing a red vest, looks disgusted with their surroundings? Yeah. Him. He's the guy you want.
Forget the teen idiot on the register, that twenty-nothing with the vapid smile. No, they're not for you. When it comes to advice on hardware, these people can perform one of two useful things:
1) Tell you "aisle 10."
2) Tell you where to find the old guy.
That's all. Nothing else.
Oh, they'll try. They'll march you to the right aisle for the topic you mention, they might even grab a part off the wall and studiously read the label - "It says here, '3Z-3C,' which means, uh..."
Now if the old guy were here, he'd take your misshapen lump of metal (formerly a valve), squint at it for about a minute, then walk off with it. He will not explain. He doesn't have to, he's the old guy - you came to him, remember?
You and the twenty-nothing tag along behind, the nothing holds up a handful of parts they were about to recommend. "I thought that-"
The old guy looks up, just for a second. The nothing goes quiet and walks away like a beaten dog.
Old guy's got your valve apart, and is staring at a deformed lump of black slag that, in a former life, was a washer of some kind. Old guy is unphased. All of a sudden, he's Grissom, Columbo, Dirty-Frickin' Harry rolled into one.
"Ehrm," he says, holding up a single tapered washer. You stare. "The large rise on the old one tipped me off, its was tapered."
Comprehension sets in. "How much?"
Old guy looks down. "Thirty six cents."
You stop reaching for the ten spot and thank him. Old guy smiles for a second, briefly validated, then lapses back into full blown contempt for the universe.
And then he's gone - no, actually, he's still there having a conversation with himself. But he could be gone - is mentally - he's just waiting for the next petititioner.
"Uh, sir? Do you know anything about plastic garage-door-opener chains?"
Your cue to leave.
Up front, idiot teen takes your money and waits for the register to dispense the correct change. He complains loudly to no one that he hasn't been able to get something to drink for over an hour.
You smile. Despite him and his tag team partner, you found the old guy.
Monday, May 22, 2006
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Say it ain't so, Joe
We all love to believe in things, things we set apart from what we see around us everyday.
Like most people, I have many - Stuff I hold up to be admired. Things that, on good days are truly inpiring.
Today I have to cross one off my list.
Soccer. Specifically Italian soccer, and to get to the real point: Juventus.
Soccer is a big money sport and has always had its share of corruption and controversy.
Match fixing, threatening or bribing officials, meddling with player transfers, etc
Well, the Italians have decided to top everyone.
A small group of owners has done all of the above. Not with an eye to winning a big match here and there, but controlling all aspects of the game to pre-determine who will be in contention for the championship, year after year.
If you played against these teams, the officials ruled against you when it mattered, the player's organization didn't allow you access to the best players.
Players and teams outside of this cabal were pressured or marginalized.
And it's full, blown, systemic corruption. The top league officials, the big owners - all the stuff the tinfoil hat people are saying about baseball and football in this country is true in Italy.
My team, Juventus, just won the Scudetto, and I just don't care. Juve is more than up to their neck in it. They're the capos. They're due for having their titles taken from them, and are possibly facing relegation.
- Read the disgrace at the Guardian.
- The BBC's take: Italian football's tangled web
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Doubling down
E went public the other night, so I can post this here to catch the rest of the crowd who hasn't heard yet:
E and I are expecting a new baby as of November - so the boy won't be the only little one in the house.
Cool and scary all at the same time.
E and I are expecting a new baby as of November - so the boy won't be the only little one in the house.
Cool and scary all at the same time.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Signs
Originally, I'd intended to recount my return trip south with Jen and my mom.
Obviously, I haven't found the time - and my memory keeps getting away from me. I do want to get it all down, just don't know how coherent it will be when I finally do.
To prove that point, I'm going to post a recollection from the second trip down south that's been rattling around my head for the past few days.
Mom, Jen and I had driven from upstate New York down through Pennsylvania, West Virginia, and Tennessee (all of it gorgeous, by the way - Vermont was incredible, no wonder New Englanders are like that). For most of the trip, it had been like a vacation, snapping photos, admiring the scenery (Eastern Pennsylvania is freaking amazing). We were in Mom's new Lexus, which she'd bought with the money she got when the other vehicles were totaled), and a lot of the trip was spent checking out the new ride.
When we got to Alabama, the mood changed almost instantly. People will laugh, but I was really thinking of Heart of Darkness as we drove south. We all knew something awful awaited us at the end of this trip, and we all were looking around each corner expecting to see proof that we'd finally arrived in the disaster zone.
That downed tree... was it from the storm? or was it just a downed tree? That ruined building, did it collapse? or was it just abandoned?
About an hour of false alarms in an otherwise normal landscape lowered our guard. Stop gawking - it's been over a month and damage has been cleaned up- at least this far north.
Two hours from the coast, I realized that the sun was about to set, and we'd be in darkness before we crossed into Mississippi. Nothing to see here, folks.
disappointment turned into more practical concerns almost immediately. Gas had been scarce, we'd top off the tank before we left Alabama, Mom was getting her proof of residence together because we'd arrive after curfew. If we were stopped without it, we would not be allowed into her neighborhood.
We're in the middle of sorting this out, when out of the corner of my eye I see a billboard, gutted and wind-blown going by on our left.
Is that...?
And then another, and another.
We're easily 100 miles from the coast and virtually every billboard has been reduced to a skeleton and tattered scraps.
Fast food signs are bent like pretzels, gas station gantries slant at improbable angles, and then come the trees. Whole swaths of trees blown flat on both sides of the highway. Acre after acre of split timber, and this is over sixty miles from the coastline.
By the time we got to Mobile, any doubt that the damage wasn't anywhere near cleaned up was long gone. Highway signs were randomly destroyed or oddly unaffected - enough remained so navigating was not a problem. Night fell hard and it was difficult to determine if the darkness was normal, or amplified by power outages.
When we crossed into Mississippi, any curiosity was long gone, replaced by raw disbelief. My parent's neighborhood was a shambles, and the month since the storm had only intensified this fact - since the owners of flooded houses were tearing out ruined walls and possessions and flinging them to the curb.
On my parent's street, we drove slowly - flanked by six-foot piles of debris the entire length of the road.
And then we were home.
Obviously, I haven't found the time - and my memory keeps getting away from me. I do want to get it all down, just don't know how coherent it will be when I finally do.
To prove that point, I'm going to post a recollection from the second trip down south that's been rattling around my head for the past few days.
Mom, Jen and I had driven from upstate New York down through Pennsylvania, West Virginia, and Tennessee (all of it gorgeous, by the way - Vermont was incredible, no wonder New Englanders are like that). For most of the trip, it had been like a vacation, snapping photos, admiring the scenery (Eastern Pennsylvania is freaking amazing). We were in Mom's new Lexus, which she'd bought with the money she got when the other vehicles were totaled), and a lot of the trip was spent checking out the new ride.
When we got to Alabama, the mood changed almost instantly. People will laugh, but I was really thinking of Heart of Darkness as we drove south. We all knew something awful awaited us at the end of this trip, and we all were looking around each corner expecting to see proof that we'd finally arrived in the disaster zone.
That downed tree... was it from the storm? or was it just a downed tree? That ruined building, did it collapse? or was it just abandoned?
About an hour of false alarms in an otherwise normal landscape lowered our guard. Stop gawking - it's been over a month and damage has been cleaned up- at least this far north.
Two hours from the coast, I realized that the sun was about to set, and we'd be in darkness before we crossed into Mississippi. Nothing to see here, folks.
disappointment turned into more practical concerns almost immediately. Gas had been scarce, we'd top off the tank before we left Alabama, Mom was getting her proof of residence together because we'd arrive after curfew. If we were stopped without it, we would not be allowed into her neighborhood.
We're in the middle of sorting this out, when out of the corner of my eye I see a billboard, gutted and wind-blown going by on our left.
Is that...?
And then another, and another.
We're easily 100 miles from the coast and virtually every billboard has been reduced to a skeleton and tattered scraps.
Fast food signs are bent like pretzels, gas station gantries slant at improbable angles, and then come the trees. Whole swaths of trees blown flat on both sides of the highway. Acre after acre of split timber, and this is over sixty miles from the coastline.
By the time we got to Mobile, any doubt that the damage wasn't anywhere near cleaned up was long gone. Highway signs were randomly destroyed or oddly unaffected - enough remained so navigating was not a problem. Night fell hard and it was difficult to determine if the darkness was normal, or amplified by power outages.
When we crossed into Mississippi, any curiosity was long gone, replaced by raw disbelief. My parent's neighborhood was a shambles, and the month since the storm had only intensified this fact - since the owners of flooded houses were tearing out ruined walls and possessions and flinging them to the curb.
On my parent's street, we drove slowly - flanked by six-foot piles of debris the entire length of the road.
And then we were home.
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