Queen Mary: Adventures in Shenanigans

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MEMORIAL DAY SPECIAL

In honor of Memorial Day 2018, the operators of The Queen Mary Hotel offered free admission to military service members and veterans all Memorial Day weekend long. With proper military ID or proof of service, that person could purchase up to six additional tickets at 20% off. Since I had never been and I chose to take a day off from work, I went with a friend down to visit The Grey Ghost.

 

THE SCORPION

Docked alongside the Queen is an old Soviet-era Foxtrot-class submarine. Unfortunately, visitors can no longer tour the Scorpion as detailed in a news article here. If you’ve ever been to the USS Pampanito in San Francisco’s Fisherman’s Wharf area (article here), it’s significantly different. Just the observable size and shape show the technological advances in the thirty year span between the two. But the Scorpion was not the reason I was in Long Beach: it was the Queen Mary.

 

LUXURY LINER OR CRUISE SHIP?

As we walked alongside the ship towards the ticket booth, we both laughed about whether or not they had a “Gopher” (the ship’s purser from the 1970s show The Love Boat), or a “Doc”, a “Julie” (the cruise director) or an “Isaac” (a bartender who was one of the main characters). After all, there certainly must be a difference between a luxury liner like the Queen Mary and a cruise ship like the Love Boat, right?

 

TICKETS AND TOURS

I purchased tickets that included two tours: a Haunted History tour (not the paranormal version) and an Historical tour (but not the WW-II specific tour they just introduced). The tours included a free 4-D movie back near the engine room (a movie I missed, by the way, because they close that area at 6:00PM). This weekend they are also showing multiple instances of the 2017 Dunkirk movie (but I didn’t see that, either). A helpful individual scanned our tickets and we were off to the fourth floor entrance.

 

THE ADVENTURE BEGINS WITH A THUNK

We had time before our first tour and I wanted to see the radio room. I asked a guy I thought would know: an employee with four gold stripes on his epaulets. He told me to take two rights, go up the stairs and the radio room was forward on the deck above us. Easily done. From the starboard side of the ship, with the bar to our left and the first-class nursery to our right, we turned aft. We walked by all the cut-away models of other luxury liners from the Lusitania to the Queen Mary and then turned toward port into the first entryway we encountered. This satisfied the “two rights” command.

The only stairs we saw were to our left, which bore the sign “Historical Staircase”. Historical it was. You can only ascend in single file and they don’t provide the same level of comfort and sturdiness all the other stairs do (until you go on the Haunted tour and have to descend an almost ladder-like wooden staircase). Anyway, I made it to the top of the very dark staircase and pushed open the door at the top. Thunk! The door hit a large trash dumpster and only opened about two feet wide. This, my friends, should have been my first clue something was amiss.

 

THE FORBIDDEN WORDS “OOPS” AND “UH-OH”

My friend and I exited the staircase through the somewhat blocked door onto a deck covered in blue tarp. In any other circumstance this would clearly indicate to any casual pedestrian that something else had gone wrong, also. But, caught up in the emotion of exploration and history, it didn’t register. The adventure had deposited us onto the deck above where we started but not quite high enough. There was another flight of stairs we needed to take to get to the deck we wanted. A quick trot up the stairs brought me face-to-face with a solid wooden barricade. Clearly, this was not the path we sought. I made the “Opps” announcement to my friend who then added the “Uh-oh” statement to our situation. The door from which we exited did not have a handle on the outside and it locked upon closing. Suddenly, it all came together.

We were on whatever deck was above the Promenade but below the Sun deck in an enclosed construction area situated between lifeboat stations 3 and 5. Blue tarps covered the deck and eight to ten foot tall braced plywood blocked our exits. The exit door had no handle and we did not want to get booted off the ship for climbing over the barricade at the top of the outdoor staircase. My friend went back to the top of the stairs and called out to some other guests for help. I called the hotel’s front desk and was put on hold. Two women came to the railing above us and said they had called security. Meanwhile, the front desk finally answered and I described our location. As the woman was telling me we were in an area closed off to the public (really?) the security guy appeared on the deck above and let us know he would get us out.

Security Guy not only got us out but subtly showed us the sign telling us not to enter. Unfortunately, because there were no lights on the Historic Stairway you can only see the sign when the door is open. Security Guy then showed us the correct path to the radio room. Considering his knee was in a brace and he limped in a manner with which I’m well accustomed, my hat’s off to him for negotiating all the stairs he had to take for our sake, let alone everyone else.

 

CONFRONTING THE CAP’N

This first adventure put us dangerously close to missing the rendezvous time for the Haunted tour. When we arrived at the check-in desk, the same individual who had given us the “two rights and a left” set of instructions was there. With Security Guy right behind us, I informed “Captain Jack” (or whomever he was) that his instructions had landed us in a locked construction area and Security Guy had just rescued us. He gave me a blank look and said he wasn’t aware that the route was blocked off. I think the truth is that he had probably never gone the way I interpreted his instructions but I did, in fact, complete the “two rights and a left” exactly as he had said.

 

THE TOURS

Take the tours. I don’t want to spoil them. Robert was our guide for the Haunted tour and Cody was our guide for the History tour. I found both tours worth my time. They have a number of tours from which to choose, by the way.

 

COMING AND GOING

My friend brought lunch in a cooler left in the car. If you exit the ship you can reenter the same day by presenting your entry ticket again. If you do plan a visit and want to take lunch or snacks in your vehicle, just keep your tickets handy.

 

RADIO ROOM FAUX PAS

Properly navigating our way to the Sun deck, we went by the communications room and the radio room. Up until this point, any of the displays had been limited to “things”; not goofy displays with mannequins or stuffed animals. Books, models, photographs, antique receiver-set radios; that type of display. When we stood outside the glass of the radio room, however, it was different. My friend even said, “Look, they have a dummy in the radio room.” Turns out it wasn’t a dummy but a real amateur radio operator who was scanning through the channels listening for chatter. I apologize here and now for my friend’s comment if you were or know that radio operator. I know his call sign but I won’t disclose it. We spoke with the operator for a few minutes and went forward to the bridge.

 

THE BRIDGE

Again, I don’t want to spoil it. If you can get to the bridge and the officer’s quarters, do it. Take pictures.

 

THE BOW

We worked our way around and made our way to the bow of the ship. From the bow looking aft, this is the view:

 

UNINTENDED SHENANIGANS

We decided to have a drink outside the bar at a table overlooking the entire forward section of the ship. We sat down and waited for menus or a someone from the food service staff to help us. After a brief discussion it was determined that I would get menus and let the staff know where we were. I went in and spoke with an extremely helpful individual who said I should take a seat and he would be with me in a moment. This started a series of conversations which resulted in my laughing harder than I have in years. But first…

 

SENSITIVITY DISCLAIMER

Ages ago when I was in the military, we used to create an Electronic Order of Battle (EOB) overlay to our maps. Units we knew were TUDs (True Unit Designators) and units we did not know were AUDs (Arbitrary Unit Designators). I kept this system of identification in my head to help me remember details about someone in a kind of mental dossier. If you were a motorcycle enthusiast, I might call you Pauly (like Paul Teutul Sr. from American Chopper). If you were a mechanic and a bit scatterbrained, I might call you Iggy (like the character Jim Ingatowski from the 1970s TV Show Taxi). In my mind, I have assigned many, many people AUDs to help me associate them with something. Believe me, it’s not a derogatory thing, it’s a mechanism that helps me remember characteristics about someone that might be important later. Calling a tall guy “shorty” or a big guy “slim” is entirely different. I hope that makes sense. Anyway,…

 

PRETZELS AND BRIE

I returned to the table and said I had spoken with Isaac and we would have our menus soon. Who is Isaac? The lovable bartender from The Love Boat, of course! I did not realize at the time that my friend had already ejected the conversation we had about that show and had moved on to other things. We ordered drinks and an appetizer and took in the view of Long Beach. “Isaac” came back a couple of times to check on us which was very nice. On his last visit I told him we were ready to close the check. He validated my parking pass and returned the bill with my credit card for signature. Rather than leave it on the table, I asked my friend if we should just give it to “Isaac,” which became the plan.

 

WHO?

As we reentered the bar, I looked for “Isaac.” I did not see him anywhere. My friend suggested we give the packet to the female employee by the door, which I did. Unfortunately, I should have immediately engaged my friend in some type of conversation to divert her attention for the next two nanoseconds. My intent was to hand the paperwork off and walk away. Everything would have been clean and done. But my friend, trying to be helpful, said, “That’s for Isaac.” I freaking lost it. Did I mention one of the characteristics shared by our bar staff waiter and the actor from The Love Boat is they were both black? No? I honestly, honestly, honestly, referred to our guy as “Isaac” because he was a bar tender on the ship and my friend and I had been talking about The Love Boat earlier in the day. It was not because of the color of his skin; it was the job he performed. But when my friend said, “That’s for Isaac” and the waitress said, “Who?” I could not control it any more.

 

FIGHTING FOR AIR

I bolted around the corner from the bar and started laughing hysterically. When I calmed down enough, we went to see the continuous-loop 20 minute film about the ship. Every so often I would hear the woman in my head ask, “Who?” and I would have to hold back my immature giggles all over again. I explained the “Isaac from the Love Boat” rationale to my friend who didn’t think it was nearly as funny as I did. Then again, I wasn’t the one who said, “This is for Isaac,” either.

 

LEAVING

At this point we had been at the Queen Mary for over eight hours. It was time to go. We assumed the validation received at the bar would be good for three hours. You automatically receive 30 minutes free so I was looking at paying for about five hours worth of parking. I don’t know if it was my good looks and charm or the yellow sticker Isaac put on the parking pass, but we didn’t have to pay anything for parking. Which brings up an important point. If you visit the Queen Mary, bring your parking pass with you. The stores, restaurants and bars will validate but you have to have the ticket with you.

That’s it for now! I hope you enjoyed the story. It’s embarrassing but completely true.

A View from The Bridge Review

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My review of Arthur Miller’s A View from the Bridge at the Ahmanson Theater.

My son purchased tickets for us to see this play. He made it a point to describe the difference between this performance (a play) and others we had seen (musicals). I very much appreciated his attempt to convince me I might enjoy this performance but all I could think of was Cats. I have no doubt everyone involved in the original concept of that winner wrote it while experiencing an extended hallucinogenic mind trip. People dressed as cats dressed as rats dressed as roaches. Seriously? And that worthless railroad cat? And the UFO-riding cat god? Anyway, my son was excited so I pasted the smile on my face and didn’t let on that I secretly expected this dramatic “play” to be nothing more than another Cats.

We had tickets to the 2:00PM show in Los Angeles. As I may have mentioned elsewhere, in Southern California you have to look at drive time, not distance. The theater was about 40 miles away but that translates into about a 90 minute ride. We met for breakfast and then, because we had to be somewhere at a specific time for a specific event, we went to the bank. Since that turned out to be a wasted trip (I forgot my ATM card) we went to Massage Envy to schedule massages. This did not sit well with my son since he was concerned about us being late. For the record, however, he did schedule a massage for himself so his argument was moot.

Jumping on the 10 (San Bernardino) freeway, we headed west. All was well until we came down the back side of Kellogg Hill. I had no idea CalTrans (California Department of Transportation) had the freeway torn up from Covina to the west end of Baldwin Park by the 605 (the San Gabriel River) freeway. This added to our drive time. Luckily, however, once we passed the 605 all was well until we got near the transition to the 710 (Long Beach) freeway. If you read my roller derby review, you’re familiar with my last experience in this area. But since it was broad daylight and we were headed for Highway 101 to the 110 (Harbor) freeway, we were able to avoid that nightmare.

I want to take a moment and make a note about referring to Southern California roadways. If you happen to drive into our area and listen to traffic reports, you need to know the nuances of traffic reporting descriptions. First off, freeway numbers are preceded with the word “the”. For example to get to the Ahmanson we took the 10 past the 57, past the 605, past the 710, to the 101 to the 110. Large interchanges of freeways are named. For example, the Four Level, the East LA Interchange and the Orange Crush. Finally, one section of freeway refers to a specific stretch. I was on the 10 freeway section known as the San Bernardino freeway. Had I remained on the 10 past its intersection with the 110, it would have been called the Santa Monica freeway. The freeway retains the same numeric nomenclature, but hearing there is a high-speed chase on the Santa Monica freeway is significantly different than hearing the same report on the San Bernardino freeway depending on where you are. If you noticed, I took the 10 to the 101 to the 110 but I also commented that the 10 intersected with the 110. Why didn’t I take the 10 to the 110? Because I didn’t want to go through the East LA Interchange. It makes sense when you’re here.

Anyway, we arrived at the Ahmanson about half an hour early because the traffic through downtown was uncharacteristically light, almost to the point of non-existence. Parking at the theater was ridiculously easy. I had done an internet search for parking near the location and all the results indicated paid lots about ½ mile away. My son told me not to worry about it because we could park at the theater itself, which was right freaking there. You exit the 110 north off of Grand, take a right and within ½ mile the theater is on the right. You pay before you enter the garage and everything is super-accessible.

Because it was our first time there we followed the signs to the theater from inside the underground parking structure. That was a mistake. We wound up at the far end of the theater complex which includes the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion and something else I haven’t taken the time to figure out, yet. Had we exited the parking structure by the stairs immediately in front of us, we would have been right next to our destination. But it was no big deal as we were having fun.

The outdoor waiting area between the theater and the pavilion was very nice. It had cart vendors selling shrink-wrapped sandwiches and salads as well as sodas and alcohol. People varied from what I called “theater-types” to chuckleheads like me. I definitely noticed the people there were not the same types of people in whose company I usually find myself. No one called me “boss”. No one gave me the quick, knowing nod shared by shot callers, foot soldiers and bros. No one gave the Mighty Beard of Righteousness a second glance. In fact, it was quite refreshing! Everyone there was just there. If someone was putting on airs or fronting, I didn’t notice. I didn’t have to do a threat assessment every time someone new walked into my line of sight. The people were comfortable, calm and relaxed. I felt welcome and accepted which is not something that comes easy to me.

They opened the doors at about 1:45, which was fantastic. The coffee and water I had borrowed for breakfast wanted to be returned. After a quick briefing by the main door usher about this two-hour play not having an intermission, we bolted for the men’s room. The highly accurate directions we received were no more than, “it’s over there.” We descended a flight of stairs and approached another layer of ushers who told us the only restroom on their floor was the ladies room. Shockingly, rather than volunteer where the men’s room was we had to ask again. They told us it was one more floor down “to the left.” We went down the last flight of stairs and found it. It’s not “to the left” by the way, it’s straight in front of you. Whatever.

Business finished, we watched a lead usher instructing the door ushers on how to do their jobs. Smile, be polite, hand out programs, etc. In an odd WTF moment, the lead usher told the door ushers to stand at their posts. Then, in as long as it took her to draw a breath, she told them to come back because the meeting wasn’t over. I have no idea what that was about but it makes me think time travel does exist and the main usher phased out for a moment. It really was weird.

Since it was still early and they didn’t have the doors open yet, I examined my ticket. It said we were in section SRA, seats 22 and 24. We were to enter through door 9. Door 9, by the way, was all the way at the front of the theater; the last door by which you could enter. I made jokes about SRA meaning we had to stand in front of the stage and my son would reply that I was close. It was cryptic but I didn’t pay too much attention to it. Finally, the doors were opened and we were let in.

My son went first and turned towards the stage. At this point I was pretty excited. We were going to be close to the stage and not in the nosebleed sections where we usually sit when I buy the tickets. And then my excitement turned to concern when he walked up a set of stairs in front of the stage onto the stage itself. I stood at the bottom and told him to “get back down here” because I was worried we were going to be tossed out. The usher at the bottom of the stairs said, “are you together? Can I see your ticket?” and then told me to follow him; he was going in the right direction. So I followed him up the stairs. Oh. My. Gosh.

Our seats were ON THE STAGE FLOOR! We sat in a set of risers that had been erected on either side of the stage. We were on the first row, about five feet away from the edge of the stage just above the centerline. I could not believe it. I had him take pictures from our seats looking out into the general seating before the Praetorian Guard came and informed us that photography from our on-stage seats was highly discouraged. But I have a couple of photos I will cherish from that special day. Only about 60 people could sit on either side of the stage.

I won’t ruin the play by describing the action but I will make some comments about the stage and the actors. Regarding the stage, they had created a smaller self-contained performance area on the main stage. The white floor of the performance area was ringed by a series of clear lexan or some other clear glass-like material that also had a bench built along the top of the entire rim of the material. The performance area itself was probably 28’ x 20’. Since we were sitting right there, sometimes the actors were no more than 4’ away from us. I was so blown away by everything; the seats, the acting and the stage construction, I could not have had a better time.

Regarding the actors, I’m not a theater critic. All I know is that I thoroughly enjoyed every single one of the performances by each actor through I do have a couple of comments (of course). At one point, a character asks, “Are you my cousin?” to which the other replies, “Yes, I am.” That is immediately followed by, “This is my brother.” So I’m no genealogist, but my question is this: if you and I are cousins and you have a brother, wouldn’t he be my cousin, also? Also, there is a point where another character comes onto the performance stage. He comes less than a third of the way onto the stage and much of this person’s “dialog” is narrated by someone else. They are on the stage for not more than ten minutes. Yet at the end of the play, when the cast is receiving a standing ovation, there’s that actor taking a bow with the rest of the troupe. I thought that was odd. Yes, they did a good job and all that, but come on! Again, I’m not criticizing. I enjoyed their performance.

But the women. Both were very beautiful. I know that sounds shallow but they were. And one of them gave us a special treat! I highly doubt anyone who reads this is in her circle of friends or acquaintances, but I don’t say this to embarrass her. At one point, when she was standing about five feet in front of us, she and another actor have a scene where they are in close proximity to each other. By an honest accident, her short skirt lifted up and we had a full-on butt shot of her underwear. Seconds later she removed her top and stood in front of us in a flesh-colored bra. So, what’s the first thing I do? If you know me, you know the answer. I looked away. So while all the other “gentlemen” in our section were getting an eyeful, I was checking out my shoes. And you know what? I’m not embarrassed or ashamed to admit it. I’m old enough to be her father. I’m certain the last thing she thought about when she took the role was how I was going to react to her being (for the most part) topless. But I did think it was funny.

I told my son afterward that there used to be a time when a father would take his son to a brothel and have one of the “ladies” make a “man” out of him. Now, in 2016, the tables had turned. My son had taken me to a legitimate theater to watch semi-nude acting! I know, I know; it wasn’t semi-nude because she still had her bra on. But still.

And then there was the lead actor, Frederick Weller. He was in a TV show I used to watch called “In Plain Sight.” Dude, I really, really enjoyed your performance. However, I am an ass. Every time you put on your scowl face to show you were pissed off, I chuckled. A few years ago when I did Tae Kwon Do, I competed. I had an instructor at an event who told me my “fighting face” wasn’t aggressive enough. Hello! I have a round Charlie Brown face. I don’t know how aggressive you can make it! He told me I needed to practice my fighting face in the mirror. That was one of the funniest things I had heard. So when I saw you making your scowl face I imagined how long you must have spent in front of a mirror trying to make it right. The first time I saw it I almost laughed out loud. Not because of you but because of the memory.

The play ended and everyone applauded. Then they started standing up. Again, I am not a regular theater-type, so I don’t know the rules. When do you give a standing ovation? It was neither the opening night nor the closing night. It was a really enjoyable performance but where’s the line between enthusiastic clapping and a standing ovation? Plus, being on the first row with pretty much everyone else behind you, it’s hard to know when a standing ovation is happening. So while I’m applauding away with all the fine young actors standing an arm’s length in front of me, everyone behind me is standing up. It wasn’t until I looked across to the other side that I noticed they were almost all standing. Their first row was still seated, also. So I guess I need to brush up on when to stand or not.

The ride home was uneventful although I did piss off a couple of drivers through the Rosemead and Temple City areas who thought that because of the cars they drove they should have unimpeded access to any lane they chose without using a turn indicator of any sort. If you’re familiar with the areas and recognize those that drive with over-sized green banker’s visors covering their faces and left arm-only sleeves, you know exactly to which group I refer. I can tailgate like a NASCAR driver if properly motivated and watching you and your Mercedes or Lexus lose in a battle of wills doesn’t make me a man but it does make me feel better in the automobile culture that is Los Angeles.

I highly recommend going to see this play. I was thankful it was not a musical and now I honestly can say I know the difference. I was told it was strictly a drama but there were parts that were very funny. The end does have a twist everyone might enjoy. If I had to say anything less than glowing about the play it would be this: I have no idea what time period the play occurred. I’m assuming the 1940s or 50s. All of the actor’s clothing could have been from that period except for the young girl. Her dress and her hair were very modern. It was slightly confusing but not enough for me to flag it and call B.S. on the performance.

If you see this play you won’t be disappointed.

Desire

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I catch flak all the time for rambling blog posts. Buckle-up, Buttercup, this might be one of them.

I had a long conversation with someone recently about their desires. Nothing carnal, mind you, but emotional, spiritual and physical desires. For those playing along with the home version of the game, our reference today will be the Bible, John 6. That’s in the New Testament for those of you new to the game.

Jesus asks a man a very important question. What afflicted the man is unclear. Some versions say he was ill. Others say he was infirm or crippled or lame. So the condition of the man is less important than the question Jesus asks. Different people have different translations or versions of the Bible. I own eleven myself, not including the online versions available. That said, let’s review the question:
> American Standard Version and Revised Version: “Wouldest thou be made whole?”
> Bible in Basic English: “Is it your desire to get well?”
> English Standard Version: “Do you want to be healed?”
> Holman Christian Standard Bible and the International Standard Version: “Do you want to get well?”
> King James Version: “Wilt thou be made whole?”
> New Living Translation: “Would you like to get well?”

On its face it seems like a no-brainer. If I am sick or lame or whatever, do I want to be healed? Of course! What kind of question is that? But therein lies the rub: what kind of question IS it?

What is “getting well” or “being healed?” if you had lung cancer you would want to be well, right? What if, heaven forbid, that meant you had to quit smoking? Is it worth it? “Of course, dumb ass! I have cancer!” But we all know the risks of smoking well before it becomes cancerous. Do you really want to be well? Yes, but when it’s convenient for you. You won’t stop smoking today because {insert lame-ass reason here}. But I don’t want to pick on smokers alone.

How about the soda drinkers in the house? Are you willing to do what it takes to give that up? Do you want to be well? Meat eaters? Tostada gnoshers? Butter guzzlers? Do you want to be healed? Does it sound ridiculous yet? The question is not as simple as it sounds.

What if you were experiencing a crisis of faith. What if everything you thought was true had been shaken. One day you woke up and realized the voice in your head had been lying to you. In an attempt to sort out what you now think must be the new normal you scream into the night to silence the cacaphony of voices in your head telling you what to do. Each voice comes from a trusted source but not one of the voices does anything but either reinforce the lie you once believed or offers you another lie to replace it.

But then one voice softly asks, “Do you want to be healed?” Finally! Through prayer and reflection and an understanding of Christ’s character, you recognize the question as the very same that Jesus asked that man. “Do you want to be healed?” Do you?

What if healing, true healing, required you to step away from every voice telling you lies? What if in exchange for healing, wellness and emotional stability you had to lose a friend? That friend with whom you shared good times but now find yourself in a rage every day because they ever-so-sweetly remind you of all your past failures. Could you give them up?

Could you step away from a job from which you derived no satisfaction but paid very well? That job, that voice in your head, reminding you of your failed commitments, sub-par performance and disappointments; could you–would you give it up for true healing?

Healing is much more than waiting for a cut to scab over. Emotional healing, recovering from a lifetime of cuts and battering, can take years. When I answered that quiet voice in my head if I desired to be well, I started what has been the best journey of my life. Step one was culling my “friend” list.

When I was going through a very difficult period in my life a few years ago only three or four people with whom I had regular contact actually supported me. These people would laugh with me, cry with me, pray with me or some combination of these three things. If I asked them to listen and not comment, that’s exactly what they did. I very much valued their counsel but sometimes you just want to vent.

Now I have a new set of friends that know me, accept me and love me for who I am. If they judge me it is a comparison of my experiences with theirs for discussion, not holding up my past against an unrealistic ideal they can’t even match but which they use to harangue me and call me hypocrite or failure.

I broke old habits I had which kept me in a rut. Desiring to be healed and working through the process are different. I was in Tae Kwon Do for a number of years. It was full-contact (with pads) but it was serious business. The two things my instructor used to say that I took to heart are these:
Everyone wants to be Bruce Lee but no one wants to put forth the effort;
If you do not practice punching (or kicking or blocking) at full speed and with all your strength all you have done is go through the motions. When you take a blow and fall to the floor you need to get back up. If that was the best your opponent had to offer you were prepared for what might follow; the shock was gone.

Because of my arrogance and unwillingness to yield (tap out), my children more than once had to help me out of my car when I returned home but his lesson was valid. When my depression or anxiety would knock me to the floor, I knew it would not get worse. I did not need to fear that the next bout of misery would be worse; the worst had already tried to put me down. It didn’t succeed so it had lost its element of surprise. I could practice the process of emotional healing and get stronger every day.

But I went through this because I answered yes to the question, “Do you desire to be well?” True, deep healing takes time. You need to make time for the process. I truly and earnest hope my friend desires healing. Speaking from experience, the end result far exceeds the temporary pain you will have.

Roller Derby!

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I recently went to a roller derby bout in Los Angeles. I remember watching the Los Angeles Thunderbirds on television in the 1970s and the mid-70s movie Rollerball (James Caan, Maud Adams) is one of my favorite movies. But today’s roller derby is nothing like what I thought I remembered.

My son and I went to the L.A. Derby Dolls at the Dollhouse. You can find a ton of information about roller derby and the L.A. Derby Dolls here. But if you’ve read this blog before, you know I need to tell the story.

Finding this area of Los Angeles is not that difficult. You jump on the 10 freeway and head west. But then the “you’d better know where you’re going” phase hits. Miss the turns and you either wind up in the East L.A. Interchange (heaven help you no matter what time of day it is) or in downtown Los Angeles.

I knew, but the Google Maps app did not clearly state, that the exit I needed was hidden in the exit for the 710 freeway south. If you’re familiar with the Cal State Los Angeles area you know exactly where I’m talking about. We exited the 10 west and approached the 710 south and then at the last minute, as you’re about to execute the 270 degree turn to head south, you bail off the transition road and wind up on the correct road. And then it got hairy.

Unless you have some super high-speed data connection with your cell phone, you can easily out-drive your Google Maps connection. As we negotiated the “keep left” and “bear right” directions from my iPhone, we wound up in an anonymous section of Los Angeles where they apparently lost funding to post street signs. We flipped a U-turn in an odd industrial neighborhood where an unusual amount of primer painted old-school Rivieras and Monte Carlos were parked (and I use that term loosely, as they were just kind of all over the place). I told my son to remember I loved him and his sisters and departed the area as quickly as my Fred Flintstone feet could carry us.

But the foray into the turf battle between the Sharks and the Jets (without the musical accompaniment) gave my phone enough time to relocate where we were and let us refresh our “get us the frickity frick out of Dodge” setting, aka “from current location to destination”. We were within a mile. Awesome.

Do you know what a roller derby venue looks like? Me neither, at the time. Now I know it to be a nondescript warehouse with a big banner on the side. More on this, later.

Since we had already missed the first bout, all the parking places available at the venue and within the legal parking areas on the street were taken. We drove through the neighborhood and quickly realized that we did not belong there. I don’t care what you say about racism or profiling or whatever. My comment isn’t about that. Simply put, the vehicle I drive would stand out like a sore thumb in this neighborhood. First and foremost: the reflective “San Bernardino County Fire Department” sticker I have in my back window. It’s not a California State Firefighter’s Association helmet which might have been okay. It’s in the shape of a shoulder patch. If absolutely everything else was equal, the fact that it was from the “wrong” county would have targeted me as an outsider. So we moved on.

We found a very helpful security guard on the street corner across from the venue that told us not to park in the neighborhood (duh!) but down the at a mini-mall parking lot they had reserved for visitors. We headed in the direction the guard indicated and then immediately we both suffered from short-term memory loss. Did he say, “Turn right” or “Turn left” at the light? It didn’t matter. I turned right into an empty mini-mall parking lot with a Dunkin’ Donuts, a Dominos and a Carl’s Junior. I parked in a handicapped spot and displayed my handicapped placard. I figured if I got towed I got towed but I was counting on them being a little more lenient with the vehicles displaying the blue placard. Then we headed back to the venue.

The walk to the Dollhouse was, in hindsight, uneventful. However, as we walked down the street we could hear but not see voices of people on the other side moving in the same direction as us. It turned out they had actually parked where we should have parked (by taking a right and then an immediate left and leaving our car in the lot with the security staff). But we didn’t know that.

We made it to the venue and walked down the four or five steps from the sidewalk through the gate into the parking lot. Wow. What a change. The parking lot was clean, well marked and had benches, chairs and tables to either rest upon or to eat if you purchased food from the on-site food truck. Food trucks are big in Los Angeles county but not so much in San Bernardino county, by the way. I know the truck that was there had a huge Twitter following and they were selling all the wearable advertising they could sell but since I’m not that much of a foodie it didn’t matter to me.

My military ID and my son’s school ID meant we got into the venue for $20. That’s a heck of a sight better than the $40 I was expecting. The ladies at the point of entry were very nice and clearly wanted to make sure we spoke with them if we had any questions, issues or problems.

We took a lap around the outside of the track to see the vendors. In addition to all the obvious L.A. Derby Doll merchandise they had all kinds of goods available. I was really impressed not only at the variety but also by the fact that everything was reasonable. You could buy a calendar for $5 or Derby Dolls socks for $8. It seemed designed to encourage repeat customers rather than the once-in-a-lifetime sale like vendors at the Renaissance Faire or the County Fair. I purchased a cup of steaming hot coffee from a local coffee vendor’s booth that was awe-freaking-some. It was sweetened with orange and cinnamon and tasted delicious. The large cup, probably 12 ounces, was less than $2.00. Nice.

As I mentioned, we missed the first bout. Who skated: Kids. Young kids. I’m telling you, this is not the roller derby I thought I knew. In fact, we saw a number of women walking around who were clearly roller derby team members from other teams that were not skating that night. They carried signs saying that if you had a question you could talk to her. Once my son and I got settled into one of the standing risers (premium prices charged for seats, by the way), we called over one of the sign girls.

Lucrettia Mott, an obvious alias, spent about ten minutes with us explaining the rules, the scoring and the skaters. On the track that night were an off-duty police officer and a teacher. Many of the women were office employees, students and housewives. I asked about fighting and throwing elbows and whatnot and she told us that two bouts prior to that night, two women were expelled not just from the game but from the league and organized roller derby as a whole because they got into a fight. Fascinating. Clearly not what I was expecting.

My son made a comment about the venue itself. Do you remember the Seinfeld episode where George met lots of fantastically beautiful women at a club that by day was a meat-packing plant? That’s what this place reminded us of. Except for the banked rink, everything else looked like it was built for rapid dis-assembly and movement. Don’t get me wrong! The risers were rock-solid and nothing seemed illicit or anything like that at all! It was just funny to us that by day the warehouse could be an auto parts distribution facility but at 5:00 all the parts are trucked out and the rink and risers put in.

Security was not an issue. They have clearly marked walkways which you cannot block. They have one level of security which is the girls with the “ask me” signs. If they see you doing something (like standing) where you shouldn’t be, they’ll ask you to move. If you don’t move, the second level of security gets involved, which appeared to be the off-duty referees who were walking around the track. If you really screwed up, they called the yellow-shirt “SECURITY” guys over. I only saw three or four of those guys. In fact, I interacted with one when I unknowingly was standing in a clearly marked (on the floor) “Do Not Stand Here” space and I could not understand what the security guy was saying. I thought he wanted to see my wristband. I kept showing him my wristband but he kept pointing at my shoes. A very odd man. Until I realized he was pointing at the “Do Not Stand Here” marking. Then I felt like an idiot.

They do sell alcohol and they do check IDs. If you didn’t pay for an alcohol pass at the front desk and receive an Age Verified wristband, you’re not buying or drinking. And they had plenty of people watching. I felt very comfortable and safe the entire time I was there. And the people? Oh my gosh.

First of all, when my son and I first took up a position in the risers, we were standing right behind two young girls. They were over 21 (based on the wristbands) but probably not much older. During a break in the action the announcer said they were welcoming “whozit” and “whatzit” (I didn’t catch their names) from Vivid Video. The two girls did a hoop and a holler and everyone looked at them and clapped, some taking pictures. I don’t know if you know what Vivid Video is but look it up. If you knew me even five or six years ago I would have photo-bombed the crap out of that opportunity. Now I’m embarrassed that my face might appear on Vivid’s Facebook page (if they have one) standing right there with the girls. But also there was a sitting City Council member from Los Angeles and a guy from the TV show Sleepy Hollow. Being Los Angeles, everyone was represented, that’s for certain.

But the guys. Seriously. If you take out the low-rider driving individuals with their Panama hats and booty-short wearing wives and girlfriends, you’re left with a bakery store’s worth of man-buns. You’ve seen the new man-bun trend; it’s a version of the mullet except you don’t let your hair fall over your shoulders. You tie it up into a shogun-inspired hair bun. I don’t know if this is a hipster doofus hair style or just a generic doofus hair style but it was very funny. Me being me I openly laughed at them. What are they going to do? Argue with The Beard of Righteousness? Not bloody likely! Would I mock one of the Panama-hat, Low Rider brand wearing individuals? Not on your life. I’m not completely stupid. I just picked on the man-buns. Even the most-buff bun-sporting doofus was not immune. Am I a bully by nature? Not hardly. But put me in the middle of a pack of hipsters (like anywhere in Flagstaff) or in a field of man-buns and I have a field day. One day some doof will let down his bun like the Capuera instructor on Bob’s Burgers and I’ll get my butt kicked, but I’d only have myself to blame.

You need to make time to stay for the entire bout and the after party. We started our day at 7:00AM attending an eight-hour First Aid/CPR/AED certification course so I was dog-tired. We stayed for the end of the bout and left with most of the guests. Since we were moving as a pack back in the direction of where I parked my car and because we could see security staff along the route I felt very comfortable walking back to my car. My car, by the way, was still parked where I left it and appeared in relatively the same shape in which I left it. It was only as we were leaving that we discovered where the secure parking lot had been located. I know it costs $10 to park there but that’s where I’ll park when I go back if I can’t get anything closer.

But back to the topic. I had an absolute blast at the Dollhouse. I see this as good, clean wholesome fun for the whole family. Well, kids over eight or so. I didn’t see a single stroller, infant or toddler anywhere in sight but there were lots of kids and couples. I didn’t hear any swearing at all. I didn’t see anything which might give me pause and not want me to take my kids. Smoking was restricted to two specific areas outside, away from the food and rest areas and one of the outside bars. I know this is shallow and uniformed, but no one looked like a drug dealer or looked like they were on drugs. I think between the ladies at the front desk and the multiple layers of security those people are quickly dealt with and removed.

If you live in the Los Angeles area and want to check it out, you need to act quickly! I think the last bout is coming up in the next couple of weeks. Check the schedule on-line at the link above.

I really think you’ll have a good time.

Flagstaff – Jan, 2014

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This travel blog provides highlights and commentary for the trip I took to Flagstaff, Arizona (USA) in January, 2014.

REASON FOR GOING
Regular readers will know that when my son and I went to the Museum of Tolerance recently, one of my daughters broke her foot the same day. I planned to surprise her with a visit.

THE CAR RENTAL
I didn’t want to put the wear and tear on my own vehicle, so I rented. I rented the cheapest, most fuel-efficient vehicle the Ontario Airport Avis had. With the various discounts and incentive programs working together, I paid less for three days worth of car rental than you might pay for a single day. But that’s not the story here.

Again, another Seinfeld reference: remember when Jerry reserved a rental car but the agency representative told him they were out of cars? That happened to me. They confirmed my reservation for a cheap-as-crap car but they did not have any available. Unlike Jerry’s encounter, the Avis rep said he was going to upgrade me immediately without any additional charges. So far, I was pretty excited. Then he said he would put me in a Ford C-Max. Uh-oh.

Almost all of my cars have been either Toyotas or Fords. I even owned a Pinto. Regardless, I had never heard of a C-Max. To me, Ford passenger cars, SUVs and cross-overs have names. You know, like Escape, Explorer, Fiesta, Focus, Mustang, etc. Even their small trucks had a name: Ranger. I only know Ford’s full-size trucks by number: F-150, F-250, etc. I fully expected to be renting a van at this point because other than “Econoline”, I don’t know how Ford designates vans.

With paperwork in-hand, I moved out to the parking lot where I was directed to space G-3. As I started walking towards the vans and SUVs, I found my car. It was similar in size to my old Saturn Vue, so I immediately became disappointed. My anticipated 40MPG fuel rate was now dropping into the 25-30MPG range. They didn’t get me on the rental charges, but I was going to pay for it in additional fuel.

FORD C-MAX
I was wrong. The C-Max is a hybrid. A very quiet and fuel efficient hybrid. After I got tired of looking for the key I realized it was a push-button start. I pushed the button and nothing happened. The engine didn’t turn over, the car didn’t shudder, nothing. I pushed it again. Nothing. I pushed it again. This time, however, I paid attention to the dash board which had a message that the car was ready to drive. Huh. Technology. I put the car in reverse and a large rear-drive assist camera shot took over where the radio controls had been displayed.

The rear-drive assist was totally cool. It showed your current wheel path and your destination based on that angle. Move the wheels and the angle changes. I really, really liked it but it violates my first rule of driving: if you can’t park it, you can’t drive it. We have so many huge SUV-driving people out in my small berg that can’t park their freaking monster trucks it causes me no end of anger and frustration. I can see some dickweed being an ass and taking up two parking places with their Mercedes because they don’t want it to get door dinged. They’re just asses and I can forgive them for that. But to take up two spaces because you couldn’t judge the distance between the left and right of your vehicle and you’re over the line by eight inches on the passenger side because you have no depth perception? WTF? The vehicle is only slightly larger left-to-right outside than it is inside. FIGURE IT OUT! Oh, and don’t get me started with the people that make the 32-point turn to get out of a parking place because they can’t judge how long their boat is. I saw one woman in a parking lot get so frustrated with trying to get out in her Princess Cruise Liner she chose to drive over the concrete tire stops rather than keep trying to back out. Oh my gosh it pisses me off. Anyway, I’m way off-topic.

I can’t say enough good things about the C-Max. I only drove it for three days and I didn’t read the owner’s manual, but I really liked it. With all the driving I did I only filled up twice, which would be the equivalent of one full tank of gas. I guess the Avis guy didn’t have it out for me in fuel charges after all.

ON TO FLAGSTAFF
I picked up a Little Caesar’s pizza for my son and I to eat on the road. I met him at 2:30pm and we were on the 15 freeway north-bound by 2:35pm. We had no traffic issues whatsoever on a get-away Friday on the road to Barstow. Barstow, of course, is where the 15 north goes to Las Vegas (and points beyond) and the 40 begins (or ends). With the cruise control set, the ride was a breeze. We anticipated making Flagstaff between 9:30pm and 9:45pm (the time zone changed at the Colorado River; it’s only a six hour drive).

My daughter, who had no idea her brother and I were on the way, sent a text message around 8:30pm informing me she was headed out to see a movie but would be back before 11:00pm if I wanted to text-message her later. This actually worked out well because we were able to check into our hotel in Flagstaff and I knocked out some computer work before she returned to her dorm. She sent a message at about 10:50pm stating she was home.

CONTACT
My son and I left the hotel and headed to the campus. I had not been to her current apartment so we knew it would take a minute or two to find. I sent her a text and told her I had ordered a pizza for her and the driver would arrive at 11:15pm. That text was meant to confirm she was in her apartment and that either she or her roommate needed to be awake and dressed, not in bed wearing pajamas. After an initial complaint about having to get dressed again, she said she would wait for the pizza guy and call me when he arrived. We found the correct apartment and my son, holding the now empty Little Caesar’s box, knocked on the door.

My daughter had a very strange reaction. She looked at her brother, looked at the pizza box, looked at her brother and looked at the pizza box again. Not being able to hold back any longer, my son finally started laughing and she finally realized who he was. She later told me that when she opened the door her first thought was that the “pizza kid” looked a lot like her brother but she was very disappointed that I had ordered Little Caesar’s and not Dominoes. She was looking forward to Dominoes. Although she was very pleased my messages turned out to be a ruse from the get-go, she was genuinely disappointed that even the Little Caesar’s box was empty; no pizza at all!

DINING AND ENTERTAINMENT
On Saturday we went to the Riordan Mansion, which was pretty neat. It’s either on the Northern Arizona University campus or carved out of one edge of it. If you’re into that type of architectural style, you’ll enjoy the visit. The architect was also the same guy who designed one of the lodges at the Grand Canyon. I couldn’t tell you his name or which building but the people with whom we took the guided tour (recommended) gushed about it being so similar.

Saturday night we went to Salsa Brava for dinner. I had Portobello mushroom and spinach enchiladas. Oh my gosh they were fantastic.

Sunday would not be complete if my son couldn’t get his Cracker Barrel fix. Well fed and fueled, we left for home.

OATMAN
I briefly discussed Oatman, Arizona before (linked here). This time, however, instead of taking Route 66 southwest from Kingman, we took it northeast from the 40 (Exit 1 in Arizona). Oatman is the most enjoyable tourist town I’ve visited. The people are very friendly and the shop owners don’t seem to treat you like a “mark” but as a person. They want to know where you came from and where you’re headed. We ate lunch at the Olive Oatman Restaurant and Saloon and, of course, fed the burros that wander through downtown.

Leaving Oatman we took the Boundary Cone Road into the Fort Mojave Indian Reservation and then the 95 south into Needles.

HOMEWARD BOUND
I topped-off my gas tank at the last ARCO on the 95 in Arizona and paid $3.019 per gallon of 87 octane. We crossed the Colorado River into Needles and found the closest ARCO on the California side. Same gas, same octane, 1/4 mile distance and one state line later, $3.539 per gallon. I freaking hate California’s fuel taxes. I don’t know about where you live, but a recent check of California’s taxes (here) show we’re still one of the highest in the nation.

So other than the fact I left my house keys in the rental car after we returned it to Avis, we had no issues.

If you enjoy reading these musings, please let me know. Whether you do or don’t won’t keep me from posting but it will let me know if anyone other than me finds them entertaining at worst, informative at best.

Museum of Tolerance

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This post reviews my Museum of Tolerance (Los Angeles, California, USA) experience. The views remain my own and do not represent those of any group or organization other than myself.

Bottom line: If you can go, go. They close early on Fridays and are not open on Saturdays. I went on the AFC/NFC playoff Sunday and had no issues with traffic or crowds. I spoke with others I know who said it was quite crowded when they arrived, so I guess be prepared either way.

Arrival: The free underground parking doesn’t open until 10:00AM. For those of you who do not set your time pieces to the atomic clock, do so. Security does not remove the cones from the parking structure until 9:59AM. Not 9:58AM, not 9:34AM (when I actually arrived) but 9:59AM in time to make a 10:00AM opening. If you arrive as early as I did, you can park right in front of the place on Pico on Sundays. The light poles have four or five different signs regarding parking, but both my son and I read them as carefully as we could and determined that yes, you can park on the street in front of the building on Pico on Sunday. If you choose to park in the parking structure, you will need to pass an interview with a security guard in the driveway who will also do a cursory inspection of your vehicle. If you get a “go” from the guard, you’re sent down into the bowels of the building where I understand (but did not witness) they will put mirrors under your vehicle and might ask you to open your trunk. I did not experience that personally but a Yelp commenter posted about it.

Arriving Early: The doors were wide open when we arrived. DO NOT, however, make the mistake I made when I thought to go into the building and ask if I purchased tickets at that desk or somewhere else. When one of the four women at the desk finally decided to acknowledge my presence, I was told the museum did not open until ten and I needed to wait outside. I asked if this was the correct place to purchase tickets and was told the museum did not open until ten. I again asked if this was the place, after ten o’clock, where I would buy tickets. She said it was but that the museum did not open until ten and I needed to wait outside until then. So, unless you’re in an organized group, like the dozen or so high school students who were there before us, you will not be given admission until ten. In fact, once the second security guard told them what they could and could not bring into the building, they wouldn’t admit the student group until everyone returned from putting stuff back into their cars. You can’t bring anything in, by the way. No food, no coffee, no water bottles, no cameras, no back packs.

Ticket Purchase: Remember the rules Jerry gave George when they were going to buy soup on an episode of Seinfeld? Stand by. Know how many are in your party, have your cash or credit card ready with your ID, make the purchase and step immediately to your right. Do not ask any questions of the ladies behind the counter. Do not ask where to go next. Step to the freaking right and keep moving to the next security station.

Entrance: The TSA/El AL-trained security specialist was very specific and matter-of-fact. Place all metal and cell phones in the tray and walk through the check point. All bags are subject to search. You will have the opportunity to dispose of any unauthorized items immediately. If you choose to return them to your vehicle you will lose your place in line. I was not subjected to a cavity search but it was obvious the security guy either took his job seriously or was entirely bored with the routine. He, as well as almost every other person we encountered, was not too receptive to our saying “Good Morning” or “Hello.” The staff has been trained to respond with unintelligible grunts and scowls. I think it’s in their employment contracts.

Grouping: Heaven help you if you’re not with a group. They will sequester you in a lobby area until they decide they have enough to start a tour. Then you are paired up with someone who begins your tour. We had the most remarkable host. She greeted us in 12 different languages. She even commented to someone that she had to learn 12 different languages to do it. A woman asked her exactly how many languages she spoke. She was bilingual in English and Spanish but “[she] was learning some of each language every day.” That bugged the crap out of me. I’m a native English speaker and I can hold my own in Spanish and German. I’ve taken Greek, Russian and Korean. I have a hard enough time conjugating words in English let alone remembering if this article is Spanish or German, whether I properly stressed the accent in Greek or formatted the sentence properly in Russian or Korean. Learning a word every day in a foreign language does not make you a linguist. Her comment bothered me far more than it should have because it was so deceptive. “I speak twelve languages” really meant “I know how to say hello in twelve languages.” If she said hello in Klingon, could she work at ComiCon? Okay, rant over.

Exhibits: Once we were free of the self-absorbed host (who, by the way, let us know she used to be on Sesame Street and other kid’s shows), we started the exhibits. I have nothing but highly positive things to say about any of the exhibits we saw. I’ve been to Dachau a few times as a kid but that was more in-your-face than the holocaust exhibit here. This museum’s exhibit was far more engaging. It neither accused nor excused what happened. It explained German antisemitism from basically 1865 through the death of Simon Wiesenthal. It was educational, factual and engaging. The exhibits on current hate issues, like LGBT rights, women’s issues, racial equality, freedom of speech and others were also very interesting. I was not able to view the video program they had on other genocide and hate events in the 20th century (like Ireland, Turkey, Palestine, Serbia, etc.) but the photos they had for the slide show build-up to the video looked interesting. Why didn’t I stay for the movie? My daughter sent me a photo-message that she had broken her ankle. Awesome.

Grouping: Did I already mention groups? Lordy-Lou. One lady from our group wandered into the group ahead of us. She was escorted back to our group and told to stay with us. The guy was not polite about it. “This is your group. Stay with your group. Do not wander off.” Know that when you go. Stay with your freaking group or pay the price if you don’t.

Bookstore: I wandered into the third floor bookstore. From out of nowhere, the clerk slash security professional appeared. There’s no way this guy was not a Krav Maga master. He looked innocent enough, but I was in martial arts for a number of years and there’s no way this guy’s thighs could fill out his slack pants if they weren’t honed and toned. So I screwed with him. When my son went down one aisle, I went down another. When my son switched aisles, I would go down another. He couldn’t watch both of us so he chose me. It was fun but quite immature of me.

Guest Speaker: We heard from a survivor of three different death camps and a Polish ghetto. The guy is 85 years old and sharp as a tack. He was the absolute best part of the entire day, bar none. He told his story in a matter-of-fact way which seemed to help him recount the events. Unfortunately, his time was interrupted by a fire alarm and we had to evacuate the building for about a half hour. When we returned he picked up where he left off. Because of the interruption, the speaker scheduled to follow him was put into another venue so we had extra time with our speaker. All was good until during a question-and-answer session he was asked to summarize his life and his religious beliefs. The next few minutes were intensely personal and emotional for him and a number of guests. They have guest speakers scheduled for every day they’re open. If at all possible, attend one of their seminars. It would have been worth the price of admission by itself.

Anne Frank: We did not check out the Anne Frank exhibit. Sorry. Someone will have to check it out and let me know.

Fire Alarm: The fire alarm was an unfortunate event. It interrupted everything. However, before they blindly sent people tumbling into the street, they did confirm it was real and not just some chuckle-head having fun. I wonder if the very hot and smokey smell coming out of the elevator was a clue.

Common Sense: I had my son research to see if there was a dress code. Apparently there isn’t one. In this specific case I chose to err on the side of good taste and respect so I wore long pants and a button-down shirt. Some of the high school girls and chaperones looked like they had just clocked out of one of Los Angeles’ many strip clubs. Booty shorts and tight tank tops should not be appropriate attire when interacting with genocide survivors, but who am I? Someone said I needed to be more tolerant. Another thing which almost caused me to put the smack-down on either a high school kid or his chaperone was the kid’s mouth. Yes, the elevator was putting out a foul odor. But no, it is never appropriate when you’re in the presence of a holocaust survivor to start yelling out how they’re going to gas us or burn us alive. I wanted to take the little piece of crap and shove him down the elevator shaft. No one in his group said anything to him. I was both embarrassed and angry at the same time. Anyway, I didn’t have to crush the little turd because we were led into the seating area for the speaker to begin and motor-mouth didn’t have anything else to say.

Summary: Go and enjoy the museum and its exhibits but do not expect the staff to be pleasant or friendly in any way. At least that was my experience today.

A Sparky Quick Guide (#1)

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How to be a Total Ass at the Lone Survivor Movie

This is not a movie review, but a guide. Play along and you too can be a total ass, mocked and hated by the theater audience.

Step 1: Preparation
Drink two very large cups of coffee about an hour before the movie.

Step 2: Hydration
Arrive at the theater ten minutes after its scheduled start time. Purchase a large beverage of your choice and enjoy it during the show.

Step 3: Frustration
As the battle scenes really take off, realize that the two coffees and the large theater beverage have decided they’ve visited your kidneys and over-stayed their welcome in your bladder. Know, however, that because you arrived late you had to sit in the very top row of a stadium-seat theater: the exit is down a long flight of stairs. This step is critical: sit and wait.

Step 4: Perspiration
Really work up a panic sweat as you realize the movie is two hours long and you still have half an hour to go. You’re almost ready to be an ass!

Step 5: Walk Out
When you think the movie ends because the credits start to roll, get up and walk down the stairs. Your experience may vary. Because I can’t go down stairs very well due to an injury, my walk was slow and one stair at a time. Rather than the entire theater jumping up to join me in a mass exodus, everyone stayed in their seats. I realized about four rows down that they were rolling a tribute to all of the real service members involved in the operation depicted by the movie. The entire theater was stone silent except for the sniffling and crying of both men and women. I, of course, could neither return to my seat nor expedite my exit by taking two or three stairs at a time. So I plodded along, one stair at a time, praying a silent prayer that I could hold out long enough to make it to the restroom which was on the far side of the mega-plex.

Step 6: Wall of Shame
Having made it to the restroom in the nick of time, all I had to do was wait for my son, whom I knew would be following shortly after the movie ended. Unfortunately, he actually stayed through the entire credit and tribute sequence and then had to wait for the fifteen or twenty rows below him to clear the stairs before he could exit. This, of course, meant I had fifteen to twenty rows of red-eyed, movie-going, flag-waving patriots staring me down as I stood against the wall next to the men’s room. It was uncomfortable to say the least.

So there you have it. I probably could have left my seat at any time during the Marky-Mark action scenes and no one would have said or thought anything about it. But to leave your seat during the memorial tribute? It takes a special kind of total ass to pull off that maneuver.

Confused

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I had an interesting (if not lengthy) conversation recently. The subject: forgiveness. Please, don’t stop reading yet, this isn’t a sermon. I’d like to think of it as either two opposing viewpoints from the same side or an encapsulation of the differences different Christian philosophies take.

My friend, whom I shall refer to as “Alex”, was speaking to me this Sunday after already having consumed a fairly large amount of alcohol. We spoke of life, fate, destiny and a few other philosophically deep issues one only engages in on the road to being face-down drunk in the gutter. The conversation was going well until they hit upon two things which really grind my gears: I’m responsible for my own actions but no matter what, Jesus forgives me. Hold the ponies, please!

First off, I absolutely agree that every single one of us remains responsible for the consequence of our actions. I’ve blogged about this before. But to be clear, people tend to make decisions based on information, beliefs and anticipated consequences AT THE TIME of the decision. Take drunk driving, for example: Most people determine that the risk of being caught (not the risk of injury or death to oneself or someone else) is a huge factor in helping them decide if they should drive home “buzzed” or not. So they decide not to drive.

I am not a tea-toting, any-alcohol-is-evil, do-gooder. I enjoy beer, wine and hard alcohol at my discretion and very much with a self-prescribed limit. My friends know that no amount of taunting, teasing or threatening will get me to drink if I have chosen to abstain. I do not succumb to peer pressure and find those that do weak, lacking self discipline and cowardly. It’s that old line about, “If you don’t stand for something, you’ll fall for everything.” No means no, not, “ask me two more times and I’ll say yes.”

To me, the problem with alcohol remains with the person drinking. Going to a party, getting drunk, having sex and (worst case) getting pregnant or contracting an STD or (best case) having huge regrets for losing control, are not the fault of the alcohol. The alcohol didn’t get you pregnant. The alcohol didn’t make you lose your inhibitions; alcohol becomes the excuse, not the reason. YOU made the decision to drink, YOU made the decision not to stop when you’d clearly had enough, YOU remain responsible for the consequences of those actions.

After much debate, Alex and I agreed: alcohol in and of itself is neither good nor bad, virtuous nor evil, it just IS. How we interact with alcohol, our decisions and their consequences, are our responsibility. We cannot blame the alcohol.

Regardless, as it related to our conversation, Alex agreed that perhaps they had consumed too much alcohol as being “shit-faced” is not Alex’s normal condition. But then came the second part of the discussion. As far as Alex was concerned, it wasn’t cool to get drunk on Sunday but it was okay. Jesus understood that sometimes we all need to vent sometimes so Alex was already making plans to go to church either later that Sunday night or next Sunday. What?

I was reminded that Jesus said He would never leave us nor forsake us. Alex, as a Christian, had accepted Jesus into their life. As of that instant, I was told, nothing Alex did, no matter how sinful, arrogant or prideful, could be held against them on Judgement Day; Jesus had already forgiven Alex of everything Alex had done or would do. This is where the day got interesting.

I reminded Alex of the woman brought before Jesus who had been caught in an affair. Jesus agreed she should be put to death and offered that whoever was without sin should cast the first stone. When all of the woman’s accusers had left, Jesus forgave her and told her to sin no more. He didn’t tell her to meet him back at the temple next week so she could be forgiven again, nor did he give he a magic decoder ring that would absolve her of that same sin whenever she did it. No. He told her to go and sin no more. No more. Not, “give it a week or two”; no more.

So the argument ensued. On the one hand, Alex told me repeatedly that Jesus would always forgive any sin of any kind because, “He would never leave us.” I reminded Alex there remains a huge difference between being intentional and unintentional when it comes to sin. Two examples: Drinking and sex.

The Bible states not to be drunk. It doesn’t say not to drink. It doesn’t say beer is evil or whiskey is the drink of the devil. It says to not be drunk. Getting drunk any day of the week, Sunday included, is no worse than any other day. If you ask Jesus to forgive your drinking today (because it’s Sunday), will He? Yes, I’m sure. But I’m also sure God doesn’t want to hear you ask for forgiveness for the same thing over and over and over again if (and here’s the kicker) you’re not trying to help yourself out of that situation.

If you’re married and you have an affair, will God forgive you if you ask? Yes. Will he continue to forgive you when you engage in sexual activity with someone other than your spouse simply because you ask? I doubt it. The excuse of, “Well, we’re separated anyway” or “we’re in the process of getting divorced” cannot sit well with a God who, although certainly capable of forgiving you, should not have to forgive you every single time you chose to dishonor Him by not seeking help (though Jesus) for your situation.

For me, an intentional sin would be drinking to excess because you believe Jesus will forgive you. You believe Jesus will forgive you when you leave your lover’s bed to return home and feel little or no remorse for your actions. But not just once, over and over and over again. Unintentional sin would be more like the result of succumbing to temptation, negligence or ignorance. Drinking a beverage you did not know was spiked, for example. Or not realizing that Kahlua and milk is far more intoxicating that Coors Light. Or getting so caught up in the moment that before you knew it, you were both naked on the floor.

If an experience causes you to feel guilty about what you’ve done so much so that you do not wish to repeat the event, you will take God’s forgiveness and use it as a foundation from which you can build recovery. Shame will not be an issue because you have taken steps to acknowledge, confront and remove the guilt you felt that created an obstacle to your relationship with God. Your intent is to not repeat that action; to sin no more.

But if the event is a badge of honor (“Yeah, I slept with them” or “Dude, this one time I was so effed up”) or a ritual (“It’s Super Bowl Sunday, of course I’m getting drunk” or “It’s my birthday, of course I’m getting laid”) or an expectation (“He invited me to spend the weekend on his yacht, of course I’ll sleep with him” or “It’s guys night out, time to par-tay”), why even bother asking for forgiveness? You have no intention of changing your lifestyle, you just want to “cover your bases”.

Alex and I agreed to disagree. Alex maintains that Jesus will always and forever forgive you of sin if you ask simply because you asked. I maintain that Jesus will forgive you of sin if you ask but will certainly expect you to change your relationship to that sin such that you wish to be free of it, not continually repeat it. I left Alex with one of my favorite New Testament passages, Matthew 7:13-23. You’ll have to look that up yourself. It’ll be too much like a sermon if I repeat it here.

Your thoughts?