Every time I take a walk on the Beltline in downtown Atlanta, a thought comes to mind… I really don’t seem to fit in.  Am I the only person who notices this?  No idea, but certainly the ways in which I’m out of sync with my environment can readily come to mind…

• I don’t have any tattoos.  Not even one, which puts me WAY behind.
• I have neither a pony tail, nor an earring.
• I buzz my hair, so the possibility of a “man bun” seems pretty remote.
• I have a beard, but not the mountain man variety.
• I don’t own a single piece of clothing made of hemp.
• I’m not “420 friendly”.
• I’m not in good enough shape.
• Even if I was in good enough shape, I would never walk the beltline with a yoga mat in a sling like it’s a little baby…
• I’ve never gone to a yoga class.
• Prior point noted, I’m not sure I’m “relaxed” enough in general.
• I generally drive in one lane when on the road, not between them
• I haven’t gotten the knack of using “y’all” properly, and that sucks, because it’s pure southern gold.
• It’s been over 10 years since I’ve had a shot of whiskey… and I don’t know if I’ve ever had bourbon.
• I don’t own, nor have I ever fired a gun…
• That being said, I do spend the rest of my time in Chicago and I’ve never murdered anyone, so maybe we should just call that one even.
• When renting cars for my visits, I would be annoyed if I was given a pickup .
• I’ve never ridden a moped, I don’t own a skateboard, and I would probably topple over on a scooter.
• I don’t own a dog.  I do own two cats, but they aren’t here and, even if they were, they would never “go for a walk”, so there will be no street cred for that.
• I have eaten granola, but prefer cereal.
• I still can’t find basic things at Whole Foods.  Kroger is much more my speed.
• I don’t know what an “ethical grower” supported by Whole Foods means.  Apparently I’ve been buying tortured fruit for years, and I don’t know if I’m supposed to feel guilty.
• I buy white bread, understanding that I’m probably supposed to be getting wheat or multigrain.
• I don’t jog… I walk.
• Did I mention I don’t have any tattoos?  I did?  Ok, I still don’t have any.
• I’ve never been mudding, and I’m pretty sure I would do it wrong if I tried.
• And finally, since I grew up in Illinois, every minor hill feels like I’m climbing a mountain, and that’s probably a bit mental.

All these issues and yet it’s a wonderful and eclectic place to be… until they find me out and send me to yoga class on a scooter (or something else that’s very accepting and tolerant). 😊

-CJG 05/22/2019

Having watched the latest “Mission Impossible” movie for the first time the other day, I figured it’s about time to let out the frustration I have with Hollywood and the way franchise movies have degenerated into the ridiculous.  Perhaps the blame for the decay falls on the audience (myself included) who, despite repeated reminders at the lack of creativity and ambitious writing, continue to spend money on watching these movies.  Whatever the root cause, I can’t do anything to change the course of the absurd, but I can certainly express my frustration with it.

Before going further, I should acknowledge that I have a personal fascination with movies and the directorial process in particular.  The blending of creative and visual aspects, storytelling, cinematography, performances, sound, score, and so on is a simply amazing thing, especially when done well.  Having watched the movie “The Firm” for the first time in years the other day, I was reminded how a couple really well orchestrated camera shots can communicate tension without anyone needing to say anything.  The point is that I’m fine with suspension of disbelief and enjoy movies… I’m just tired of that being extended to the point of “suspension of reality”.

In fairness, since franchises seem to be built around a central set of characters (and actor/actresses by extension), you can’t really do anything harmful to them and put the whole thing at risk, right?  Right?  They probably didn’t get that memo when writing Game of Thrones.  Ok, it’s not a movie, but I don’t think it matters.  They have killed off more main characters on that show than anything I’ve ever seen, often at a level that’s shocking as it occurs.  The good news is that, as a member of the audience, you start to expect a character isn’t going to make it, and the action becomes a lot more interesting and engaging as a result.  Certainly there has been a thru line and some characters have been around since the outset.  At the same time, there are plenty who have both been killed off or written in and become essential to the story along the way.  What a wonderful, refreshing, and courageous concept.

Is that impossible in a feature film?  Certainly not.  What happened to Drew Barrymore in the movie “Scream” again?  She was killed in about the first five minutes… a move that probably blew everyone who saw the movie away when it first occurred.  They killed off the biggest member of the cast at the start?  Wow… this is serious.  I love how they upped the ante and wish it was more common.  What about killing the dog in John Wick?  Incredible choice.  Yes, half the audience (at least) was shocked, but you immediately are in it with the protagonist and don’t need anything else to understand his motivation to exact revenge.

Compare these things to Mission Impossible, with about 25 minutes of the film dedicated to a 15 minute countdown at the end.  That should have been a sign right there… they couldn’t make enough ridiculous things happen in the actual amount of time they had, so they just created another universe where they could keep lumping things onto Tom Cruise’s character so any shred of brain function you had would be scraped away by the end of the movie.  The helicopter has to leave at a time he has to jump for it, he has to fall down the rope, be hanging on to the cargo net for dear life, have fights in the helicopter, avoid machine gun fire, a failing aircraft, a crash that would’ve killed 100% of anyone if it ever happened, roll to the edge of a cliff, get knocked off that cliff, get stopped, then continue the fall, to another cliff, where he has to have another fight with someone else who should have died for multiple reasons, to get the device that rolls to the edge of the cliff, to fall over that cliff, hang by a rope, shift to rock climbing, take care of the bad guy, climb the sheer cliff face bare handed… to disarm the bomb with… one. second. left.  Really movie?  What in the world is this?  It’s like they took every idea the writers had (and there were presumably 20 of them) and dumped them all in a hat, couldn’t decide which to use in terms of struggles for the main character, and went with including everything.  Did any of this create dramatic tension?  NO.  It didn’t.  What it did was make me increasingly agitated at the stupidity of the endless set of challenges and waste what could’ve been a great scene without half of the nonsense they piled on.  The camera work and action shots were wonderful.  Why was all that extra garbage needed?

Did someone decide once upon a time that no bomb can reasonably be defused with 3:17 on the clock?  Why?  Does it have to be 1 second, because honestly, I know (right along with the rest of the audience) that the world isn’t ending today.  Even if it is and the main character dies… it’s only a set up to them waking in a sweaty panic and it was all a nightmare… oh… thank… god.  I thought they might do something actually brave and shift focus to a character you didn’t expect.  That would be a good movie to watch.  Unfortunately I don’t expect it will show up anytime soon.

In fairness to Mission Impossible series, they didn’t start this trend.  Certainly you can easily trace it back to a lot of times James Bond should’ve just gotten shot but was, instead, strapped to a machine that would take a fairly long time to perform some level of elaborate “procedure” on him that would be more painful… but, from which, he would inevitably escape right before the laser, drill, saw, shark, etc. reached him.

In present times, the exact same thing continues to drain the interest out of movies in the Star Wars, Marvel, DC, Jurassic Park, and other franchises.  That hanger in the Last Jedi is going to blow up right as the main character is about to get… shot… slowly… after a deliberate monologue by one of the villains, who are never in a rush to just get it over with.  Go ahead and shoot Poe… move on.  Find another pilot.  Who decided we needed ONE Han Solo replacement?  Are the rest of the pilots in the rebellion useless?  Pity.  Certainly, when that hanger does explode with all the ex machina glory needed to save Finn and company, everyone else is incapacitated, but the protagonists… and I find myself again feeling like some part of my life was just drained away.  In the case of the Marvel movies, as much as I enjoy the series overall… can we please allow someone to remain disintegrated, especially one of the ordinary human characters?  Aren’t there a lot of comic book characters to choose from?  It seems like it.  How about making some of the action sequences actually seem dangerous?  The reason I love Infinity War more than any other Marvel movie, and Rogue One (from a Star Wars standpoint) is that protagonists don’t emerge unscathed.  There is consequence, and it makes for a better experience, otherwise you know how every scene is going to end, no matter how good the visual effects are.  The protagonists are going to get away.  The main villain isn’t going to be harmed, especially if it’s early in the movie… the protagonist will be stopped short of dispatching them for some reason, or their heretofore perfect aim will suddenly fail for a brief, but critical moment, only to return right when needed at the actual end of the movie… how convenient.

Ok, I’ve ranted enough, but I really wish Hollywood would develop some courage and take more risks, give us more to be engaged with, less of the same formula reused over and over, with a slight tweak here and there, and some actual cinematic danger for the protagonists.  If Game of Thrones has proven anything (along with a select set of other good movies), you can actually introduce new characters, make them interesting, and keep a story moving, despite throwing the audience some curve balls, and what a wonderful journey that creates in the process.

In the meantime, please wake me when the countdown reaches 2 seconds… I don’t really need to see the fifteen minutes of nonsense leading up to it… or, alternatively, perhaps they could just rename the franchise (in this case) to “Situation Impossible” and at least allow those of us who haven’t completely lost our minds to enjoy the tongue in cheek titling in relation to the movie’s content.

-CJG 12/01/2018

(Note: It’s a generic image)

Ok, I admit, I’m probably out of touch.  There was probably an announcement.  I didn’t read it.  I’m busy, really busy, and things sometime escape my notice.  I’d go with maybe it’s my age, but I didn’t grow up in the 1950s or something, so I didn’t come from that image of the guy who arrives home in his suit to the perfect, black-and-white image of a family, with the perfect dinner sitting on the perfect dinner table.  I grew up in the 70s where, to the best of my understanding, everyone was either hung over from the 60s or pissed off at something in general… and there was this disco thing with giant pants and collars… and John Travolta.  Too much information?  Fine… let’s continue, but I’m not happy about it.

Here’s the thing: When did customer service become “self-service”, even when there are employees there to help you?

Today’s reminder:  I was at the grocery store, not to be named, because they aren’t Jewel, and they consider themselves “special”, or they’d just use the larger Kroger brand that applies to the rest of the chain.  Hold on… don’t be thinking it’s Mariano’s, I never said that.  Go sit in a corner and count to five.  Thank you.

Done?  Ok.

Now, I needed some supplies.  Quickly, because it’s late and I haven’t had dinner, and I don’t want to starve and die.  I made up a quick list at home and thought (operative word being ‘thought’) I’d grab some groceries quickly.  Yeah, no, that didn’t play out.

I started my normal, semi-efficient path through the store, grabbing some apples, looking for a veggie to go with dinner.  Off to a good start.  Check.  Making progress?  Certainly.

I looked at the list: need some lunch meat.  Ok, I never stop at the deli counter, but there are four people working and only one customer is visible… this ought to be quick.  Did you see that part?  Yeah… that’s called “cursing yourself” in the common tongue (i.e., the one without the Ye and all that other crap from Shakespeare I’ve merrily long forgotten).  One woman, being helped by a young man behind the counter on what seemed like a special order.  No one else… tumbleweed rolling past… crickets in the distance.  Three other employees, two doing their best to look busy, but seemingly not doing much, the third, a woman, relatively close to me… putting sandwiches for their little pre-made display into bags.  Ok, she sees me… right?  Hmm.

I wait.  A few minutes pass. The kid helping the woman is confused, but he’s working the problem.  Motivation, his ally in an ocean of order filling turmoil.  I walk closer to the woman.  At this point, I’m about four feet away and so clearly in her peripheral field of view that either she should have jumped back in shock or lost her drivers license… nothing.  Nada.  Zero.  Call missing persons.  I’m clearly lost.

“Excuse me… should I wait for him to finish?”  I said it as politely as a dumbfounded person can, thinking… this oughta to be all it takes.  Yeah, no, double cursed.  Idiot that I am.

“Did you take a ticket?”  That was her response.  What?  You were expecting something like, “I’m sorry, how can I help you?”  Well then, you’re an antiquated fool like me and you should be thrown into a pit with the dog with the lotion from that movie with Jodie Foster… ok, maybe not that, but seriously.  You read the title here, right?

“I’m the only one here” was my response… thinking the obvious stupidity of her question should have caused her a mild choking moment or a hair ball… but that could be my cats, I’m not sure.

“Well, you really should take a ticket, in case other people arrive.”  At this point, she still wasn’t helping me and not offering to do so.  She stayed with bagging sandwiches.  I stood there, not being helped, thinking… Well, I really wouldn’t be worried about a line if one of the four of you actually just helped me.  Then there wouldn’t BE a line, you see.  It’s kind of like math, somehow.  Ok, don’t judge me.  I thought it, but I didn’t say it.

A minute or so later, she went to help the young man out, because he was still struggling… without ever offering to help me.  I gave up and decided the packaged lunch meat is just fine for today.  In hindsight, it may have been worth going Pavlov on her and pulling a ticket to see if she started drooling or I suddenly became a viable customer… but I didn’t because I really did want to make it a quick trip and eat… again… so I wouldn’t starve and die.  Priorities, you know.

I thought today’s experience in customer awareness was over… right till I got to checkout.

Unbeknownst to me, while I was in Georgia, the store had installed self-checkout lines.  I guess they finally realized that every other type of store in America had decided cashiers are a nice-to-have, that customers can scan and bag things on their own, and it’s much better to just dispense with the formalities, making us all tacit unpaid employees of the store.

Ok, for the record, I don’t actually have an issue with this change, I was very used to checking myself out at my last store, and I prefer not waiting in the soon-to-be short staffed checkout lines with actual employees.

In this case, the self-checkouts were fairly busy, so I made my way to a normal line, watching an older gentleman go into a near sprint to beat my cart there.  Dude… I wanted to say… you’ve got this.  I’m not going to get all Carl Lewis on you (if you’re not old enough for the reference… just go back to my point on the 70s, fast forward to the 80s, and you ought to be ok).  People occasionally get impatient and ridiculous and I just don’t care that much, so it’s all good.  This wasn’t my issue anyway.

The reason the guy went into life crisis mode in the first place was that there were three lines with cashiers open, all of them fairly busy, and he wanted to get out of the store within the calendar month.  The problem was actually with the manager-type people themselves.

One of the self-checkout lines was having a problem, you see, and they had shut it down.  That doesn’t seem like too big a deal, except when one manager is trying to get it to work and two other, seemingly experienced employees of the store ARE STANDING THERE WATCHING HIM DO IT.  Um… folks…?  You realize that one or both of you could open a register, deal with some of these customers, and the line at the self-checkout wouldn’t even be an issue… right?  Does the guy fixing the machine need help?  Is this an impromptu training class?  Is the screen flashing some form of odd hypnosis right now?  I have no idea, I was on the wrong side to see… but I was honestly baffled at why two people were standing, watching a third do something, while a bunch of customers on both sides of them were not being helped at all.  The closest thing I could compare it to is construction crews or the DMV, where having one worker observed by many seems to the normal way things get done.

In any case, I eventually was checked out.  The cashier and her associated bagger were both extremely polite and wonderfully friendly.  A good end to the experience.

I can’t help but wonder, though… when did we get so over-saturated in the concept of “self-service” that people decided its true meaning was, I will only help if I absolutely need to?  Ultimately, it does come down to the individual and their attitude, but today was quite the experience of inefficiency and apathy, and what was meant to be a “quick trip to the store” was anything but.

You win today store… but I’ll be back dammit… and next time I’m refusing to get a number again.  We’ll see who wins round two.

-CJG 07/24/2018

It seemed like such a good idea at the time… I have a problem, what should I do?  Get help!  Yeah, that’s it. Get. Help.  From an expert.  Someone who knows… stuff.  Stuff I don’t know, because I’m a commoner, a layman, I wear the clothing of the ‘average’ tribe… and, well, I’m just not that damn special.  I haven’t been to the crucible of where this knowledge is kept, it’s not on my Dora the Explorer map in my backpack… in my backpack… in my BACKPACK! (Dora… for God’s sake, how many times must you be reminded?  Idiot.  You suck at exploring, which, as an “explorer”, isn’t a compliment.).

In any case, I made the brave and courageous effort today to seek help with my mortgage refinance.  It would seem that the hardships we experienced last year put us in a position where conventional approaches are not going to help, so we need to pull out the big guns, ask the experts, explore the backroads, talk to our actual lenders… and essentially brace ourselves for the financial equivalent of a lower GI examination.  Ok, whatever, sure.  Why not?  Can we cover a prostate exam while you’re in there?  Two for the price of one?  Ok, maybe a bit much… but you get the point.  I hate this shit.

Ok, I know a little bit about this thing called math.  I’ve been doing it since some teacher forced me to use a pencil and solve stuff.  I know there are people who are better at it than me, but I’ve taken quite a bit of it through the course of my education, which means most of those people are…to me… weenies and math nerds… and they can just shut up and go live somewhere where non-Euclidian geometry actually matters.  I am an American dammit… we say “fuck you metric system”/rest of THE WORLD and we’re proud of it.  If I wasn’t a damn engineer, I would’ve happily avoided all those conversions altogether…I know a kilometer is shorter than a mile, a meter is shorter than a yard (wait, it’s the other way around…? Shit)… forget it, don’t ask me about kilograms and pounds… I don’t plan to live in Canada anyway…(though Toronto is beautiful and eclectic).  Europe… that’s a long flight.  Wait, I’m off track aren’t I?  Oops.

The point is that I’ve looked at my financial situation about 100 ways, I’ve tracked out my expenses at a detailed level for the last year, I have a pretty good idea what the income and expenses look like under the new regime of my current job, and the math doesn’t work out.  Not for a while anyway, then it will get corrected in a big way, and then we’ll be fine.  The problem is really getting between now and then, and it’s too tight, and a big reason it’s too tight is our mortgages… well and college… there’s that… but that’s a different thing, and I might as well plan a mission to mars while I’m looking for that kind of cash flow.

So, back to the person with the rubber gloves, I mean help line.  I looked up the government’s “Making Homes Affordable” site.  These are the guys.  The people.  The honchos.  Those in the know.  The people will all the keys to all the doors, notwithstanding those that have been privatized… damn corporations and capitalism.  Wait, wrong topic.  Ok, the government.  They’re here to help.  Good news!  That’s what I wanted to hear.  The helpline is out there 24×7, in 170 languages, no less.  This shit makes me want to call and go for the most obscure language imaginable, just to see what happens… like, where every third word requires you to clear your throat, belch, spit, or make a sound only audible to 2% of the world’s population.  THAT 170^th language….  Gimme that… with a few vocal clicks and a dance in the middle of each sentence.  Of course, they could pick up that line, start clicking, dancing, and spitting… and I’d be like… oh shit, how do I respond to this and not insult the person on the other end of the line?  Seems SO worth the trip though… I’m never gonna visit THAT country, wherever the hell it is.  Even Dora isn’t gonna try that one.  You’d never be able to repeat the directions three times and expect it to work out.  A linguistic and phonetic nightmare… wrapped up in dance and clicking sounds.  Wait… shit.  I’m off topic again.  Sorry.

Yeah, so I dialed in.  I pressed “1”.  English.  Not the screwed up British version with the “our” thing… color is spelled like this people… Save the letters.  Save the paper.  Save the trees.  I didn’t realize it till now, but maybe the British just hate the environment for all those extra letters.  It’s not that I hate tea, I just prefer coffee… Why can’t they just… oh crap, off track again.  Sorry.  I choose the language, then tell the system what type of problem I have so they can direct my call accordingly… yep, “2” – I need help with refinancing.

After hearing my call will be recorded, I am transferred to a nice person who introduces herself as “Nicole”.  Now, I just changed Nicole’s name, because… you know… there’s probably only one “Nicole” doing this stuff in the first place, and I don’t want her to feel bad.

You know, it could just be me, but whenever I call somewhere and the first thing I hear is that my call will be recorded, it makes me wonder what the hell is coming next.  Like… what kind of bullshit, crappy experience is waiting for me, that they’re recording this for “quality assurance” reasons.  This has nothing to do with “quality”, people.  This is so I hear that little message and try to contain my frustration, no matter what kind of ridiculous poor service is about to be delivered over the call.  That’s why it’s there.  It’s like the service provider is saying, “We know you are about to get pissed off.  We get it.  But please be aware… we’re recording this shit.  If you allow your frustration to get the better of you, and you unload on the person doing a terrible job servicing your needs… we’re going to take this recording, and we’re going to call your mother… and she’s gonna hear that potty mouth of yours, and YOU’RE the one who’s gonna be in trouble then.”  Yep, it’s more like that.  Totally.

So, Nicole introduces herself and asks me to explain the situation.    I then proceed to explain the situation.  I lost my job.  We struggled.  I’ve looked at the numbers.  They don’t add up.  The conventional mortgage route seems blocked.  We need help figuring this out.  Take that, add five minutes to provide the necessary context, and you’re pretty much caught up.

Nicole thanks me and says, “Ok, I should tell you a little bit about our service…” and proceeds to read me the headline-level boiler plate description of what the program is, that it’s free, and that she can connect me with a credit counselor, who can assist me once I provide a couple pieces of information on myself and the property of interest.  Wait.  What?  You’re not the counselor?  Who the fuck are you and why did you answer the phone?  And, for that matter, why did you just ask me what the situation was if you aren’t the person who is going to do anything to help me?  Are you literally a person who reads me a description of the service itself, gets my consent to continue, and transfers the call?  Yep, that sounds like the US Government at work.  I’m at the DMV… but on the phone.  One person to tell me where the person who is actually working sits.  That’s a job.  A job from which you basically can’t get fired.  Efficiency at its finest.

Ok, Nicole gives me a little secret code number and transfers my call.  I am forced to listen to a two-minute disclaimer on my privacy and… well, I don’t know really.  I checked out at the two second mark, having filed the message under “legal, CYA bullshit” and moved on.  A nice lady named Dora picks up (no her name wasn’t “Dora”, but I have issues with Dora, so it should be fine to lump this situation on her…).  Actually, that’s not fair.  Let’s go with “Flo”, like that annoying woman from the Progressive commercials.  Oh my god.  Her.  Yes.  Her.  Take Flo, age her 50 years.  That.  That’s the person who picked up my call.

I knew we were in trouble immediately.  Flo first asked me to confirm that I heard the disclaimer/privacy thing… um… yeah, sure… 100%… totally… memorized that shit…. and then asked me for the little secret five number code given to me by Nicole, I gave it, and she came back that she needed me to repeat it, because I went a little too fast for her to hear me.  Oh God.  We’re in trouble on step 1: the Transfer of the Call.  This may not be good.

Well, Flo asked me the situation and I proceeded to basically retell the entire story I had told to Nicole… but now for the person meant to actually help me address the problem.  At last, someone who can jump in the boat and row with me.  Finally.  I finished explaining the situation, along with the type of modifications I believe I need at this point, and Flo explains that we need to go through some questions so she can prepare the necessary financial plan to give me options and sound advice.  I think it was something like that, but I don’t have the note card she was reading off of, so I’m not 100% sure.  I do know that nothing I heard had anything to do with what I had just said.  I guess this was round 2 of “let the consumer air out their frustration so they can be productive once we start really discussing the problem.”  Clearly nothing I said went anywhere but into the ether… and I’m pretty sure Flo didn’t get any of it.

I should pause to note that writing about this experience won’t and can’t do it justice for minimally one reason alone: the reader has the benefit of being able to read at their own pace, and that’s bullshit and unfair.  To really share in this experience, you should have to read through blurry reading glasses that are partially covered in gook, forcing you to re-read sections over and over again, while half asleep, so your comprehension is extremely limited.  Reading at a normal pace is nowhere near the slow, deliberate, applesauce-eating, idiot-level complexity the actual discussion used.  I felt like I was driving the Eisenhower to downtown Chicago in the middle of rush hour… and moving more slowly, which is really saying something.

Flo and I proceeded to spend the next hour and forty minutes going through her survey questions, talking about the properties, our income, our assets, our expenses, liabilities, etc. etc.  Thank goodness, I had all my information at my fingertips because, you know, that part about I did the math already.

So, at one or two points Flo asks about what I’m doing with Kathy and I’m reminded how people seem to want to weigh in on how I’m handling my divorce and the associated arrangements.  I found the most polite way I could to remind her we were having a financial and not a morality discussion and I’d rather we focus on ways to make the math work, because I honestly don’t give a damn what anyone thinks about how I choose to support my family.  If I’m stupid, the good news is I’m the guy paying for it, so I can live with those choices.  In the meantime, focus Flo… focus.

Flo takes the numbers I have in my cash flow analysis spreadsheet, transfers them into her system and verifies that… yes… the math doesn’t work.  Wonderful!  Awesome.  An hour and a half of watching paint dry to get here, but we’ve reached the summit and now the eternal wisdom of the informed can be bestowed upon me.  Finally.  After almost two fucking hours (sorry mom, but that’s the deal).  I should mention that, in the middle of the question and answer period, Flo did ask if I had ever been bankrupt.  With the amount of fatigue and annoyance I already had in the 2 mph paced conversation, I went with “Not yet…” and laughed.  Nothing.  Crickets.  Tumbleweed… and somehow I was stupid enough to be surprised that Flo didn’t get it.  Clearly she missed her electroshock session today, and I should’ve seen that at the start of the call.  Made me repeat a five digit code like it was 100 digits of Pi…  Two seconds in.

Ok, so Flo tells me about the company she works for, and reminds me about the services they provide.  Gotcha.  Roger.  Heard that at the open, but the reminder is totally good.  What you got?  Flo then tells me that, in the event of being late more than 90 days after a few months, mortgage companies can initiate foreclosure proceedings (no, I don’t know why she jumped there), and it would normally be 10-14 months before that plays out, but there’s a backlog in Illinois, and you’d have basically between 24-27 months in the house before anything would happen.

Hang on Flo.  What’s the recommendation?  Well… upon careful consideration… in reviewing our “financial platform”… (not sure where that expression came from, because right now I don’t think that “platform” can support us)… Flo recommended that we continue to pay our monthly bills and look for ways to reduce expenses moving into the future.

Wait.  WHAT?  “Pay our bills?”, I asked, “With what money?”   I quickly assessed the value of waiving my standing rule on being respectful to one’s elders, recorded call be damned… and held back.  She had just confirmed that, when considering escrow and other things, we are theoretically in a negative position, something I said at the outset… the math doesn’t add up Dora… the math doesn’t add up… the math doesn’t add up… Bennie’s barn.  Swiper, no swiping.  The map.  Well, she may as well have been Dora, because I did say that at least three times over the couple hours and obviously she needed to see it in her own spreadsheet to tell me something I knew before calling.  That being said, her advice, as a counselor was to keep paying on a negative cash position… which, in financial terms, is fucking idiotic.  Well, actually, given the US Government spends money they don’t have, maybe I just need to consider the source and understand why the economics of that don’t seem ridiculous and impractical to the person offering the advice… from their perspective, that math DOES work… I’m the idiot.

In any case, Flo seemed content to go with that “option”, let me know that I’d get a copy of the report and recommendations in email and the actual mail, and moved to wrapping it up.  Hmm.  We missed something I think.  “Wait, what about trying to get modifications on the two loans?”  I asked, wondering if we were going to touch on the reason I called in the first place… two hours into this structured fiasco.  “Well, you can certainly talk to your lenders, but I’d recommend that you continue to pay your bills, starting with your property obligations, and then see what you can do to adjust your expenses.”  It was at this point that I realized Flo is probably a confederate of the lenders, sent here to discourage me from trying to fix the situation at all.  Ok Flo, if that’s how you want to play it…

Flo switched to wrap up mode and asked if I found the call helpful.  “No.”  Would I recommend the service to a friend with a similar situation.  “No.”  On a scale of 1-5, 5 being the most… “1.”  She politely said she was sorry that the discussion was not satisfying and asked what my primary concern was.   At that point, I was so flabbergasted at the ineffectiveness of the entire thing that I just said I hadn’t learned anything I didn’t already know and came away with no viable options to address my home financing beyond ‘paying my mortgage’, which obviously was an issue or I never would’ve called in the first place… but it’s all good, and I appreciated her time.  At the end of the call, I was acutely aware that I knew more about the situation and the options than my “counselor”, and I didn’t want to spend another minute trying to explain why the last two hours were a total waste of time.  Thank God that call was being recorded for “quality” purposes.

Overall, the best I can say about today’s experience is that I can laugh about it, because to think on the futility of reaching out for help, explaining the situation multiple times, sharing all the information required by the process, just to hear “march on, soldier boy!”… my alternative reaction wouldn’t be as productive.

For those considering use of the helpline: I hope your experience is better than mine… perhaps it was just poor luck, alignment of the planets, mercury in retrograde, full moon… no idea.  It didn’t work, but I’m glad I tried, because otherwise I would have to think about the possibility that maybe I didn’t exhaust all the avenues available before making the choices we now need to make.  It’s possible I’ve still missed something and there’s a solution to be found, but for today, I’d give Dora a better shot of finding her way to the desired destination…

-CJG 01/07/2017

So, watching the movie Ida with my eldest daughter today, I was confronted with the reality that I can’t stay in a serious mood for too long a period without feeling the need to bend the rules a bit.

As a backdrop, the film follows a young woman aspiring to become a nun in post-WWII Poland when she’s confronted with the realization that she was the daughter of Jewish parents. She connects with an aunt she had previously never met to understand the circumstances surrounding her parents death.  (spoiler alert) Eventually, she and her aunt come to find out what happened to her parents and the person responsible for their deaths digs them up from the spot where they were eventually buried.  Ida and her aunt gather some portion of the uncovered remains, wrapped up in what appear to be pieces of clothing, and prepare to depart…

This is where I think… how would this movie be if they took a slight turn towards the absurd…?  As they arrive back at their car, what if the dialogue between Ida and her aunt was a little more interesting?

“Excuse me, but where are we putting the human remains? In the back seat”

“Certainly not!  Put them in the trunk.  Have you no sense?”

(Ida opens the trunk) “Oh, ok. I don’t think they’ll fit.  Should I move the golf clubs?”

“Of course you should.  Put the golf clubs in the back and the human remains in the trunk.”

(Ida reappears from behind the car with two sets of golf bags, which she puts into the back seat, returning to the back of the car) “Ok, what about the cooler?”

“The cooler?  Oh right, the sandwiches… well, you can’t fit those in the back seat can you?”

“No, the golf clubs are in the back seat, and I don’t think I’ll want a sandwich that’s been next to a dead body on the drive home.”

“Ok, well, you’ll just have to hang onto that in your lap.  So the golf clubs will be in the back seat, the human remains will be in trunk, and the cooler will be in your lap in the front.”

“Can I leave the tire iron back here?”

“Yes, just put it up in the back of the trunk.  There should still be plenty of room for the human remains.”

“But what if we get a flat tire?  We’d have to move the human remains to get the tire iron so we could get the old tire off.”

“Oh for God’s sake, then put the human remains in first, then the tire iron, leave the golf clubs in the back seat, and bring the cooler up front with you.”

“Hey, remember I’m a nun.  Don’t use the Lord’s name in vain.  What about the shovels for when we want to bury the remains again back home? What do we do with those?”

“How much shit did we have in that trunk in the first place?  This is getting ridiculous.  Ok, take the shovels out and put them on top of the golf clubs in back.  They ought to fit.”

(Ida reappears from behind the car with shovels in hand, opens the back door, and places the shovels on top of the golf bags) “We need to make sure we bury the human remains again before we go back to the golf course.  That would be a hassle otherwise.”

“Good point.”

(Ida disappears behind the car again) “Oh no.”

“What now?”

“We left a bag of groceries in the trunk.”

“I thought you brought all the groceries in when we made the sandwiches.”

“So did I. I guess I forgot the ice cream.”

“You got ice cream on the dead bodies!?”

“No, those are still laying on the curb.  I was making room.”

“Why wasn’t that in the cooler?”

“Because we got the cooler for the sandwiches at the house, we didn’t have it at the store.”

“Ok, so throw out the ice cream (I don’t want it melting on the sandwiches in the cooler at this point), put the human remains in the trunk, followed by the tire iron, leave the golf clubs and shovels in the back seat, and bring the cooler to keep on your lap in the front seat. Is that everything?”

“Yes.” (Ida closes the trunk and reappears with the cooler in hand, opens the front passenger door, and sits down with the cooler in her lap)

(Her aunt gets behind the wheel and tries to start the car) “Ida… we’re out of gas.”

-CJG 03/15/15

Admittedly, a rant on kids TV this morning, but it’s all good fun.

Simply said: I don’t get it when it comes to children’s educational television.

With the general indication that the quality of our education system has declined, but the promise that these shows are based on ‘research’ in helping our children develop, something must be off.

With my daughter having left the TV on the Disney Channel last night, I woke to Mickey’s Playhouse on Disney Junior… Not the way to start the day given I’m already not a morning person.  Whether the intended audience is 3-years-old or not, I can’t help but wonder if we’ve developed a new level of moron with what these shows present.  Today’s crisis for Mickey and crew was to restore color to their world, given everything seemed to be greying out at a rapid pace… OH CRAP.  CALL THE NATIONAL GUARD!!!!  Ok, wait.  They just need to find all the colors of the rainbow to avert this crisis… phew, that seems solvable.  Thankfully Mickey and his studied crew, versed in the laws of education for young children, are here to rescue us.

Where are they in the process?  Hmm… Yellow.  They need to find Yellow… Ok, no problem Mickey, your shoes are Yellow.  Mickey suggests that the group needs to go find this… wait a second.  Mickey?  Your shoes Mickey… look down.  Look DOWN Mickey… Where the hell are you going?  They’re right THERE!  Oh, ok, it’s like a little scavenger hunt.  This is kind of like reminding Dora the Explorer she has a map three times, even though it’s ALWAYS in her backpack, because she keeps forgetting that she not only has it, but also that we just told her the route to Benny’s barn not even a couple minutes ago (before she crossed Crocodile lake).  At this point, Mickey and his intrepid crew spy a yellow flower in a bush.  They need to get a shovel, dig it up, and put it in a pot.  Problem solved.  Yep, thanks Mickey, that’s MUCH easier than pulling off your shoe.  If my girls were still young, this is a valuable life lesson.  Go the difficult route… it pays off in the end.  Lol… my head hurts three minutes in (well, and I could use some coffee).

What’s next?  Green?  Ok, no problem, you’re in the middle of a field surrounded by trees.  “Let’s go find something green.”  Oh Lord, here we go again.  I can’t figure why young kids are mesmerized by these shows instead of getting frustrated.  In any case, Mickey and his crew with oddly patterned blindness proceed to get to a clearing where they see a pond with a bunch of yellow rubber ducks with one green duck in the middle.  They now need to fish it out with their special fishing rod.  Yep, a green rubber ducky… that’s common.  I’ll never see that in my lifetime.  And fishing it out, much easier than just grabbing a few blades of grass at their feet.

Upon fishing out the freakish duck, they need to leave the pond to find Blue.  Again. They need to leave the POND to find the color blue.  Hmm… that’s a hard one.  After years of education from Mr Rogers, Romper Room, Bozo, and the like, I’m now clearly lost on what they need to do.  Thankfully, Mickey and his highly insightful crew know that there is a blue item in a wrapped gift box that can be identified by a specific size, cut open with special scissors, and used for this very purpose… phew.  Our future for a world filled with color is in the right white gloved hands.

All this meandering journey eventually culminates with a successful outcome, the group restores the rainbow, and the playhouse regains its original color… this is when I notice that the place looks like it was painted by a failed artist on a tequila bender.  Hmm, maybe we should go back to the greyscale… just a thought.

Ok, enough ranting.  I’m sure somewhere, someone has done a bunch of research to show that these shows help young kids develop.  Certainly they are captivated by them in my experience, but does it really make sense?  I’m not sure whether the shows of my childhood were any better, but I don’t remember them being a study in the obvious.  I suppose either I’ve lost that piece of the story in my memory or the world has just moved on to a place I don’t quite understand.

Either way, I think I need to leave the remote control closer, give up sooner, or set a timer for the coffee before I go to bed in these cases… yes, it’s tongue-in-cheek, but I wonder what the effect of all this will be in 20 years, when these kids are ready to start doing things in the “real” world.

-CJG 02/16/2014