I am scheduled to meet a client at Case Western Reserve University next week. However, due to the recent events there, I wonder if it is still appropriate. This is the building where the gunman shot 2 people. The SWAT team had a tough time subduing him because there were no straight hallways in the entire building.

I was getting bored yesterday, just sitting around listening to the rain, so I got in my car and followed the neverlost map system to the nearest large mall. Since I was stuck in the suburbs of Cincinnati, I thought I would get out and see the country.

What amazed me is how frontal and complete the assault is upon the average American here. They are told at every turn through radio ads, visual ads and television that they need to get out and spend money at this mall or that mall. Everything is in malls, and everything is designed to be done with a car.

While wading through the massive parking lot at Kenwood mall, I came across a family waiting to use a crosswalk. The crossing was duly marked with paint on the asphalt and a sign indicating that it was a crosswalk. But no car would stop, and the family made no move to signal their intention or need to cross.

I just walked right out into the traffic and made the cars stop. Everyone looked at me in disbelief. What is the point of having a crosswalk if you don't use it?

This just found in my other blog archives...from July 2001:

It's been a while since I discovered this forum for solipsistic expression and theater of the self absorbed. Well, now I am charging into its swollen ranks. Initially my intentions were to fashion this blog from the very beginning with witty and informative quips on the human condition that were oh-so-spot on. However, I've realized the point here is merely to express yourself. If I go for being the Moredcai Richler of blogland, I will only ever look like a cheap imitator.

Someone was fired at work today, which I think is a good thing. Good because they are finally realizing that there are many people who do nothing at our company, and have been doing so for many years now...

Being from a middle class Protestant family in Edinburgh, it was natural that my grandmother was warned and persuaded not to take up with my hardscrabble grandfather. He was Catholic, he was from Glasgow and he came from a “questionable” family. That I know almost nothing about my grandfather’s background suggests to me that he came from a long line of criminals.

However, when you’re a 22-year-old girl growing up in a repressed Protestant family, you are a sucker for a bad boy from the wrong part of town, especially if he is riding a motorcycle. Sure, he might be a little rough around the edges, she explained to her parents, but he has an engineering degree from the University of Edinburgh. How respectable is that? Unfortunately, the degree was not worth much in Edinburgh, at least not in the hands of a Catholic, and he was shut out of the shipyards, the natural place for a recent grad to seek employment.

One day while they were riding on his motorcycle (made entirely from “found” parts), the brakes failed, and they both crashed into a brick wall. My grandfather was not hurt, but my grandmother had knocked out all her front teeth on the wall.

Time to make a run for it, thought young Jimmy Smith. He booked passage on a ship headed for Canada, with a job arranged for him in Vancouver, some small town way out on the west coast. My grandmother did not want to leave her sister behind, but staying in Scotland was no longer an option. So the three of them came over, but on the way my great aunt nearly died of pneumonia. When the ship docked in Montreal, Auntie Alice was too ill to get on the train for another 6 days to Vancouver. They settled in Montreal.

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The last time I saw my grandmother was in August 2001. I pulled up to her house and parked, and was immediately asked by a neighbor what I was doing. I walked over to the man and told him that I was Mrs. Smith’s grandson. He shook my hand and introduced himself as “Gary”, and said that he lived across the street. He told me to have a nice day, and put his hand on my bicep and gave me a little squeeze.

I thought nothing of it at the time. When I went in to see nana, she asked me if I had talked to Gary. I said yes, and that he seemed like a nice man, looking out for his neighbor like he did.

“I think he’s gay son” she replied.

Clementine Lavin Smith died on May 8, 2003. She was 98 years old.

I guess what bothers me, or what makes me feel inadequate, is reading all the other blogs that seem so much better than mine, by people who are probing the outer boundaries of CSS development or developing new ways to post text, and who seem to live lives that are so much more interesting. Well, at least they make it sound interesting. The problem is, and I have known this for a long time, is that what I am doing is not what I am supposed to be doing. I put on a pretty good show, but in the end, I really don't care about helping some company sell more hams and more effectively manage their supply chain, or their sales forecast.

Pleats.

They all wore pleated pants, and all were double pleats. The corporate American uniform- pleated pants and a button down shirt or even better, a golf shirt with a logo. Most of the my other attendees, being 33 year-old American salesmen, wore pants with double pleats. The pleats create the appearance of a smaller waist by inflating the area around the thighs.

I have only pants with single pleats or flat front pants. I can pull this act off for another few years, but it is starting to get a little painful.

Another quarter end, this time falling short, with one man let go. As much as it had to happen one way or another, it still hurts. It feels like somebody died and everyone else has woken up to their own mortality.

Last Saturday, like millions of others around the world, I marched to protest the proposed invasion of Iraq. After marching and spending time with my younger brother and then writing, i realized that for the first time in months, i could not feel the chronic pain in my jaw and ears. I think getting out with all the people was therapeutic in a way.

My father used to pretend that he could play the piano and would always air-piano Rhapsody in Blue. After being on hold with United Airlines for a total of 30 minutes today, I never want to hear rhapsody in blue again.

last night i went to see The Pianist, a story about a young jewish man hiding in the warsaw ghetto during WWII. It was disturbing to wathch how cruelly humans can treat each other. I hope that Jews who watch it will be reminded of how horrible and pointless it is to tear people from their homes and put them into camps.

However, I doubt it will make any difference at all, and will probably encourage most Jews to rationalize how Israel is terrorizing the Palestinians. I had the same hopes that after Sept 11, the US would stop and think about how it treats everyone else. I did not expect this to happen, but I remained optimistic. Instead, GWB shose to beat the war drums.

All for one and one for all, and lots for oneself! And therefore . . . no slackers allowed! no deadwood! no lightweights! no loafers! You headed straight for your desk, your telephone, and your computer terminal in the morning. The day didn't start with small talk and coffee and perusals of The Wall Street Journal and the financial pages of the Times, much less The Racing Form. You were expected to get on the telephone and start making money. If you left the office, even for lunch, you were expected to give your destination and a telephone number to one of the "sales assistants," who were really secretaries, so that you could be summoned immediately if a new issue of bonds came in (and had to be sold fast). If you went out for lunch, it better have something directly to do with selling....otherwise--sit here by the telephone and order in from the deli like the rest of the squadron.

A nation has lost its way...

What is Andrew up to today?
a) writing his memoirs
b) upgrading his blog to blogplus
c) being a total fuckhead and getting stoned on Monday night

While falling asleep on the couch last night, I watched Much Music's diary of P.Diddy. It was a"day in the life of" style documentary on the daily grind of a hip hop producer, actor, father and role model for aspiring hip hop artists. During one of the commercial breaks, I saw an ad for "Much 90s" compilation CD of hits from the 1990s, which I may have to remind you, were only 4 years ago. Just as The Onion predicted.....

What this war is not about, by Rick Salutin. Did I mention I love Canadians?

When I started this blog, I did so with the idea of emulating some other blogs that I had read and which inspired me to create a blog myself. For a while I unsuccessfully tried to imitate these blogs; their style, their ideas, their writing. But I realized that I was pleasing no one by doing this. As far as I know the only people who read this blog are Scott, Rob, and Sean. So now I write for myself, if only to make myself feel better.

There, there. No I feel okay.

Still waiting to hear from two customers to get their orders and process them so I can go home for the day. Reading the War of Art at my desk in the meantime, hoping that no one will notice. Actually, I don't give a shit anymore.

Although it is very lame, I give a lot of gift certificates to people. This is partly because I do not like shopping, and partly because I am often too lazy to think about what the recipient would really like but would never think to buy for themselves. Perhaps that is the art of gift-giving, moving it from a mere transaction to an exchange of energy.

What inspired me to write this is the gift I received from my brother Jim, The War of Art, by Steven Pressfield. As soon as I opened it, I felt his presence in the room, even though he was a thousand miles away. It was sent as a wake-up call to a man who is only have awake, and living somebody else's life.

The first record I ever bought with my own money was Combat Rock, by The Clash. I paid $2.50 for it in 1983, at Cheap Thrills, a used record store that would go on to provide me with over 100 more albums, cds and tapes. The Clash to me were as far as I could really venture into the punk world, being a white kid from the suburbs, but they had a huge impact on me, both socially and politically. They showed me that there was space in the world for people like me, who were sent to private school but did not want to swallow the bullshit we were taught to believe. They showed me there was an alternative path to mainstream society, other than becoming a headbanger. And for this, I am truly thankful.

Long may you rest in peace Joe Strummer.

I am going to have to get serious here, so there will be no post about the boring life endured in a "business intelligence" sales office. No, you see I originally started this blog to express my views on the world, and in that process hopefully cultivate a distinct view of the world; distinct enough for me to call it my own, but still relevant to many.

I have to put that aside and go on record regarding some current issues. You may or may not care, but it is important that the records show how I felt at this time.

I have never felt worse about the prospects for peace and prosperity in this world. Evil men, (yes, they are evil) are in powerful positions, and are eager to unleash a bloodbath on this world; they have stated publicly that they intend to wage war anywhere, at any time without notice, and for whatever reason they deem necessary. The pending invasion of Iraq will certainly result in hundreds of thousands of dead, even more homeless refugees, and another generation of orphans. Despite these certainties, Dick Cheney and Co. feel it is a necessary cost of doing business in their quest for oil.

I refuse to accept the commonly held belief that Saddam Hussein is hiding weapons, and even if he is, that is his business. Were he ever to use them, his destruction is assured, which makes me believe that he has no intention of launching any attack on anyone.

I am against this war. I am against the war on drugs. I believe that George Bush was not elected by the people of the US.

I do not hate Americans, but I hate what their government does, and what is does to its own people.

Enough ranting. I cannot change the way they operate. But I can help you change the way you think.

Have a peaceful holiday week.

Ah yes, here we are at another quarter-end, rushing to get revenue booked so we can sleep soundly on Christmas Eve. However, there are bigger problems right now, like my pounding headache, brought on by too much Christams cheer and not enough food. I only have three deals to close, but here I am begging like a pauper for a little generosity to be thrown my way.

Because Scott asked for it, and he may well represent 10% of my viewers, here is another Victoria Moment; number 27, taken from March 1998....

The dealership used to be named $1995 or less, but I don't remember seeing a sign indicating its name. But on its lot sat a mint-condition 1981 Honda Civic Wagon ( the long body-type, not the hatchback). Two guys seem to run the place, both in their 30s, but how late into the 30s I can't tell. The older one is talking on the phone with what must be his wife, as he arranging a pick-up or drop off of his children. His partner is in the office, a shack with a sliding glass door, two tiny desks and a cracked radio playing Q-103, Victoria's all classic rock station.
He too is on the phone, making arrangements for the evening, being Friday night. They both hang up to deal with me as I enquire about making payments on a $900 car.

Divorced dad comes on all friendly and warm-hearted, offering to take me out for a test drive. We drive down through Juan de Fuca park to the water, where I can really it open it up, making it into 4th gear. He tells me the CV joint will need to be replaced, and that frankly, for a man of my means you would be hard pressed to do better.

I give him $500 and tell him I will come back with the rest in 2 weeks, and makes me sign a document, effectively transferring the car to his name if I fail to pay. Partner is off the phone now, enjoying a cigarette while telling me how great the car is. I ask them if they make a good living selling used cars. They immediately reply " Oh no, we just live cheque to cheque like everybody else." They looked at me with empathetic smiles, convinced that we all agreed there was nothing you could do in life but just get by.


Thirty minutes after taking the bus to the dealership I arrived home in my Civic to the astonishment of my roommates.

While he is not an alcoholic in the neglect-your-family and beat-your-wife definition, by the standards of Alcoholics Anonymous, he has some serious thinking to do about his relationship with alcohol. To his credit, he stops drinking for lent each year. My mother has nagged at his drinking my entire life. Some of the more memorable excuses he has come up with for drinking are:

It is St Patrick's Day
It is St Andrew's Day
It is Father's Day
It's Sunday
The Masters is on
The Super Bowl is on
But it's the Grey Cup
It's the playoffs
My son has returned from _______ safely
Your mother said it was okay
Mr. Davey made this wine
I made this wine
This beer is imported