Uncontrollable Slide

That was the phrase of the weekend. We laughed as we saw the sign that read, “Icy conditions today. You are entering a steep area where a fall could result in an uncontrollable slide.” Don’t know why, but it stuck all of us as funny. Fortunately, we were still able to laugh as each of us demonstrated (involuntarily) our own interpretation of that concept.

S took a turn too quickly on his snowboard, literally tumbling head over heels down the mountain, making several full rotations before somehow popping back up into a standing position then continuing down the mountain. He never stopped. Impressive.

Em was next. She’s a beautiful snowboarder, constantly focusing on form, carefully executing each turn. She, too, slipped, her board flying out from under her, her lithe body spinning and turning until she reached a plateau on the mountain. I had already tackled the slope in my haphazard reckless style, watching her tumble from my resting position from the bottom of the mountain. I knew everything was okay when she halted to a stop, paused, then produced her contagious laugh.

My turn, however, wouldn’t come until the end of the day, the last run. The lifts had closed and we were headed down the mountain, along with all the other snow enthusiasts visiting Squaw. The easy, winding road was crowded with skiers and boarders of all levels, some whooshing mercilessly past, others creeping along, legs splayed in many directions. I saw my opportunity to break free from the crowd, a steep slope off the to the left that few others were attempting. I carefully began down the incline, noticing it was much icier than other slopes, perhaps because of its shady location. All was fine until my trusty board slipped out from under me. On the hard ground, too tired to stand up from a sitting position, I flipped over onto my stomach in order to push up from a kneeling position. Which would have worked, except as soon as I was on my belly, I experienced my own uncontrollable slide. Down, down, down the mountain I went. I tried to dig my board into the slope, kicking furiously. I offered outstretched arms to the mountain, unsuccessfully grasping and clawing at anything that would reduce my ever increasing momentum. As I slid feet first, on my belly, down the mountain, I glanced up at the astonished faces peering down at me from their stationary, in control positions. A child pointed and screamed, “Mommy! Look!” I replied, “Look out! Coming throuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuugh…” Finally, with an unprecedented force, I rammed into a snowbank at the bottom of the slope. My cheeks burned from the constant contact of my face to the mountain. I took a deep breath, turned over, and sat up. This time, it was Em at the bottom of the mountain, smiling at my unique interpretation of a spectacular uncontrollable slide.

Boss Man

I’ve often seen him standing there at the bus stop. No, not exactly at the bus stop, but right across the street. He waits, watching for the bus to creep up the hill, then he’ll cross to my side of the street, joining the group gathered. Maybe he’s five feet tall, or maybe he appears that small because he’s hunched over, trusting his rickety cane to support the brunt of his weight. His shoulders are wide; he’s a stout little fellow. He reminds me of a block, a child’s tiny ABC building block.Deep wrinkles are etched into his leathery skin, set off by eyes that continuously smile.

Today was the first day I saw him actually board the bus. Ever so slowly he mounted the steps, then at the landing he paused, and in a tiny voice that seemed to be squeezed out of him, came the words, “Hello, boss man,” punctuated by a thick Chinese accent.

The MUNI driver smiled at his friend, then in a deep, velvety, gravelly voice so typical in older African American men, he slowly replied, “Hello, boss man.” The elderly passenger took the first seat directly behind the driver. He seemed to be mumbling incoherently to himself throughout the ride. As the driver announced stops the elderly passenger would occasionally repeat them, adding commentary of his own. The rough, chocolaty voice of the driver announced, “Taylor, Taylor, Taylor. Next stop, Taylor Street.” Immediately a tiny voice eeked, “Taylor, Taylor, Taylor. You tell them, boss man.”

He wasn’t on the bus for that long, maybe 5 or 6 stops. As he exited ever so slowly, descending the steps of the MUNI bus, he turned around and squeaked, “See you tomorrow, boss man.”

Bio

A press release included this statement:

“… earned her BA from the College of St Scholastica.” I read it twice, laughing aloud. Just seems a bit redundant.

Going Home

The air on the Muni bus in the evening is heavy, weighted down by the exhaustion of people done with a long day at work, ready to be home. Some people read, some people talk quietly on cell phones, most stare blankly into space or out the window, not really seeing anything.

As the bus was stopped at a light, a long not quite in pitch, but none the quieter for it, chorus to a popular song was heard. A large woman was strolling down Market Street, singing as if that was all she was meant to do. She didn’t notice the strange looks from people passing by; she continued to belt the words as she walked.

From the silence of the back of the bus came these words, softly spoken, but magnified by the silence of the commute. “You go girl, you Miss American Idol.”

Overheard

Teenage Girl 1: So, like, why does Iraq hate us?

Teenage Girl 2: Because we’re all in their country.

TG1: No we’re not.

TG2: Well, we’re in the Middle East.

TG1: But, it’s not like the Middle East is connected to Iraq or anything.

TG2: Then I don’t know why they’re, like, so upset.

TG1: Yeah. We should be all 60ish and stuff. You know. Peace and love.

Survey Says

I’ve been conducting some research about violence in the workplace. Somewhat of a somber subject, but I came across a piece today that made me giggle.

“… 1993 study found in many cases employees don’t report threats, harassment, or physical attacks. For example, between 1992 and 1993, 58% of those employees being harassed, 43% of those who were threatened, and 24% of those who were physically attacked did NOT inform anyone.”

So, how were these statistics gathered then?

One Of These Is Not Like The Other

I regularly receive emails from the mother of the little Russian girl I tutored while in Korea. Sometimes I receive short memos about what they are doing, travels they have taken. More often than not, she simply forwards me pictures.

Today, after downloading the pictures of the first snow in Daegu, the little girl eating Dippin’ Dots, and their newly coiffured dog, I curiously studied the fourth picture. Four small, bronze busts, the type sold at cheap souvenir stands that line the pathways to the temples. Buddha, Buddha, Buddha, and, … Lenin?

sigh…

I received a quarterly statement for one of my 401Ks today. After sighing when seeing how much my account has depreciated, again, I began to peruse the slick, brightly colored newsletter that accompanied my statement. The front page story featured a story about bull and bear markets, advising investors not to worry, that there have been worse markets than the current one. The example given was the bear market of 1929-32. Considering that the one example they cite is known in history as The Great Depression doesn’t comfort me.

Go Figure

While walking down Market Street tonight:

Homeless Man: Got a dime?

Me: No. Sorry.

Him: How about a dollar, then?

Talk about an upsell.

It’s All In The Name

My friend is applying for jobs. Today he told me he just applied for a job at Genetic Savings & Clone. I’d want to work there just for the name.