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Monday, July 31, 2006
sitemeter
I found this service called Sitemeter at my wife's blog. I'm making this post to facilitate it's inclusion in my blog
Saturday, July 15, 2006
The New Boss
Over the last few months, I've had some important career decisions to make.... or not to make. I got an offer to leave the challenging world of sub-prime lending to be part of someone else's team in prime lending. The team manager position in a neighboring branch became available and was offered to me. The latter was tempting because it was a promotion instead of a step sideways, but I felt the commute would have been too long and the earning potential not really there. So in the end, I decided to do nothing. I decided to stay where I am. I spent 12 years with my last company, so I'm definitely not a job-hopper.
Another factor in my decision was that we were without a manager in my current position. I've held a "let's-wait-and-see" attitude about what was going to happen next. There is naturally a bit of trepidation when you're part of a business that isn't doing so well, corporate comes in a fires the person in charge and a new boss is installed. Conventional wisdom has it that the new boss being brought it is likely to be a hardnosed, standard-operating-procedures kind of guy who may be looking to clean house. Although I'm still not 100% convinced that the new manager, isn'tone of those types, all the evidence so for would seem to indicate he is pretty mellow. He's very effective, but not an ass-hole about it.
He is fighting for our loans, and that's a great thing. Even in just a week, he has had files pushed through that before would have gotten stuck in the mire of underwriting for days. In no way will the office have that warm, we're-all-one-big-office-family feel it had under the previous manager, who was very mom-like in her management style. Instead, if there is any family metaphor I can use, it's like we've got a big brother who is willing to go beat up bigger kids who mess with us. Right now, that's what we need.
Big brother also likes to have a good time, as we found out on Friday night.
Another factor in my decision was that we were without a manager in my current position. I've held a "let's-wait-and-see" attitude about what was going to happen next. There is naturally a bit of trepidation when you're part of a business that isn't doing so well, corporate comes in a fires the person in charge and a new boss is installed. Conventional wisdom has it that the new boss being brought it is likely to be a hardnosed, standard-operating-procedures kind of guy who may be looking to clean house. Although I'm still not 100% convinced that the new manager, isn'tone of those types, all the evidence so for would seem to indicate he is pretty mellow. He's very effective, but not an ass-hole about it.
He is fighting for our loans, and that's a great thing. Even in just a week, he has had files pushed through that before would have gotten stuck in the mire of underwriting for days. In no way will the office have that warm, we're-all-one-big-office-family feel it had under the previous manager, who was very mom-like in her management style. Instead, if there is any family metaphor I can use, it's like we've got a big brother who is willing to go beat up bigger kids who mess with us. Right now, that's what we need.
Big brother also likes to have a good time, as we found out on Friday night.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Summer '06
Two months since my last blogging... Too long!
I find that if I don't make entries here on a regular basis, a certain hesitancy arises. It's as if I only want to make an entry that is significant, something important enough to break the ice. I wait for something really interesting to happen, but even when it does, I don't always find time to write about it.
In the last two months, I've seen close friends get married, almost gotten lost at Castle Rock State Park, had high hopes at the job get dashed against the rocks once again, seen my boss get fired, had two months of a certian amount of freedom at work from being manager-less and now have replacement come in, and certainly not least of all, had many an interesting weekend and evening with my dear wife. Heck, I even ran into the Nomoska Kid as he was wheeling a handtruck full of paper cases out of a local print shop. Turns out he wasn't on vacation or working somewhere else in the QuikStop Empire. He'd quit! It's not exactly like searching for ancient ruins in Madagascar, but certainly some "blogworthy" events.
Well, maybe now that I've written something, anything, I'll be less reluctant to add to this worthwhile endeavor.
I find that if I don't make entries here on a regular basis, a certain hesitancy arises. It's as if I only want to make an entry that is significant, something important enough to break the ice. I wait for something really interesting to happen, but even when it does, I don't always find time to write about it.
In the last two months, I've seen close friends get married, almost gotten lost at Castle Rock State Park, had high hopes at the job get dashed against the rocks once again, seen my boss get fired, had two months of a certian amount of freedom at work from being manager-less and now have replacement come in, and certainly not least of all, had many an interesting weekend and evening with my dear wife. Heck, I even ran into the Nomoska Kid as he was wheeling a handtruck full of paper cases out of a local print shop. Turns out he wasn't on vacation or working somewhere else in the QuikStop Empire. He'd quit! It's not exactly like searching for ancient ruins in Madagascar, but certainly some "blogworthy" events.
Well, maybe now that I've written something, anything, I'll be less reluctant to add to this worthwhile endeavor.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Nomoska Kid goes on Vacation.
I've written before about the Nomoska Kid. Actually, I incorrectly pegged him as the Namasko Kid in previous posts on this blog. I simply remembered it incorrectly in my stories about JojoLapa and other joking I do with my neighborhood Nepalese QuikStop clerk. Suffice to say, it actually feels good to have a particular phrase I share with my bartender.... err coovenience store attendendant. Make a note of the new spelling; it is an informal version of the well-known Hindi word "Namaste".
I was shocked the other night when I went in there to find the Nomoska Kid gone from behind the counter, replaced by the general manager (an, I assume, Nepalese woman in her mid 40's) and some new guy. A trainee! As I have said before, I value my interaction with my local merchant. I expect to be greeted, recognized and conversed with considering the large sums of my hard-earned dollars I spend on overpriced convenience items at the corner store. I needed to find out what sort of chap this new purveyor of everyday necessities made himself out to be.
"Nomoska!" I belted.
The manager/owner/boss lady lady blinked at me and maintained her polite smile. I got the vibe I was being too familiar with an elder, likely married, female. Nomoska is probable something drinking buddies greet each other with. The trainee guy just looked at me blankly. I happened to notice he was of different ethnicity that the Nepalese proprietor.
"Where's the regular guy?" I asked.
"Ah," Boss Lady answered, "He's on vacation."
"Went back to Tibet, did he?" hoping, for my acquaintence's sake that he's had a chance to return home. He often expresses how homesick he is.
"Nepal," said the lady, "not Tibet."
I felt dumb. As you might gather from my ramblings, I'm a bit proud of my worldliness. My knowledge of multiculturalism is something I like to show off from time to time. I KNEW my friend the QuikStop guy was from Nepal; he taught me bits of his language! I just misspoke when I said Tibet. I was afraid I was looking like another ignorant White American, so I thought I would share what I could with my replacement merchant.
"Where are you from?" I asked the shy, thin, sandy-complexioned guy behind the counter as he bagged up my beer, chips and sunflower seeds.
"Africa" he replied.
"Ah, Eritrea?" I ventured.
"Yes." He said kind of suprisedly, and finally looked up and almost made eye contact.
"Wassalamu Alaikum," I used the Arabic greeting, which although is not Eritrean, is known and used by Moslems throughout the world. Eritrea is Moslem.
"Amalaikum Salam." The standard reply to my greeting (I have no idea how to spell those words, or even if there is an official spelling). Again, being new, the guy was a bit shy, but he did ask in a very quiet voice, perhaps curious about me, "How did you know I am from Eritrea?"
"You look Eritrean." Well, he did. He could have been Ethiopian as well, but Eritreans tend to be a bit lighter than their highland Christian cousins, and also there are more Eritreans here in the East Bay. I just made an educated guess.
"Ah, yes." the guy replied, nodding his head, and handing me my merchandise. The Indian manager lady smiled broadly through the whole exchange.
As we welcome people here from all over the world, for those we deal with every day, I think it is important to learn a little bit about where they've come from. A word. A bit of their culture. Something. They chose to come here (in most cases) and simply have to learn about our culture to survive. I like to help them out by learning a bit about their homelands.
I was shocked the other night when I went in there to find the Nomoska Kid gone from behind the counter, replaced by the general manager (an, I assume, Nepalese woman in her mid 40's) and some new guy. A trainee! As I have said before, I value my interaction with my local merchant. I expect to be greeted, recognized and conversed with considering the large sums of my hard-earned dollars I spend on overpriced convenience items at the corner store. I needed to find out what sort of chap this new purveyor of everyday necessities made himself out to be.
"Nomoska!" I belted.
The manager/owner/boss lady lady blinked at me and maintained her polite smile. I got the vibe I was being too familiar with an elder, likely married, female. Nomoska is probable something drinking buddies greet each other with. The trainee guy just looked at me blankly. I happened to notice he was of different ethnicity that the Nepalese proprietor.
"Where's the regular guy?" I asked.
"Ah," Boss Lady answered, "He's on vacation."
"Went back to Tibet, did he?" hoping, for my acquaintence's sake that he's had a chance to return home. He often expresses how homesick he is.
"Nepal," said the lady, "not Tibet."
I felt dumb. As you might gather from my ramblings, I'm a bit proud of my worldliness. My knowledge of multiculturalism is something I like to show off from time to time. I KNEW my friend the QuikStop guy was from Nepal; he taught me bits of his language! I just misspoke when I said Tibet. I was afraid I was looking like another ignorant White American, so I thought I would share what I could with my replacement merchant.
"Where are you from?" I asked the shy, thin, sandy-complexioned guy behind the counter as he bagged up my beer, chips and sunflower seeds.
"Africa" he replied.
"Ah, Eritrea?" I ventured.
"Yes." He said kind of suprisedly, and finally looked up and almost made eye contact.
"Wassalamu Alaikum," I used the Arabic greeting, which although is not Eritrean, is known and used by Moslems throughout the world. Eritrea is Moslem.
"Amalaikum Salam." The standard reply to my greeting (I have no idea how to spell those words, or even if there is an official spelling). Again, being new, the guy was a bit shy, but he did ask in a very quiet voice, perhaps curious about me, "How did you know I am from Eritrea?"
"You look Eritrean." Well, he did. He could have been Ethiopian as well, but Eritreans tend to be a bit lighter than their highland Christian cousins, and also there are more Eritreans here in the East Bay. I just made an educated guess.
"Ah, yes." the guy replied, nodding his head, and handing me my merchandise. The Indian manager lady smiled broadly through the whole exchange.
As we welcome people here from all over the world, for those we deal with every day, I think it is important to learn a little bit about where they've come from. A word. A bit of their culture. Something. They chose to come here (in most cases) and simply have to learn about our culture to survive. I like to help them out by learning a bit about their homelands.
Saturday, March 11, 2006
World Baseball Classic
So far, I've only watched one game (US v Mexico) of the World Baseball Classic, but now that we're moving on to the 2nd round, I'm starting to find this intriguing. It's now down from 16 to 8 teams: USA, Mexico, Japan and S. Korea in one group. Cuba, Puerto Rico, Venezuela and the Dominican Republic in another group. They're playing another round robin, and the top two teams form each group move on to a single elimination playoff.
I checked out the rosters of some of the other teams, looking for current and former Oakland A's players. Wow. There are some great players in this tournament. Of course I want the USA to win, but looking at some of these other teams, there's a very good chance we won't. We lost to Canada already!
The Mexican team has some great pitching, including current A's starter Esteban Loiza. They've get Ricardo Rincon in the bullpen and after 5 years of watching him be mediocre for the A's, I wouldn't be surprised if he blew a game for Mexico.
Marco Scutaro and Ramon Hernandez join a very talented Venezuelan team. If it all comes down to one game, their best pitcher is arguably the best pitcher in baseball right now, Johan Santana. Still, it is baseball, and even the best pitcher can have a bad day.
The Dominican team looks like an all-star team. With Miguel Tejada, Vladimir Guerrero, David Ortiz, Albert Pujols and Alfonso Soriano, these guys will socre lots of runs. I think they have some holes in their team, but if I had to bet who would win it all, my money would be on the Dominicans.
I checked out the rosters of some of the other teams, looking for current and former Oakland A's players. Wow. There are some great players in this tournament. Of course I want the USA to win, but looking at some of these other teams, there's a very good chance we won't. We lost to Canada already!
The Mexican team has some great pitching, including current A's starter Esteban Loiza. They've get Ricardo Rincon in the bullpen and after 5 years of watching him be mediocre for the A's, I wouldn't be surprised if he blew a game for Mexico.
Marco Scutaro and Ramon Hernandez join a very talented Venezuelan team. If it all comes down to one game, their best pitcher is arguably the best pitcher in baseball right now, Johan Santana. Still, it is baseball, and even the best pitcher can have a bad day.
The Dominican team looks like an all-star team. With Miguel Tejada, Vladimir Guerrero, David Ortiz, Albert Pujols and Alfonso Soriano, these guys will socre lots of runs. I think they have some holes in their team, but if I had to bet who would win it all, my money would be on the Dominicans.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Confusing Graffitti
"IT TAKES A LOT TO LAUGH...
IT TAKES A TRAIN TO CRY."
The two lines above have recently been spraypainted on a wall at Live Oak Park in Berkeley,CA. I saw it there yesterday when I went to go play basketball. I really have no idea what it means. Any ideas? Please comment.
IT TAKES A TRAIN TO CRY."
The two lines above have recently been spraypainted on a wall at Live Oak Park in Berkeley,CA. I saw it there yesterday when I went to go play basketball. I really have no idea what it means. Any ideas? Please comment.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Stuck in an Elevator Shaft
Tonight marks the first night I've done laundry since the Great Elevator Shaft debacle. I have enough clothes to avoid doing laundry for quite some time. It's been maybe 9 or 10 days since there have been any clean clothes added to the garment reserve. The impetus to finally lug the loads of laundry the three fllights of stairs down to the sole coin-op Maytag Dependable Care topload washing machine was having to wear the same underwear two days in a row. Enough said.
Last time I did laundry, I had just finished doing some grocery shopping (yes, I am an excellent domestic husband). At the store, I had bought a fifth of Irish Whiskey. My wife and I do not drink wine. I like beer, but it's really fattening. The thing about Irish whiskey though, is that once you start drinking it, it just gets better and better. Consequently, we like to ration ourselves to those little pint bottles you can buy at the liqour stores. Keeps us from getting in too much trouble. They don't sell those small bottles at our local Albertsons supermarket.
I stood there, loading the laundry into the machine, thinking about the fifth on the kitchen counter. I started thinking about drunken laundry. What could go wrong? I don't see any PSA's warning against getting sauced while sorting, carrying or washing clothes. No one says Don't Drink and Do Laundry. There are no Mothers Against Laundering Drunk. Amused and confident I avoided the stairs going back up by using our 50 year old elevator.
On the next trip, I was carrying a load of dry clothes back upstairs. I was wearing my pajama bottoms, which have no pockets. I need my keys to navigate the doors of our apartment complex, and perhaps a little drunkenly, while both hands were in use carrying the basket, I decided to tuck my keys over the elastic in the pajama pants. I'd done this before, and it works. When the elevator got to my level, I leaned forward to manually push open the outer door of the elevator.
Plop! There went my keys, out of the elastic waistband. They actually bounced but yet they kept skidding forward. There was this one tantalizing moment where I had just and instant to decide if I could prevent them from that fatal plunge. I hesitated. A critical mass of my keys crossed into that little crack between the elevator floor and the floor outside and they were gone. Gone into that inaccessible abyss of the elevator shaft. There was a pause, and then I heard the crash of keys falling from very high up.
Damn. Nothing can go wrong drunken washing... yeah right.
Last time I did laundry, I had just finished doing some grocery shopping (yes, I am an excellent domestic husband). At the store, I had bought a fifth of Irish Whiskey. My wife and I do not drink wine. I like beer, but it's really fattening. The thing about Irish whiskey though, is that once you start drinking it, it just gets better and better. Consequently, we like to ration ourselves to those little pint bottles you can buy at the liqour stores. Keeps us from getting in too much trouble. They don't sell those small bottles at our local Albertsons supermarket.
I stood there, loading the laundry into the machine, thinking about the fifth on the kitchen counter. I started thinking about drunken laundry. What could go wrong? I don't see any PSA's warning against getting sauced while sorting, carrying or washing clothes. No one says Don't Drink and Do Laundry. There are no Mothers Against Laundering Drunk. Amused and confident I avoided the stairs going back up by using our 50 year old elevator.
On the next trip, I was carrying a load of dry clothes back upstairs. I was wearing my pajama bottoms, which have no pockets. I need my keys to navigate the doors of our apartment complex, and perhaps a little drunkenly, while both hands were in use carrying the basket, I decided to tuck my keys over the elastic in the pajama pants. I'd done this before, and it works. When the elevator got to my level, I leaned forward to manually push open the outer door of the elevator.
Plop! There went my keys, out of the elastic waistband. They actually bounced but yet they kept skidding forward. There was this one tantalizing moment where I had just and instant to decide if I could prevent them from that fatal plunge. I hesitated. A critical mass of my keys crossed into that little crack between the elevator floor and the floor outside and they were gone. Gone into that inaccessible abyss of the elevator shaft. There was a pause, and then I heard the crash of keys falling from very high up.
Damn. Nothing can go wrong drunken washing... yeah right.
Sunday, December 11, 2005
Professional Dilemma
I want to preface this post with a disclaimer. It features embarassing acts from corporate higher-ups, and although I'm certain none of the parties involved are currently reading my blog, who knows whether they might stumble across it in the future. To them, I have to say, "this is funny!" I recognize that as a general rule, it's not wise to relate embarassing stories about one's bosses in a public forum, but given that it's only personally embarassing and not in any way reflective of anyone's professional abilities, there should be no repercussion beyond a little snicker.
We were returning from a successful presentation some 25 miles from our home branch. I was driving, my boss sat in the passenger's seat, and her boss, the regional vice president, sat in the back. Both of the women in my car were perhaps 10 years my senior. As we zipped down the freeway, the three of us had a lively discussion about the business challenges facing our particular team. I was trying to be insightful, and did actually come up with a proposed change to one of our standard operating procedures that both women affirmed was a good idea. It was the kind of change that could only be implemented by executives higher than the vice president, so it wasn't like we were about to start doing it immediately. In any case, I was successfuly impressing my boss and my boss's boss. Although shmoozing has never been my strongest suit, I do recognize the overall importance of being well regarded within any corporate structure.
Then it happened. Looking back, I realize now as I'm typing this, that it might have been the sewage treatment plant under the big highway interchange we had crossed a couple miles before that moment, but that doesn't change the dilemma I thought I was facing. A horrible smell filled the interior of my sedan. One of the two women in my car had farted. It was nasty too. Of course, the windows were all the way up. We were going 75 mph and it was cold outside to boot. Whichever one did it, I thought, knows she did it. Dare I crack the window?
Then it occurred to me that the whichever boss hadn't farted, probably was crinkling her her nose at ME right then. I was the man in the car, and well, men are men. An awkward silence hung in the air with yet-to-dissapate odor. I picked up a thread in our discussion and just started rambling, hoping to distract everybody. I couldn't crack the window. That would be tantamount to blurting out loudly, "Aww man! Who cut the cheese!?"
What do you do in that situation? Maybe I could turn up the fan a little. Nah. That's a little obvious too. Just pretend it didn't happen. Okay. The fart finally faded as farts always do.
As we pulled into the office parking lot, I was stil grateful to be able to roll down the window to use my key card.
I wonder how it would have been different had I been travelling with two men, as is more often the case when talking about upper management in the mortgage industry.
We were returning from a successful presentation some 25 miles from our home branch. I was driving, my boss sat in the passenger's seat, and her boss, the regional vice president, sat in the back. Both of the women in my car were perhaps 10 years my senior. As we zipped down the freeway, the three of us had a lively discussion about the business challenges facing our particular team. I was trying to be insightful, and did actually come up with a proposed change to one of our standard operating procedures that both women affirmed was a good idea. It was the kind of change that could only be implemented by executives higher than the vice president, so it wasn't like we were about to start doing it immediately. In any case, I was successfuly impressing my boss and my boss's boss. Although shmoozing has never been my strongest suit, I do recognize the overall importance of being well regarded within any corporate structure.
Then it happened. Looking back, I realize now as I'm typing this, that it might have been the sewage treatment plant under the big highway interchange we had crossed a couple miles before that moment, but that doesn't change the dilemma I thought I was facing. A horrible smell filled the interior of my sedan. One of the two women in my car had farted. It was nasty too. Of course, the windows were all the way up. We were going 75 mph and it was cold outside to boot. Whichever one did it, I thought, knows she did it. Dare I crack the window?
Then it occurred to me that the whichever boss hadn't farted, probably was crinkling her her nose at ME right then. I was the man in the car, and well, men are men. An awkward silence hung in the air with yet-to-dissapate odor. I picked up a thread in our discussion and just started rambling, hoping to distract everybody. I couldn't crack the window. That would be tantamount to blurting out loudly, "Aww man! Who cut the cheese!?"
What do you do in that situation? Maybe I could turn up the fan a little. Nah. That's a little obvious too. Just pretend it didn't happen. Okay. The fart finally faded as farts always do.
As we pulled into the office parking lot, I was stil grateful to be able to roll down the window to use my key card.
I wonder how it would have been different had I been travelling with two men, as is more often the case when talking about upper management in the mortgage industry.
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Fighting a Ticket
Back in August, I was on my way to work. It was 7:30 AM, no rain, traffic was light, and I was heading north on Lakeshore Avenue, a road I travel on every day and have for the last 5 years. Right in front of the Catholic Church, a motorcycle cop on foot steps out into the road, points at me and then points to the side of the road, obviously instructing me to pull over. I comply and the cop approaches my window, asks for drivers' license and registration and says, "I'll tell you why I pulled you over in a second."
I was confused. My car was in perfect shape; I wasn't doing anything wrong. A minute later, he returns and asks if I knew how fast I was going. I wasn't going particularly fast. Maybe 35 mph, the same speed I always travel, and certainly the same speed everyone else travels on that road and so I tell him. Lakeshore is a major artery connecting two busy parts of town. It's got two lanes of traffic going either way and 3 stop lights on a stretch that's at least a mile or so.
"Well," the cop tells me, "The speed limit here is 25 mph. You're getting a ticket."
I was very annoyed. Who gets a ticket for doing 35 in a 25? That's just ridiculous. I didn't know the speed limit was 25. The next section of that same road has a speed limit of 30. That I knew; I had seen the sign before. Grand Avenue, a similar type of connecting street just a block away also had a speed limit of 30. I couldn't recall seeing any 25 mph speed limit signs on Lakeshore. When I returned home, I looked, and there were no speed limit signs from where I turned onto Lakeshore to the spot I got the ticket. That decided it. I was fighting this ticket!
Having no idea if the lack of signing was a legitimate defense, I turned to Google and found all kinds of interesting sites explaining how to beat a ticket. Friends and co-workers offered advice. My favorite was go into court, and if you see the cop who cited you, ask for a continuance (I later discovered that was not possible in Oakland as they require 7 day notice for continuance requests). If you got ticketed in the day, ask for night court and visa versa, thus redcuing the likelihood your cop will show up. Still, I couldn't find anything specific regarding placement of signs except that if it's a residential street, the de facto speed limit is 25 if there are no signs. Hmmm... I didn't know about this.
I took pictures. I printed out MapQuest maps and included legends as to the speed limits of surrounding streets. I was going to ask for the ticket to be thrown out "in the interest of justice." I went to the first court date prepared to make my defense only to discover that it was just an arraigment and they wouldn't hear arguments. If I pleaded not guilty, I would be inelligible for traffic school if I lost a trial. I was risking not just the $75 of the ticket, but possibly hundreds in car insurance rates. I knew this was a bad ticket; I decided to take my chance in court.
A month passed. My intention was to do even more research, take more comprehensive pictures and obtain the "speed survey" for the street in question. I learned early in the process that if RADAR was used to determine your speed, then there must be a valid speed survey on file that justifies the posted speed limit on that road. Well, I've been kinda busy. I didn't take pictures, didn't get the speed survey and started my additional research an hour before I was planning on leaving for court this morning. The 20 minutes I spent on the Internet this morning was extremely valuable. In my notes, I recorded the California Vehicle Code sections that required the speed survey. I learned about some interesting case law which had decided that if a speed limit sign is posted that makes the majority of the vehicles on the road into violators, the speed limit is invalid. I wasn't as prepared as I might of been, but I still felt good about my very first appearance as a defendant professing my innocence in a court of law. I did spend two and half semesters in one of the finest law schools in the state.
When I sat down in the courtroom, I didn't see the cop who thad ticketed me. In a way, I was bummed, because I didn't want to win that way. I wanted to present may case! The cop walked in at 8:35, five minutes late. I guess the clerk knew who was there and who wasn't. The first three cases were dismissed becasue the ticketing officer wasn't there. The next three cases were pretty much automatic convictions becasue the cop was there, but the defendants weren't. I was the first case to be heard where all parties were present. I strode up in front of the bench. There were two tables on either side of the aisle, but despite years and years of watching Law and Order, The Practice, Boston Legal, etc., I couldn't remember which side the defendant sat at. They pointed me to the right table and the cop took the stand.
I was preparing my cross examination in my head. My key was to ask for the speed survey. If that didn't work, I was going to use my pictures (having hastily scribbled "Exhibit "A", "B" and "C" on them just moments before). I thought maybe if I took on a southern accent, they might think I was more Matlockian, and I'd stand a better chance. "Yohh Honahh, I would laik to ask the officah just HOW he chose tha pahticular spot to set up his illegah speed trap..."
I never got the chance. The judge asked the officer to relate the particulars of my infraction, but the cop looked kind of sheepish and began mumbling. Seriously, the guy spoke so quietly that no one in the court could hear exactly what he was saying except the judge. All I caught were "no speed survey" and "if it pleases the court, we'd ask the charges be dropped." The cop looked up at me looking surprisingly embarassed and remorseful. Aha! No speed survey! My plan would have worked. The judge declared "Violation dismissed!" I guess traffic court can't afford gavels or something, because the judge not only didn't rap it, he didn't even have one.
Of course, I was happy. I beat my ticket. In a way, however, it was almost like the cop not even showing up. There was no trial per se, just a dismissal. Still, that embarassed look on the cop's face made it all worthwhile.
I was not the only driver stopped in front of the church that morning. I saw some leaving just after I was stopped, and the cop undoubtedly ticketed lots of other drivers after I left. A few mornings after it occured, I saw the same cop, now joined by another cop, using the same tactics in the same spot. How many of them faught their tickets? Few if any. I'm sure the vast majority simply paid the fine. I feel good for myself in that I saved myself a smirch on my driving record. I feel bad for those who just paid their tickets. At least I know that embarassed cop won't stand in front of the church and despoil the diocese by issuing illegal tickets any more.
I was confused. My car was in perfect shape; I wasn't doing anything wrong. A minute later, he returns and asks if I knew how fast I was going. I wasn't going particularly fast. Maybe 35 mph, the same speed I always travel, and certainly the same speed everyone else travels on that road and so I tell him. Lakeshore is a major artery connecting two busy parts of town. It's got two lanes of traffic going either way and 3 stop lights on a stretch that's at least a mile or so.
"Well," the cop tells me, "The speed limit here is 25 mph. You're getting a ticket."
I was very annoyed. Who gets a ticket for doing 35 in a 25? That's just ridiculous. I didn't know the speed limit was 25. The next section of that same road has a speed limit of 30. That I knew; I had seen the sign before. Grand Avenue, a similar type of connecting street just a block away also had a speed limit of 30. I couldn't recall seeing any 25 mph speed limit signs on Lakeshore. When I returned home, I looked, and there were no speed limit signs from where I turned onto Lakeshore to the spot I got the ticket. That decided it. I was fighting this ticket!
Having no idea if the lack of signing was a legitimate defense, I turned to Google and found all kinds of interesting sites explaining how to beat a ticket. Friends and co-workers offered advice. My favorite was go into court, and if you see the cop who cited you, ask for a continuance (I later discovered that was not possible in Oakland as they require 7 day notice for continuance requests). If you got ticketed in the day, ask for night court and visa versa, thus redcuing the likelihood your cop will show up. Still, I couldn't find anything specific regarding placement of signs except that if it's a residential street, the de facto speed limit is 25 if there are no signs. Hmmm... I didn't know about this.
I took pictures. I printed out MapQuest maps and included legends as to the speed limits of surrounding streets. I was going to ask for the ticket to be thrown out "in the interest of justice." I went to the first court date prepared to make my defense only to discover that it was just an arraigment and they wouldn't hear arguments. If I pleaded not guilty, I would be inelligible for traffic school if I lost a trial. I was risking not just the $75 of the ticket, but possibly hundreds in car insurance rates. I knew this was a bad ticket; I decided to take my chance in court.
A month passed. My intention was to do even more research, take more comprehensive pictures and obtain the "speed survey" for the street in question. I learned early in the process that if RADAR was used to determine your speed, then there must be a valid speed survey on file that justifies the posted speed limit on that road. Well, I've been kinda busy. I didn't take pictures, didn't get the speed survey and started my additional research an hour before I was planning on leaving for court this morning. The 20 minutes I spent on the Internet this morning was extremely valuable. In my notes, I recorded the California Vehicle Code sections that required the speed survey. I learned about some interesting case law which had decided that if a speed limit sign is posted that makes the majority of the vehicles on the road into violators, the speed limit is invalid. I wasn't as prepared as I might of been, but I still felt good about my very first appearance as a defendant professing my innocence in a court of law. I did spend two and half semesters in one of the finest law schools in the state.
When I sat down in the courtroom, I didn't see the cop who thad ticketed me. In a way, I was bummed, because I didn't want to win that way. I wanted to present may case! The cop walked in at 8:35, five minutes late. I guess the clerk knew who was there and who wasn't. The first three cases were dismissed becasue the ticketing officer wasn't there. The next three cases were pretty much automatic convictions becasue the cop was there, but the defendants weren't. I was the first case to be heard where all parties were present. I strode up in front of the bench. There were two tables on either side of the aisle, but despite years and years of watching Law and Order, The Practice, Boston Legal, etc., I couldn't remember which side the defendant sat at. They pointed me to the right table and the cop took the stand.
I was preparing my cross examination in my head. My key was to ask for the speed survey. If that didn't work, I was going to use my pictures (having hastily scribbled "Exhibit "A", "B" and "C" on them just moments before). I thought maybe if I took on a southern accent, they might think I was more Matlockian, and I'd stand a better chance. "Yohh Honahh, I would laik to ask the officah just HOW he chose tha pahticular spot to set up his illegah speed trap..."
I never got the chance. The judge asked the officer to relate the particulars of my infraction, but the cop looked kind of sheepish and began mumbling. Seriously, the guy spoke so quietly that no one in the court could hear exactly what he was saying except the judge. All I caught were "no speed survey" and "if it pleases the court, we'd ask the charges be dropped." The cop looked up at me looking surprisingly embarassed and remorseful. Aha! No speed survey! My plan would have worked. The judge declared "Violation dismissed!" I guess traffic court can't afford gavels or something, because the judge not only didn't rap it, he didn't even have one.
Of course, I was happy. I beat my ticket. In a way, however, it was almost like the cop not even showing up. There was no trial per se, just a dismissal. Still, that embarassed look on the cop's face made it all worthwhile.
I was not the only driver stopped in front of the church that morning. I saw some leaving just after I was stopped, and the cop undoubtedly ticketed lots of other drivers after I left. A few mornings after it occured, I saw the same cop, now joined by another cop, using the same tactics in the same spot. How many of them faught their tickets? Few if any. I'm sure the vast majority simply paid the fine. I feel good for myself in that I saved myself a smirch on my driving record. I feel bad for those who just paid their tickets. At least I know that embarassed cop won't stand in front of the church and despoil the diocese by issuing illegal tickets any more.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Honesty
Although some consider it gauche to talk about one's own pay, something happened last week that I feel deserves mentioning. I don't intend to laud my own actions nor that of the company I work for, instead this story demonstrates how when you do the right thing, sometimes the universe looks after you.
First the bad part. In my division, if you originate a loan that has a pricing discount on it that has not been signed off on by corporate, you get paid maybe 1/10th of the ordinary commission. Given that the bonus part of my monthly check is by far the lion's share, an unauthorized pricing exception can devastate a month. Worse yet, the branch you work for gets hit with a huge penalty, drawing the ire of the boss. There are some systems in place to spot pricing exceptions in time to get them authorized, but the reports and such are flawed in that they don't indicate precisely what the nature of the discrepancy is. Even if the pricing is authorized, if there is even the slightest error in the extensive form by which one requests an authorization, the loan officer takes the hit. In one way, it is an understandable policy to prevent wild discounts, but still, given that one could lose a very substantial chink of pay each month, I think it's overly punitive.
In October, I originated 5 loans, and had the credit for a 6th given to me for winning an internal contest. Of those six, I thought everything was fine and and authorized. They had funded, and I was expecting the biggest check I've received so far. The boss comes out last week, and announces that of those 6 loans, 2 were showing unauthorized pricing exceptions. One of them was on the one that I had been given; I had no role in how that loan was handled. On the other, I was sure my pricing was right. 3 or 4 times I had checked it. Yeah, my pricing was correct, but on the form under which I had I received my authorization, there was one little error. The margin was off by .25%. The rate points and terms were correct, just a miniscule little difference in an aspect that won't even effect how the company makes a profit. The borrower will likely refinance during the fixed period, and the margin won't ever even kick in. The other error on my gift loan was a small discrepancy in the property type. I any case, I stood to lose 1/3 of my paycheck.
Another loan officer was facing the same situation, and she really went off. Threatening to quit, writing missives to the regional vice president, she challenged the policy, and it was said "we'll see what can be done." Well, it got done, My boss and the VP did their thing and I found out yesterday I still get paid. But that's not the point of the story...
After we found out about the unauthorized pricing exception, but before I found for sure if I'd still get paid, I noticed on my commission report that I was being overpayed on another loan. I was receiving extra commission because of an error on the company's part in how they looked at the loan. On that particular loan, I was making $1200 too much. Nice chunk of change, but still a lot less than what I was losing because of the other issue. Still, given that the boss was trying to do something for me, I couldn't just sit there are not report the error. I walked it in to her office, pointed out the mistake, and left the branch to go out into the field.
A few hours later when I return, the boss calls me into her office with "big news". She read me her e-mail thread where she had reported the overpay. Senior VPs in HR were part of the conversation, and when it was all said and done, they rewarded me for my honesty by letting me keep the extra $1200 that I was overpaid.... and again I don't get hit for the penalty on the other loans. Nice.
That being said, don't think the loan business is some gold mine. In November, I have originated 1 loan for a whopping $300 commission, and that's going to be my whole check.
First the bad part. In my division, if you originate a loan that has a pricing discount on it that has not been signed off on by corporate, you get paid maybe 1/10th of the ordinary commission. Given that the bonus part of my monthly check is by far the lion's share, an unauthorized pricing exception can devastate a month. Worse yet, the branch you work for gets hit with a huge penalty, drawing the ire of the boss. There are some systems in place to spot pricing exceptions in time to get them authorized, but the reports and such are flawed in that they don't indicate precisely what the nature of the discrepancy is. Even if the pricing is authorized, if there is even the slightest error in the extensive form by which one requests an authorization, the loan officer takes the hit. In one way, it is an understandable policy to prevent wild discounts, but still, given that one could lose a very substantial chink of pay each month, I think it's overly punitive.
In October, I originated 5 loans, and had the credit for a 6th given to me for winning an internal contest. Of those six, I thought everything was fine and and authorized. They had funded, and I was expecting the biggest check I've received so far. The boss comes out last week, and announces that of those 6 loans, 2 were showing unauthorized pricing exceptions. One of them was on the one that I had been given; I had no role in how that loan was handled. On the other, I was sure my pricing was right. 3 or 4 times I had checked it. Yeah, my pricing was correct, but on the form under which I had I received my authorization, there was one little error. The margin was off by .25%. The rate points and terms were correct, just a miniscule little difference in an aspect that won't even effect how the company makes a profit. The borrower will likely refinance during the fixed period, and the margin won't ever even kick in. The other error on my gift loan was a small discrepancy in the property type. I any case, I stood to lose 1/3 of my paycheck.
Another loan officer was facing the same situation, and she really went off. Threatening to quit, writing missives to the regional vice president, she challenged the policy, and it was said "we'll see what can be done." Well, it got done, My boss and the VP did their thing and I found out yesterday I still get paid. But that's not the point of the story...
After we found out about the unauthorized pricing exception, but before I found for sure if I'd still get paid, I noticed on my commission report that I was being overpayed on another loan. I was receiving extra commission because of an error on the company's part in how they looked at the loan. On that particular loan, I was making $1200 too much. Nice chunk of change, but still a lot less than what I was losing because of the other issue. Still, given that the boss was trying to do something for me, I couldn't just sit there are not report the error. I walked it in to her office, pointed out the mistake, and left the branch to go out into the field.
A few hours later when I return, the boss calls me into her office with "big news". She read me her e-mail thread where she had reported the overpay. Senior VPs in HR were part of the conversation, and when it was all said and done, they rewarded me for my honesty by letting me keep the extra $1200 that I was overpaid.... and again I don't get hit for the penalty on the other loans. Nice.
That being said, don't think the loan business is some gold mine. In November, I have originated 1 loan for a whopping $300 commission, and that's going to be my whole check.
Sunday, October 23, 2005
Second Wedding Anniversary
For those of you haven't yet the opportunity to read my dear wife's account of our recent trip, please click here to visit "Jasiland". The bulk of the photos we chose to be net-worthy are on her page, and what I want to write here is just an addendum.
Above is my attempt a panorama shot. Anyone who has a digital camera has, at one time or another, takens several pictures and try to piece them together with an editing program. It really sucks when you don't frame it right and you end up with slices missing from you panorama. The shot above suffers from the opposite: too much overlap.
One of the amusing and original aspects of m'lady's
first post on her blog is that she never names the location of our weekend getaway.
No mention of the luxurious cliffside hotel suite I booked at the last minute. No mention of the harrowing drve through scenic forests and mountains we took to get there.
She brought her town with her, and I agree, Jasiland is a town that no matter where I am, I love being there. I'm still dying to tell everyone where these pics come from. Those of you who've been there might recognize some of it. For those who haven't, go. Where? Again, I'm not going to say. It's such an amazing place. Using the vernacular of the time, I think it was original said to be that "Men Do' See No mo' nicer spot than this".
Walking around the cliffs will take your breath away. We found out it can be kind of dangerous too. California being the litigious place it is, there are many many signs to remind the hiker to watch his or her step. There are no railings protecting you from the 60 foot drop to the rocky shoreline below. Ironically, it was that at the trail head that someone sprained her ankle turning to read one of these signs.
It was sore for a couple of days, but she's okay now.
I thought it might have been this dangerous aspect to the place that lead them to put the Grim Reaper atop their church spire, but the wife insists that it isn't the "Grim" reaper in this photo, just an ordinary reaper, maybe even a "happy" reaper. I don't know. If I am pumping water, I do not want some guy with a scythe sneaking up behind me, even if he has wings.
When I was taking pictures with wil abandon, I began a theme. I tried to take a picture of every animal I came across. The coast has lots of intresting (and not so interesting) creatures crawling, walking and digging around it. Here are just a few.
We had a great time on our weekend getaway. We both needed some time to relax, enjoy nature, and fight about whose turn it is to take the next picture.
The trip was much better than our First Anniversary trip which I wrote about on this blog a year ago. October 2004 archive
Friday, October 21, 2005
Tricky Gas Station
Boycott Arco gas stations!!! Do not patron these corporate thieves!
What did they do this time, you ask. Is it their rapacious desire to despoil pristine habitats from Alaska to Argentina? Could it be how their interests are being served in our illegal war in Iraq? There are lots of "big" issues we could hang on all the oil companies. I don't know if Arco is particularly guilty of any of them, but I am calling for a boycott because they tricked me out of at least a half a gallon of gas!
I pulled into the Arco on University Avenue in Berkeley because I saw a lower price on their sign, $2.85 for mid grade, than I had seen at other local stations. After stopping, I noticed the sign said "cash price"; if your used a credit or ATM card, it was 1o cents per gallon more. It is already bad enough that with my new car I have vowed to only feed it the more expensive 89 octane mid-grade gas. I had a twenty dollar bill in my wallet; it was worth it to burn up my last remaining cash, even though at today's prices, that $20 wouldn't fill my whole tank.
My first problem was that I had encountered the slowest flowing gas pump I have ever run into. It is hard to quantify, but I'd guess it took at least twice, maybe three times as long per gallon for this newish-looking pump to do it's thing. At first I thought it might be some ploy by Arco to make it seem like their gas was less expensive. When filling your tank with today's gas, it can be depressing to watch the dollars and cents numbers zoom upwards while the gallons indicater spins at the speed it always has. On this slow pumping Arco machine, the amount I was paying crept comfortably slower towards twenty, as if the gas was at 1985 prices. I later concluded that I just had a bad pump when I saw other customers come and go more quickly.
With all this time on my hands, I noticed the price it showed on the pump was the credit price, not the ten cent discounted price I had earned by giving up my last Jackson. Maybe it was actually charging me a lower price, but just not indicating that on the pump display. How many gallons should I expect for my $20? I'm usually pretty good with math, but it took me a while to figure 2.8599X=20, X=20/2.8599, X=number of gallons I should get. My mind was somewhat numb after just playing 4 straight hours of rigorous basketball. No way to do that without calculator or at least pen and paper. When it finished, I was very confident that it seemed like too little, so I marched with my receipt to confront the attendant.
"Excuse me," I began, "I paid $20 cash, and my receipt shows $2.95 per gallon. That is the credit price." I knew something was wrong here, but I wasn't sure how I expected the guy to fix it.
"Are you sure you gave me cash?" he answered suspiciously. Oh, man, wrong move on his part. With the rough summer I had financially, I KNOW when I'm giving up my last twenty. I was now certain he'd made a mistake. After he reviewed the receipt some more he continued, "Ah, sir, you are being charged for the Premium gas. That's priced $2.95 per gallon."
"But I paid cash!"
"Correct, sir."
"Well?"
"You chose Premium." There has never been any standard by which the oil companies name their different grades of products. By the name alone, no one can tell what super, premium, super plus, performance plus, platinum plus or super premium performance enhancing plus mean. I was starting to catch on that the guy was telling me I had picked 91 octane gas instead of 89 octane.
"I pushed the middle button!" thinking that the slow poke pump had malfunctioned in another way, "I wanted the mid-grade! I pushed the middle button!"
"Go, sir, please go look at the pumps," he concluded, actually waving me off with this hand. I went and looked.
I wrote there has never been any consistency in how they name these levels of gas. One thing that has always been the same is the order they're placed on a pump where you push a button to choose your grade. From left to right, like one is reading, cheap stuff, mid grade, premium. The mid grade is ALWAYS in the middle. Not at Arco. I was aghast to see the 89 octane on the left, the 91 in the middle and the 87 at the far right. He was right, I had picked the premium.
Stepping back into the attendant's hut I exclaimed, "No one does it like that! Why do you guys DO that?" I just asked to make myself feel better. As expected, the attendant just smiled and shrugged.
I know why. Some freekin corporate marketing exec sitting in a room, trying to figure out a way to improve sales of their mid grade and premium gas, which I'm sure less people are using now that it's often $3/gal or more. Rearrange the established pattern of placement on the pumps, and just like when people read, their eyes will pass over the mid and premium before coming to the regular stuff at the end. It's basic merchandising; but it breaks a standard operating procedure that we consumers have gotten used to for 10 years or more. I'm sure I'm not the only guy whose has just pushed the button he normally pushes without reading. How about the guy with the high performance motorcycle or sportscar engine who needs that 91 octane stuff? If he just picked the rightmost button like he normally did, he'd be filling his tank with 87 octane which could damage his engine. At least I only got gypped out of indeterminate amount of gas.
Boycott Arco? I know I'm supposed to boycott Unocal 76 because of what they've done in Burma. Chevron/Texaco ain't exactly been the paragon of corporate virtue either, but like most Americans, I'm most likely to go to the station that has the lowest prices. Even if it was Saddam's Oil Change, Rape Rooms and Filling Station, if they were 6 cents cheaper than the place across the street, I'd go there. I'll go to Arco again, no doubt, just not that pump, and trust me, I WILL be reading the buttons from here on in.
What did they do this time, you ask. Is it their rapacious desire to despoil pristine habitats from Alaska to Argentina? Could it be how their interests are being served in our illegal war in Iraq? There are lots of "big" issues we could hang on all the oil companies. I don't know if Arco is particularly guilty of any of them, but I am calling for a boycott because they tricked me out of at least a half a gallon of gas!
I pulled into the Arco on University Avenue in Berkeley because I saw a lower price on their sign, $2.85 for mid grade, than I had seen at other local stations. After stopping, I noticed the sign said "cash price"; if your used a credit or ATM card, it was 1o cents per gallon more. It is already bad enough that with my new car I have vowed to only feed it the more expensive 89 octane mid-grade gas. I had a twenty dollar bill in my wallet; it was worth it to burn up my last remaining cash, even though at today's prices, that $20 wouldn't fill my whole tank.
My first problem was that I had encountered the slowest flowing gas pump I have ever run into. It is hard to quantify, but I'd guess it took at least twice, maybe three times as long per gallon for this newish-looking pump to do it's thing. At first I thought it might be some ploy by Arco to make it seem like their gas was less expensive. When filling your tank with today's gas, it can be depressing to watch the dollars and cents numbers zoom upwards while the gallons indicater spins at the speed it always has. On this slow pumping Arco machine, the amount I was paying crept comfortably slower towards twenty, as if the gas was at 1985 prices. I later concluded that I just had a bad pump when I saw other customers come and go more quickly.
With all this time on my hands, I noticed the price it showed on the pump was the credit price, not the ten cent discounted price I had earned by giving up my last Jackson. Maybe it was actually charging me a lower price, but just not indicating that on the pump display. How many gallons should I expect for my $20? I'm usually pretty good with math, but it took me a while to figure 2.8599X=20, X=20/2.8599, X=number of gallons I should get. My mind was somewhat numb after just playing 4 straight hours of rigorous basketball. No way to do that without calculator or at least pen and paper. When it finished, I was very confident that it seemed like too little, so I marched with my receipt to confront the attendant.
"Excuse me," I began, "I paid $20 cash, and my receipt shows $2.95 per gallon. That is the credit price." I knew something was wrong here, but I wasn't sure how I expected the guy to fix it.
"Are you sure you gave me cash?" he answered suspiciously. Oh, man, wrong move on his part. With the rough summer I had financially, I KNOW when I'm giving up my last twenty. I was now certain he'd made a mistake. After he reviewed the receipt some more he continued, "Ah, sir, you are being charged for the Premium gas. That's priced $2.95 per gallon."
"But I paid cash!"
"Correct, sir."
"Well?"
"You chose Premium." There has never been any standard by which the oil companies name their different grades of products. By the name alone, no one can tell what super, premium, super plus, performance plus, platinum plus or super premium performance enhancing plus mean. I was starting to catch on that the guy was telling me I had picked 91 octane gas instead of 89 octane.
"I pushed the middle button!" thinking that the slow poke pump had malfunctioned in another way, "I wanted the mid-grade! I pushed the middle button!"
"Go, sir, please go look at the pumps," he concluded, actually waving me off with this hand. I went and looked.
I wrote there has never been any consistency in how they name these levels of gas. One thing that has always been the same is the order they're placed on a pump where you push a button to choose your grade. From left to right, like one is reading, cheap stuff, mid grade, premium. The mid grade is ALWAYS in the middle. Not at Arco. I was aghast to see the 89 octane on the left, the 91 in the middle and the 87 at the far right. He was right, I had picked the premium.
Stepping back into the attendant's hut I exclaimed, "No one does it like that! Why do you guys DO that?" I just asked to make myself feel better. As expected, the attendant just smiled and shrugged.
I know why. Some freekin corporate marketing exec sitting in a room, trying to figure out a way to improve sales of their mid grade and premium gas, which I'm sure less people are using now that it's often $3/gal or more. Rearrange the established pattern of placement on the pumps, and just like when people read, their eyes will pass over the mid and premium before coming to the regular stuff at the end. It's basic merchandising; but it breaks a standard operating procedure that we consumers have gotten used to for 10 years or more. I'm sure I'm not the only guy whose has just pushed the button he normally pushes without reading. How about the guy with the high performance motorcycle or sportscar engine who needs that 91 octane stuff? If he just picked the rightmost button like he normally did, he'd be filling his tank with 87 octane which could damage his engine. At least I only got gypped out of indeterminate amount of gas.
Boycott Arco? I know I'm supposed to boycott Unocal 76 because of what they've done in Burma. Chevron/Texaco ain't exactly been the paragon of corporate virtue either, but like most Americans, I'm most likely to go to the station that has the lowest prices. Even if it was Saddam's Oil Change, Rape Rooms and Filling Station, if they were 6 cents cheaper than the place across the street, I'd go there. I'll go to Arco again, no doubt, just not that pump, and trust me, I WILL be reading the buttons from here on in.
Friday, October 14, 2005
File Drama
I just finished up doing a loan for a lady who probably didn't "deserve" to be able to buy a place. It is one I'm going to wonder about for years. I'm going to wonder if I've done the right thing. I'm going to wonder if she'll be able to afford the mortgage, property taxes and all the other expenses that go along with owning a home. At the same time, she is now among the landed classes, something that with equity growth, could secure her future forever. She makes $20/hr, and she owns her own home, something that would normally be unheard of in the Bay Area. Well, in a way, we own her home, as she received 100% financing. The sellers contributed $12000 from the sales price to cover the closing costs. She had a thousand dollar deposit, and was expected to come to the table with about another thousand. If you've got two grand and can buy a $315,000 condo, you've got a great loan officer.
I didn't "state" her income higher than it actually was. I didn't gouge her on the rate (not that I could). It was a good loan, using full documentation, on a relatively inexpensive property. My concern is that she faught me and her realtor every step of the way while we were trying to do something for her. She would send me bank statements with the account numbers whited out. Every document I asked for (and there are lots needed when asking for a mortgage) was greeted with, "Why do you need that? I don't think you need that". I'm sure there was no fraud here; I did get everything I was asking for eventually, it was just her attitude. I was helping her fulfill the American Dream, and she acted like I was forcing her to do so. Two days ago, she went to her final signing, but she needed another $1400 in a cashier's check. She didn't bring it. They let her sign anyway, but they won't record with the county until that money is received. Yesterday, I got a call.
"Gil, I don't think I can go through with this loan," she said.
"What? Why not?" My stomach churned. I had put hours and hours of work in with this lady, going back to the beginning of August. I saw it falling apart, but in a way, I was almost grateful. I imagine a marathon runner is relieved at that exact moment he collapases, unable to continue, within sight of the finish line. The runner will regret it later, but at the moment, there is relief.
"They took my car."
"Who took your car?"
"The car lot. I fell behind on my payments so I could have this money for a down payment, and now they took my car. I need the money to get the car back."
"Wow." I was shocked. I didn't know what to say, but once again, she was being wishy washy.
Mind you, I had already beat up my boss twice to get pricing concessions on this loan so that she could come to the table with almost nothing. There was no room to budge. Heck, the loan had already funded; we were just waiting to record. Still, in my short time as a loan officer, I've never had anyone try to back out of a purchase after they've signed docs. I didn't know if she even could back out at this point. I told her I would check on her options and call her back. After talking to the experts at my office, I learned that obviously, we can't force her to come up with the relatively small down payment. If she never paid it, the transfer would never record, and everything would just rescind.
My phone rang. It was her realtor. Of course, the realtor was panicing. She said she had heard a message from the buyer, stating what had happened, but all her attempts to call her back had not been answered. From what she'd shared, our buyer had the same distant, cold relationship with the realtor as she had with me. Even then, the realtor offered to loan the buyer the money to close the deal so she could get her car back. The realtor asked me if I thought she was doing the right thing. She asking me? At this point, all my doubts about my buyer's ability to handle this place came to a head, and I said "no". I told the realtor, that no, I wouldn't do it, but I am not her. She needs to decide whether to risk her own funds on this lady. At the same time, I recognized that this was a once in a lifetime opportunity for the buyer, and she shouldn't back out thinking she could get this deal again sometime in the future. She barely qualified for this place as it was, and although the skyrocketing ascent of property values here in California have leveled off a bit, there is no way she'd ever be able to find a condo at this price again, particularly considering the great loan I put together for her and the concessions being made by the seller. Furthermore, although I couldn't share the specifics of her credit report with the realtor, I knew that once this repossession of her car hit the credit bureaus, it would be years and years before her already marginal credit would have recovered to the point where a lender would even consider doing a loan. All this, and the buyer wouldn't return the realtors calls.
After hours of pleading voice messages from both of us, the buyer finally agreed to let the realtor do her the favor. I told her the cold hard facts outlined above. The realtor used a different strategy. She told the buyer that if God puts someone in your life who is willing to help you, one needs to recognize that and not refuse the help. I will let the cynics come to their own conclusion about that, but as a theological determinist, I would agree with that statement in principal. My only question is are we really helping this lady?
I didn't "state" her income higher than it actually was. I didn't gouge her on the rate (not that I could). It was a good loan, using full documentation, on a relatively inexpensive property. My concern is that she faught me and her realtor every step of the way while we were trying to do something for her. She would send me bank statements with the account numbers whited out. Every document I asked for (and there are lots needed when asking for a mortgage) was greeted with, "Why do you need that? I don't think you need that". I'm sure there was no fraud here; I did get everything I was asking for eventually, it was just her attitude. I was helping her fulfill the American Dream, and she acted like I was forcing her to do so. Two days ago, she went to her final signing, but she needed another $1400 in a cashier's check. She didn't bring it. They let her sign anyway, but they won't record with the county until that money is received. Yesterday, I got a call.
"Gil, I don't think I can go through with this loan," she said.
"What? Why not?" My stomach churned. I had put hours and hours of work in with this lady, going back to the beginning of August. I saw it falling apart, but in a way, I was almost grateful. I imagine a marathon runner is relieved at that exact moment he collapases, unable to continue, within sight of the finish line. The runner will regret it later, but at the moment, there is relief.
"They took my car."
"Who took your car?"
"The car lot. I fell behind on my payments so I could have this money for a down payment, and now they took my car. I need the money to get the car back."
"Wow." I was shocked. I didn't know what to say, but once again, she was being wishy washy.
Mind you, I had already beat up my boss twice to get pricing concessions on this loan so that she could come to the table with almost nothing. There was no room to budge. Heck, the loan had already funded; we were just waiting to record. Still, in my short time as a loan officer, I've never had anyone try to back out of a purchase after they've signed docs. I didn't know if she even could back out at this point. I told her I would check on her options and call her back. After talking to the experts at my office, I learned that obviously, we can't force her to come up with the relatively small down payment. If she never paid it, the transfer would never record, and everything would just rescind.
My phone rang. It was her realtor. Of course, the realtor was panicing. She said she had heard a message from the buyer, stating what had happened, but all her attempts to call her back had not been answered. From what she'd shared, our buyer had the same distant, cold relationship with the realtor as she had with me. Even then, the realtor offered to loan the buyer the money to close the deal so she could get her car back. The realtor asked me if I thought she was doing the right thing. She asking me? At this point, all my doubts about my buyer's ability to handle this place came to a head, and I said "no". I told the realtor, that no, I wouldn't do it, but I am not her. She needs to decide whether to risk her own funds on this lady. At the same time, I recognized that this was a once in a lifetime opportunity for the buyer, and she shouldn't back out thinking she could get this deal again sometime in the future. She barely qualified for this place as it was, and although the skyrocketing ascent of property values here in California have leveled off a bit, there is no way she'd ever be able to find a condo at this price again, particularly considering the great loan I put together for her and the concessions being made by the seller. Furthermore, although I couldn't share the specifics of her credit report with the realtor, I knew that once this repossession of her car hit the credit bureaus, it would be years and years before her already marginal credit would have recovered to the point where a lender would even consider doing a loan. All this, and the buyer wouldn't return the realtors calls.
After hours of pleading voice messages from both of us, the buyer finally agreed to let the realtor do her the favor. I told her the cold hard facts outlined above. The realtor used a different strategy. She told the buyer that if God puts someone in your life who is willing to help you, one needs to recognize that and not refuse the help. I will let the cynics come to their own conclusion about that, but as a theological determinist, I would agree with that statement in principal. My only question is are we really helping this lady?
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Jojo Lapa follow up
More on the goofy Quik Stop guy.... It would help if you've already read the post from a few weeks ago entitled "JoJo Lapa." If not, see the links below and to the right.
Soon after my great bonding experience with the Nepalese kid who works at the QuikStop down the hill, I went in again and exclaimed "Jojo Lapa!". He kind of frowned and looked away and responded half-heartedly, "jo jo la pa." Then, in all seriousness, he added, "You see, my people don't say 'jojo lapa'. The people on the other other side of the mountains, they say jojolapa. My people say something different."
"Namaste?" I inquired, knowing that to be the formal way in Hindi to say hello.
"Ah, yes, but more commonly, 'Namasko'", he replied.
Now, of course, whenever I go in, we exchange hearty namasko's.
Tonight when I walked in to buy my nightly can of beer, Metallica's Master of Puppets was playing rather loudly on the radio behind the register. Namasko kid noticed my enthusiasm for the music and asked if I liked it. Metallica is, of course, one of my favorite bands and an important part of my personal musical development. I told him I liked it without really revealing exactly how significant it was to me.
Namasko Kid began a monologue (much to the dismay of the next guy in line) on how he had felt Metallica to be the most significant musical group to come along in recent history, surpassed only in its impact by Nirvana. He told me how strongly he had been influenced by Metallica which made the arrival of Nirvana and the whole Seattle sound somewhat surprising yet that much more profound. Wow. I had taken this guy to be at least 10 years my junior, but from the timeline he was describing, he has to be near my age. Even stranger was that this is exactly how I feel about how my musical tastes devloped and evolved between the years 1986 and 1995. I was tired after a long day at work and just wanted to get home, but I really have to talk to this guy more about music; his tastes and opinions parallel mine.
Speaking of the next guy in line, his conversation with Namasko Kid demonstrates another thing I'd talked about in the first JoJo Lapa post, namely that the guy has a knack for making his patrons feel uncomfortable. I had my single can of Colt 45 on the counter, and the guy behind me notes, "Colt 45, good beer!" He had a bottle of Miler High Life. I should mention that I've seen the guy a million times in the QuikStop, and he me. He is one of our neighborhood drunks, although for me, thats a bit like we kettles calling you pots black. In any case, the old alcoholic black guy turns to the Namasko Kid and says, "he's buying a beer! How come you don't tell him he's always buying beer?!" I was on my way out at that point, but I started to hear the guy complaining that Namasko Kid told him he was always buying beer, and he didn't like that. If you're the neighborhood equivalent of a retail bartender, it's not a good idea to be pointing out to your regular customers that they're a lot of drunks. If we weren't too sodden to drive elsewhere, we might take our business to another convenience store.
Namasko!
Soon after my great bonding experience with the Nepalese kid who works at the QuikStop down the hill, I went in again and exclaimed "Jojo Lapa!". He kind of frowned and looked away and responded half-heartedly, "jo jo la pa." Then, in all seriousness, he added, "You see, my people don't say 'jojo lapa'. The people on the other other side of the mountains, they say jojolapa. My people say something different."
"Namaste?" I inquired, knowing that to be the formal way in Hindi to say hello.
"Ah, yes, but more commonly, 'Namasko'", he replied.
Now, of course, whenever I go in, we exchange hearty namasko's.
Tonight when I walked in to buy my nightly can of beer, Metallica's Master of Puppets was playing rather loudly on the radio behind the register. Namasko kid noticed my enthusiasm for the music and asked if I liked it. Metallica is, of course, one of my favorite bands and an important part of my personal musical development. I told him I liked it without really revealing exactly how significant it was to me.
Namasko Kid began a monologue (much to the dismay of the next guy in line) on how he had felt Metallica to be the most significant musical group to come along in recent history, surpassed only in its impact by Nirvana. He told me how strongly he had been influenced by Metallica which made the arrival of Nirvana and the whole Seattle sound somewhat surprising yet that much more profound. Wow. I had taken this guy to be at least 10 years my junior, but from the timeline he was describing, he has to be near my age. Even stranger was that this is exactly how I feel about how my musical tastes devloped and evolved between the years 1986 and 1995. I was tired after a long day at work and just wanted to get home, but I really have to talk to this guy more about music; his tastes and opinions parallel mine.
Speaking of the next guy in line, his conversation with Namasko Kid demonstrates another thing I'd talked about in the first JoJo Lapa post, namely that the guy has a knack for making his patrons feel uncomfortable. I had my single can of Colt 45 on the counter, and the guy behind me notes, "Colt 45, good beer!" He had a bottle of Miler High Life. I should mention that I've seen the guy a million times in the QuikStop, and he me. He is one of our neighborhood drunks, although for me, thats a bit like we kettles calling you pots black. In any case, the old alcoholic black guy turns to the Namasko Kid and says, "he's buying a beer! How come you don't tell him he's always buying beer?!" I was on my way out at that point, but I started to hear the guy complaining that Namasko Kid told him he was always buying beer, and he didn't like that. If you're the neighborhood equivalent of a retail bartender, it's not a good idea to be pointing out to your regular customers that they're a lot of drunks. If we weren't too sodden to drive elsewhere, we might take our business to another convenience store.
Namasko!
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
San Francisco
Would Herb Caen have been as good a journalist if he was assigned to write about say, Sacramento or Duluth or Knoxville? There is a spirit to "The City" that inspires one to observe, reflect and report in a way that no other city I have ever been in can. It does take patience and time. Certainly thousands of people, residents and visitors alike, simply pass through or go about their daily business without pausing to absorb the goings on in San Francisco. It is a nice city to drive around, but to really see it, you have to be on foot. Being stationary is even better.
I had the chance on Monday to sit in one of the weirdest spots in SF for a good 30 minutes, and just being there inspires me to make one of my infrequent blog entries. I was leaving the SF Countrywide branch at Van Ness and McAllister, and I decided it was time for a long overdue haircut. Things are picking up for me in my new career, but right now, I am on a rather austere budget. I remembered a hair cut I had back when I was in a similarly tight financial circumstance while living in SF in the late 90's. There was this little Chinese lady who had a barber shop on Market Street who charged a remarkably frugal $5 for a trim. The problem was I couldn't remember where on Market it was. I trudged down to Van Ness and Market to pull $20 out of the ATM I knew was there. Standing there idly "guarding" the B of A was one of SF's Finest.
"Excuse me," I asked the beat cop, "Do you know Market Street pretty well?"
He looked at me mildly scornfully which seemed to communicate something like I was stupid for asking such a question, and grunted a "yeah..."
I related the story of the Chinese lady barber. I refrained from adding the details about how I asked her to give me a haircut like George Clooney (it was the late 90's), and she looked at me in bewilderment and answered "Gaj Crooney? Who he?". The cop had no recollection of a cheap Chinese barber on Market.
He pointed to the east and said, "Now, if you go down to Sixth Street, there's this place..." he paused and looked me up and down. I was wearing my usual worn-out-from-too-many-years-working-in-a-department-store business attire and continued, "...but you don't want to go down Sixth Street." Apparently, the cop had judged my streetwiseness on the conservative side and decided 6th was too dangerous for me. I know the SoMa area can be little rough, but I lived for two years in the Tenderloin. I know how to handle the streets of San Francisco just as well as Michael Douglas. I found it a little amusing that there were areas of Downtown that even the cops won't send people. I think the 6th Street merchants might be a little peeved by that. "There is this Fillipino lady on 7th Street," the cop continued, "right there next to the check cashing place, she's got a little shop. That might be what you were thinking of." I thanked him and wandered the four blocks down market to 7th.
Check cashing places, which also offer things like Payday loans and money orders, thirve in the ghetto. Naturally, folks in and around such places are folks who aren't likely to have a bank account. I weaved my way through the small crowd of inner city dwellers surrounding the check cashing establishment and entered the barber shop. It was 5:30. Thousands of guys in a half mile radius were getting off work. I thought for sure I'd have to wait, but no, I was the only guy in the place other than the little Filipino grandma who looked like she could have cut hair at Corregidor in 1942. It was much like any other barber shop on the inside. Magazines, cyllindrical containers of blue liquid with combs inside, and the faint smell of hair clipper oil. On one wall, an apparently hand made collage of magazine pictures of hairstyles like I had seen many times before in other barber shops. How they could all be handmade and still be so similar is beyond me. All of the hair styles in the pictures would have been all the mode in 1983. Deciding I didn't want to look like Ralph Macchio, I flopped down in the barber chair, and said, "I need a haircut."
I felt so sorry for the ancient barber lady as she kept having to lift her arms to a level even with her head as she cut my hair. Couldn't she have lowered the chair or something like that? Another thing that was weird is that it was the first "dry" haricut I had had in 10 years at least. She didn't do the spraying of the hair with water that seems to be the standard operating procedure of all other barbers. Instead, she cut my hair dry, with what to me seemed like rather dull scissors.
Oddest of all were all the strange people walking by, some even sticking their heads in the otherwise empty barber shop. The traffic noise was loud, so it makes sense that people talking on the street would need to speak up to be heard. The majority of people who were talking loudly as they passed by the 7th Street barbers were not talking to someone else, but to themselves. If you're talking to yourself, is it really that hard to hear even on the busiest of streets? I surmised that although most of the individuals were not talking to anyone else, they still wanted to be heard.
7th and Market has quite a bit of irregular commerce going on. One guy walked into the shop with a plastic bag and asked if anyone (I guess he meant me or the barber lady) wanted to buy a set of computer speakers. Another lady politely asked if the proprietor or myself would be willing to exchange her five dollars in quarters for a single bill (as I write this, I am in dire need of quarters to do my laundry, so I wish now I'd taken her up on her offer). A big argument broke out in front of the barber shop between a guy selling packs of Marlboros loose out of a sack and another man with a peculiar accent. The latter simply would not accept the idea that although he could buy two packs for $5, that one pack would cost him $3, not $2.50. He seemed mildly enraged that this street hawk would be seemingly cheating people that way. Last I checked, I think a pack of Marlboro's will run $4.50 or so in a regular store.
If I seem derisive of the economically challenged San Franciscans, I don't mean to be harsh. I could spend another blog entry making sarcastic observations about the lawyers, executives and other professionals found in the Financial District just a few blocks away. Before I got this current job and was late for a meeting, I never understood why the majority of these folks would always briskly climb an upward moving escalator. I mean, the point of an escalaltor is to save labor, not time.
I suppose if you take the time to notice, we all seem foolish in one way or another; San Francisco inspires me to notice.
I had the chance on Monday to sit in one of the weirdest spots in SF for a good 30 minutes, and just being there inspires me to make one of my infrequent blog entries. I was leaving the SF Countrywide branch at Van Ness and McAllister, and I decided it was time for a long overdue haircut. Things are picking up for me in my new career, but right now, I am on a rather austere budget. I remembered a hair cut I had back when I was in a similarly tight financial circumstance while living in SF in the late 90's. There was this little Chinese lady who had a barber shop on Market Street who charged a remarkably frugal $5 for a trim. The problem was I couldn't remember where on Market it was. I trudged down to Van Ness and Market to pull $20 out of the ATM I knew was there. Standing there idly "guarding" the B of A was one of SF's Finest.
"Excuse me," I asked the beat cop, "Do you know Market Street pretty well?"
He looked at me mildly scornfully which seemed to communicate something like I was stupid for asking such a question, and grunted a "yeah..."
I related the story of the Chinese lady barber. I refrained from adding the details about how I asked her to give me a haircut like George Clooney (it was the late 90's), and she looked at me in bewilderment and answered "Gaj Crooney? Who he?". The cop had no recollection of a cheap Chinese barber on Market.
He pointed to the east and said, "Now, if you go down to Sixth Street, there's this place..." he paused and looked me up and down. I was wearing my usual worn-out-from-too-many-years-working-in-a-department-store business attire and continued, "...but you don't want to go down Sixth Street." Apparently, the cop had judged my streetwiseness on the conservative side and decided 6th was too dangerous for me. I know the SoMa area can be little rough, but I lived for two years in the Tenderloin. I know how to handle the streets of San Francisco just as well as Michael Douglas. I found it a little amusing that there were areas of Downtown that even the cops won't send people. I think the 6th Street merchants might be a little peeved by that. "There is this Fillipino lady on 7th Street," the cop continued, "right there next to the check cashing place, she's got a little shop. That might be what you were thinking of." I thanked him and wandered the four blocks down market to 7th.
Check cashing places, which also offer things like Payday loans and money orders, thirve in the ghetto. Naturally, folks in and around such places are folks who aren't likely to have a bank account. I weaved my way through the small crowd of inner city dwellers surrounding the check cashing establishment and entered the barber shop. It was 5:30. Thousands of guys in a half mile radius were getting off work. I thought for sure I'd have to wait, but no, I was the only guy in the place other than the little Filipino grandma who looked like she could have cut hair at Corregidor in 1942. It was much like any other barber shop on the inside. Magazines, cyllindrical containers of blue liquid with combs inside, and the faint smell of hair clipper oil. On one wall, an apparently hand made collage of magazine pictures of hairstyles like I had seen many times before in other barber shops. How they could all be handmade and still be so similar is beyond me. All of the hair styles in the pictures would have been all the mode in 1983. Deciding I didn't want to look like Ralph Macchio, I flopped down in the barber chair, and said, "I need a haircut."
I felt so sorry for the ancient barber lady as she kept having to lift her arms to a level even with her head as she cut my hair. Couldn't she have lowered the chair or something like that? Another thing that was weird is that it was the first "dry" haricut I had had in 10 years at least. She didn't do the spraying of the hair with water that seems to be the standard operating procedure of all other barbers. Instead, she cut my hair dry, with what to me seemed like rather dull scissors.
Oddest of all were all the strange people walking by, some even sticking their heads in the otherwise empty barber shop. The traffic noise was loud, so it makes sense that people talking on the street would need to speak up to be heard. The majority of people who were talking loudly as they passed by the 7th Street barbers were not talking to someone else, but to themselves. If you're talking to yourself, is it really that hard to hear even on the busiest of streets? I surmised that although most of the individuals were not talking to anyone else, they still wanted to be heard.
7th and Market has quite a bit of irregular commerce going on. One guy walked into the shop with a plastic bag and asked if anyone (I guess he meant me or the barber lady) wanted to buy a set of computer speakers. Another lady politely asked if the proprietor or myself would be willing to exchange her five dollars in quarters for a single bill (as I write this, I am in dire need of quarters to do my laundry, so I wish now I'd taken her up on her offer). A big argument broke out in front of the barber shop between a guy selling packs of Marlboros loose out of a sack and another man with a peculiar accent. The latter simply would not accept the idea that although he could buy two packs for $5, that one pack would cost him $3, not $2.50. He seemed mildly enraged that this street hawk would be seemingly cheating people that way. Last I checked, I think a pack of Marlboro's will run $4.50 or so in a regular store.
If I seem derisive of the economically challenged San Franciscans, I don't mean to be harsh. I could spend another blog entry making sarcastic observations about the lawyers, executives and other professionals found in the Financial District just a few blocks away. Before I got this current job and was late for a meeting, I never understood why the majority of these folks would always briskly climb an upward moving escalator. I mean, the point of an escalaltor is to save labor, not time.
I suppose if you take the time to notice, we all seem foolish in one way or another; San Francisco inspires me to notice.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
McKenna's Horsey
http://johndeeregirl11.blogspot.com/
Check out this blog. I wandered into it because I saw it was written by someone named "McKenna" my family name (2 generations ago).
I thought it was wonderfully kitschy. Goofy. Ironic. It features a whole series of silly photos of a stuffed animal telling a tragic, yet classic story. I liked it a lot. It reminded me of BatGirl's blog, a Minnesota Twins fans who uses children's action figures to depict stories from the world of baseball.
Then I checked the profile of the author...
When an adult uses kid's toys to tell a story, it's kitschy. That's what I assumed the blog was. Actually, the author is an 11 year old kid. McKenna is now a popular girl's first name, so I was likely misunderstanding any surname connection as well. It puts a different spin on the blog from my perspective, but it is still highly creative in and of itself.
Check out this blog. I wandered into it because I saw it was written by someone named "McKenna" my family name (2 generations ago).
I thought it was wonderfully kitschy. Goofy. Ironic. It features a whole series of silly photos of a stuffed animal telling a tragic, yet classic story. I liked it a lot. It reminded me of BatGirl's blog, a Minnesota Twins fans who uses children's action figures to depict stories from the world of baseball.
Then I checked the profile of the author...
When an adult uses kid's toys to tell a story, it's kitschy. That's what I assumed the blog was. Actually, the author is an 11 year old kid. McKenna is now a popular girl's first name, so I was likely misunderstanding any surname connection as well. It puts a different spin on the blog from my perspective, but it is still highly creative in and of itself.
Music Time
I cry in my car. That may make me sound like one of these super-sensitive post-modern men who strives to take ownership of his emotions. Think what you like, but perhaps because I'm oftentimes not all that at one with my feelings that with the right stimulus, my emotions overcome me. I mean, even a particularly touching TV commercial can make me misty-eyed. I've always been that way, but it's always required some external media influence to let me feel what I do.
In the car, it's my music. Right now, System of a Down Toxicity is in my CD player. Track 7, Chop Suey! played really really loudly causes the tears to flow. If you don't recall the title, you might remember the lyrics Why did you leave the keys up on the table? 'Cause you wanted to..." or "...trust in my self-righteous suicide...". System of a Down is an amazing band out of Fresno that mixes the hard core metal rhythms and guitars I've always loved with a melodic sophistication and poignant, often politcal lyrics. They're Metallica meets Linkin Park meets left-wing protest band. My wife bought me their new CD. I like it, but Toxicity remains my favorite.
Listening to really loud music is my favorite thing about my new car. It's got a kick ass stereo sytem, and cars really have incredible accoustics. I can sing along as loud as I want (if I'm alone) and no one minds. I'll often gesticulate wildly while singing, which gets me strange looks from pedestrians or other drivers. It's truly a time to unwind and be at one with an art form. Again, getting in touch with the art helps me get in touch with myself and my emotions, and hence the occasional tear.
In the car, it's my music. Right now, System of a Down Toxicity is in my CD player. Track 7, Chop Suey! played really really loudly causes the tears to flow. If you don't recall the title, you might remember the lyrics Why did you leave the keys up on the table? 'Cause you wanted to..." or "...trust in my self-righteous suicide...". System of a Down is an amazing band out of Fresno that mixes the hard core metal rhythms and guitars I've always loved with a melodic sophistication and poignant, often politcal lyrics. They're Metallica meets Linkin Park meets left-wing protest band. My wife bought me their new CD. I like it, but Toxicity remains my favorite.
Listening to really loud music is my favorite thing about my new car. It's got a kick ass stereo sytem, and cars really have incredible accoustics. I can sing along as loud as I want (if I'm alone) and no one minds. I'll often gesticulate wildly while singing, which gets me strange looks from pedestrians or other drivers. It's truly a time to unwind and be at one with an art form. Again, getting in touch with the art helps me get in touch with myself and my emotions, and hence the occasional tear.
Monday, September 05, 2005
Jo-Jo Lapa
The Quik Stop market a block away from my home has changed ownership four times in the five years I've lived in this neighborhood. Usually, with each new owner, family members are installed behind the counter. I see the evening clerks several times a week, as I stop in to buy milk, beer or whatever. Sometimes, I'll learn their names, or if not, a little bit about where they're from.
About a month ago, the Quik Stop changed hands again, and a new family took over running the place. The evening clerk is a goofy character. Skinny and tall, he looks about 22 years old. Buck teeth, a big adam's apple, a Nepalese accent and somewhat of a naive "FOB" demeanor distinguishes him from other clerks who've held his position. He hasn't really endeared himself to our neighborhood like some of the other clerks have. I don't think he's mastered the basics of cashiering at an urban convenience store. For example, I've come up with half a dozen items, paid for them, and then have him look at me and ask, "do you want a bag?" Of course I want a bag! I've heard him ask people who've come up to the counter with a six pack of beer, "back already?" I may be projecting, but if I buy alcohol, and then drunkenly need more, the last thing I want to hear the clerk say is "back so soon?". Still, I like being friendly with my merchants, so I looked something on Google last night.
I stood in line about 9PM, with my (first and only) beer purchase of the night. In front of me in line was a guy in a Peacoat (sic) buying imported beer and American Spirit cigarettes. He looked a like typical Berkeley 2nd generation preppy-alternative Indian. My friend behind the counter asked to see his ID, and after he looked at it, started asking the guy what part of India he was from. The guy answered in a perfect Bay Area tone that his parents were from Trinidad, which is in the Caribbean. The Nepalese clerk made some sad "oooohhhs", and then said "so you never been to India?" After the guy answered no, I think I heard the clerk say, "too bad." Again, this guy isn't an expert at making his patrons feel good. The clerk looked genuinely sad that he wasn't able to connect with this American who looked a lot like he did, setting up what I had prepared perfectly.
"How are you?" he asked as I put my beer on the counter.
"JO-JO LAPA!!" I exclaimed, and the guy's face immmediately burst into a beaming smile.
"Jo-Jo Lapa!?! How do you know 'Jo-Jo Lapa?!!?"
Before venturing down the block, having recently learned the latest QuikStop night clerk was Nepalese, I typed "How do you say Hello in Nepalese?" into Google. Several results were returned, "Jo-jo lapa" being the most memorable. I repeated Jo-Jo Lapa to myself over and over as I walked down to the store, making sure I wouldn't forget it by the time I got there.
"So what does jo-jo lapa actually mean?" I asked the clerk as he took my cash.
"It's a greeting, like 'hello,'" he replied and continued, "Who told you to say jo-jo lapa?" still smiling ear to ear. I explained how I looked it up on Google having learned the other day that he was Nepalese. I think I made guy's evening by giving him what the guy in line in front of me wasn't able to: a little familiar homeland connection in this often intimidating and impersonal urban California culture.
Every time I walk in there from now on, I know I'm going to hear "Jo-Jo Lapa!" Fine by me.
About a month ago, the Quik Stop changed hands again, and a new family took over running the place. The evening clerk is a goofy character. Skinny and tall, he looks about 22 years old. Buck teeth, a big adam's apple, a Nepalese accent and somewhat of a naive "FOB" demeanor distinguishes him from other clerks who've held his position. He hasn't really endeared himself to our neighborhood like some of the other clerks have. I don't think he's mastered the basics of cashiering at an urban convenience store. For example, I've come up with half a dozen items, paid for them, and then have him look at me and ask, "do you want a bag?" Of course I want a bag! I've heard him ask people who've come up to the counter with a six pack of beer, "back already?" I may be projecting, but if I buy alcohol, and then drunkenly need more, the last thing I want to hear the clerk say is "back so soon?". Still, I like being friendly with my merchants, so I looked something on Google last night.
I stood in line about 9PM, with my (first and only) beer purchase of the night. In front of me in line was a guy in a Peacoat (sic) buying imported beer and American Spirit cigarettes. He looked a like typical Berkeley 2nd generation preppy-alternative Indian. My friend behind the counter asked to see his ID, and after he looked at it, started asking the guy what part of India he was from. The guy answered in a perfect Bay Area tone that his parents were from Trinidad, which is in the Caribbean. The Nepalese clerk made some sad "oooohhhs", and then said "so you never been to India?" After the guy answered no, I think I heard the clerk say, "too bad." Again, this guy isn't an expert at making his patrons feel good. The clerk looked genuinely sad that he wasn't able to connect with this American who looked a lot like he did, setting up what I had prepared perfectly.
"How are you?" he asked as I put my beer on the counter.
"JO-JO LAPA!!" I exclaimed, and the guy's face immmediately burst into a beaming smile.
"Jo-Jo Lapa!?! How do you know 'Jo-Jo Lapa?!!?"
Before venturing down the block, having recently learned the latest QuikStop night clerk was Nepalese, I typed "How do you say Hello in Nepalese?" into Google. Several results were returned, "Jo-jo lapa" being the most memorable. I repeated Jo-Jo Lapa to myself over and over as I walked down to the store, making sure I wouldn't forget it by the time I got there.
"So what does jo-jo lapa actually mean?" I asked the clerk as he took my cash.
"It's a greeting, like 'hello,'" he replied and continued, "Who told you to say jo-jo lapa?" still smiling ear to ear. I explained how I looked it up on Google having learned the other day that he was Nepalese. I think I made guy's evening by giving him what the guy in line in front of me wasn't able to: a little familiar homeland connection in this often intimidating and impersonal urban California culture.
Every time I walk in there from now on, I know I'm going to hear "Jo-Jo Lapa!" Fine by me.
Sunday, July 31, 2005
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
95 mph
I was cruising home today after another 12 hour day in the mortgage business. My new Infinity I30 was purring along. The music was blaring; the sunroof was down, and I was in the fast lane passing the sporadic 7:30 PM traffic. It ocurred to me that I was going pretty fast. Glancing down at the speedometer, I see I was doing 95 miles per hour. I didn't even notice. The car wasn't even straining in any way. The ride was as smooth as 45 mph in other vehicles I've driven. The Infinity is a true high speed cruiser. I'm anticipating a few speeding tickets driving my new baby.
My apologies for the lack of pictures, but as you can tell, I got my new (used) car. It's absolutely amazing. The ride is smooth, the stereo is better than what I have at home and its packed full of safety features. With a down payment, I got a great deal on the financing from a local credit union, so my payments will be very reasonable.
On the ride from the dealership back to work, I needed to fill it up for the first time. I stopped at a gas station in the heart of Oakland's Acorn district. I get out to open the gas door. It's locked, and like a lot of these new cars, it's equipped with a release inside the car somewhere. I start scanning the dashboard for the button or switch. I'm looking and looking, and I can't find it. So many functions, the thing looks like a spaceship control panel imbedded in polished walnut trim. Finally, I decide to consult the car's manual. Ten minutes later, I find the page that describes where the gas door release is. It was on the car door!
My apologies for the lack of pictures, but as you can tell, I got my new (used) car. It's absolutely amazing. The ride is smooth, the stereo is better than what I have at home and its packed full of safety features. With a down payment, I got a great deal on the financing from a local credit union, so my payments will be very reasonable.
On the ride from the dealership back to work, I needed to fill it up for the first time. I stopped at a gas station in the heart of Oakland's Acorn district. I get out to open the gas door. It's locked, and like a lot of these new cars, it's equipped with a release inside the car somewhere. I start scanning the dashboard for the button or switch. I'm looking and looking, and I can't find it. So many functions, the thing looks like a spaceship control panel imbedded in polished walnut trim. Finally, I decide to consult the car's manual. Ten minutes later, I find the page that describes where the gas door release is. It was on the car door!
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