Silver Lining Looking Haggard

Don’t you hate people who name their cars? I call mine The Silver Lining. Not only because it’s silver, at least in its original state, but because it was the consolation prize for having my old car totaled by a reckless SUV driver last spring.

I loved that old car. But the Silver Lining is my dream car. A Nissan Altima hybrid, the design is wonderfully aerodynamic, combining the look of a sleek sporty sedan in the front with the old-fashioned boxy lights in the rear. I’ve always wanted an Altima, and to get a hybrid of this model is quite rare in Colorado. And the name, Silver Lining, reminds me of the golden age of rail travel when the title of the train contributed mightily to the excitement of the journey: The California Zephyr; The 20th Century Limited; The Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe; The “D” – Ok, maybe not that one…

I don’t have a key for my cool, modern car, just a FOB. Don’t ask me what that means. All I know is that if the FOB is in my pocket, I can push the start button and the quiet electric engine will turn on. The little electronic hum is all that you can hear when first accelerating, before the regular gas engine kicks in. One friend said it felt like she was in a space ship. Of course, she was on pain killers at the time.

It feels great to have a car to be proud of, that people are interested in. Of course, I don’t understand how it works at all. When asked how much power it has or how big the engine is, all I can say is, “Look, it’s a pretty silver!”

I’m sure I’m not unusual in that when I first got the car, I vowed to always keep it clean and in good condition for years and years.

There is, however, the matter of my parking space.

The first car I had when I lived at Bowling Green Condominiums, a little 1994 Sentra, zipped right in and out of the assigned space which consists of an overhead roof and two solid rusty brown polls delineating my spot from my neighbor’s. The next car, the one totaled last May, was a 2002 Sentra, slightly bigger, which I had to slowly enter the space so I wouldn’t hit the polls.

The Silver Lining is nice and wide, sizeable enough to seat passengers comfortably in back, and long enough to have a roomy trunk.

But those big rusty polls haven’t moved. I didn’t have the Silver Lining for even a couple weeks before I hit the fender against one of them, adding a dark, rusty finish along the front right bumper.

Being so very careful watching the fender a few weeks later, I scraped and dented the right rear door, chipping off some of the beautiful silver paint.

Ever so careful again, I was pulling in one day, watching so as not to hit the left poll, when the right side mirror got caught. As the car kept moving, that awful sound of the mirror cover crunching caused my insides to wince. My Facebook entry that day: “I just can’t have nice things.”

The Silver Lining was starting to look like a piece of junk.

But there’s more.

I have this habit of pulling up as far as I can into a parking space. Unfortunately, this means I scrape the bottom of the car against those concrete parking space things. The other day as I was flying down the Valley Highway, I heard this kind of flapping sound from underneath. I knew what it was. Sure enough, the “splash guard” was hanging down.

So I’ve decided that my car, which I’ve owned for just over six months, needs to look new again. This week, it’s going in for some cosmetic surgery. Don’t ask me how much it’s going to cost, just be assured that I won’t pay off the loan as quickly as I’d originally planned. But it’s worth driving a beautiful car of which I can be proud.

And I’m going to be so careful from now on. I vow to keep it clean and in good condition for years to come.

Corporations are Not People

The U.S. Supreme Court has overturned a century of precedent and ruled that corporations have the same free speech rights as human beings. The primary effect of this revolutionary decision is to allow businesses to support any candidate or political cause without limitation.

The supremes have basically granted personhood to big companies, unleashing them to, for all practical purposes, control the nation.

What's it called when business runs the country: corpocracy?

In any case, prepare for big changes. Little guys running for office won't stand a chance. Only those at the beck and call of big business will serve in legislatures across the country. That $10 you donated to Obama? It won’t make much difference next time. The president will be too busy courting Wall Street to ask for your puny contribution. In fact, what you think about anything matters much less now than ever before.

Don't think local politics won't be affected. When the neighborhood association resists the building of a new McDonalds with a drive through, increasing trash, traffic, and danger to playing children, who do you think will best be funded in the next city council election? The candidate who, in exchange for corporate money, favors the easing of zoning laws. It will take a lot of bake sales to compete with that.

Thanks to those five Republican appointed justices, politics might now go the way of sports.

Debates will be sponsored by, “Kraft Macaroni – it’s cheesier!” Campaign ads will be shamelessly paid for by, “Dupont - for without chemicals, life itself will be impossible.” Look for a Bank of America logo next to the presidential seal when the Commander in Chief addresses the nation. Watch for Nancy Pelosi to be wearing a Pepsi ball cap while doing press conferences on the capitol steps. Will Harry Reed have to do commercials portraying himself running from the senate to the White House with a bill in hand to be signed by the President – wearing Nike shoes?

Do you think John Hickenlooper, mayor of Denver now running for governor and one of the first successful microbrewers in the nation, will be able to tolerate having to be sponsored by Coors in the election?

Do you think I’m joking?

Corporations are not people. They have no moral compass, no shame, no soul. Their only reason for existence is to make a profit. If they can get away with their logo next to the presidential seal, why wouldn’t they? Our elected leaders, those charged with keeping our cities, states, and country working, are at the mercy of big money and there is nothing to stand in the way of the corpocracy taking over.

Massage Relaxation Short Lived

All the relaxation from today’s massage is completely gone.

I always look forward to my biweekly massage therapy. I time it to be at the end of the day so that I don’t have to go anywhere or do anything afterwards. I can then theoretically remain in my peaceful stupor for the rest of the evening, curl up with the cats, and watch TV before drifting off into a tranquil sleep.

It rarely actually works out that way.

It starts off well, of course. When I arrive at the studio, I am ushered into a dimly lit room with new agey music softly covering the noise from outside. Isaac, the therapist, leaves me in private for a few minutes so I can take off my clothes. I love taking off my clothes. I’d be such a good nudist, except I get so chilly. I’ll never forget going to a nude beach near Santa Cruz, California and having to wear sweats because it was so cold. But I digress.

After disrobing, I crawl under the heated blankets on the massage table, situate my face in the face holder, and wait for Isaac to come back. Ahhh! Sometimes I’m asleep before he even enters the room.

Isaac very professionally works my back, my arms, my legs, and even (blissfully) my feet. He then rouses me to turn over so he can do my neck and shoulders. He has this way of finding the tense muscles and working them really hard, even occasionally using his elbow - strangely painful and comforting at the same time.

After an hour, Isaac tells me he’s finished and leaves the room so I can get dressed. I HATE this part. It’s so awful to have to put on dirty, sweaty, socks after having been blessedly naked under a clean warm blanket. I leave the dimly lit cocoon and emerge squinting into the bright reception area.

Then, at the peak of rush hour, I get to drive home. Finding the gap in traffic so I can turn into the busy street with just a few meters to get into the left turn lane is a nightmare. Navigating my way home among stupid drivers and short yellow lights finishes me off.

By the time I walk through the front door, I’m completely tense again. But it’s not over.

Thinking ahead, I usually go to the store before the massage so I’ll have something for dinner when I get home.

So as I open the door to the condo, I’m carrying my back pack, my gym bag, a handful of mail, and a bag of groceries. With great skill, I’ve manipulated the key into and out of the lock while simultaneously blocking Charles, the kitten, with my foot to keep him from running out.

Inside, I drop all the bags, block Charles from getting to the groceries, and fumble for the light.

Having slept all day, both cats, Lily and Charles, are ready for action. No sooner do I kick off my shoes than they are both insisting on being fed. It is a loud, unrelenting, chorus of meow-wailing. I cannot look at the mail. I am not allowed to go to the bathroom. I mustn’t take the time to hang up my coat. They want to be fed now. Oh, I’ve tried behavior modification and all that hoo-ha that I learned in college, training and conditioning them to wait until I’m ready, but they just meow and meow and meow, getting underfoot and knocking things over until I reach for the cat food.

As they eat, I unpack my groceries, prepare my dinner, and take my pills. The benefits of the massage are completely gone.

After eating, the three of us: Lily, Charles, and I, climb onto the couch for our evening cuddle. I have a stiff neck. They are completely relaxed.

I can’t wait for the next massage in two weeks. I really need to loosen up.

This Virus Isn't Fair - A BillsWeek Whine

It's back and I can't believe it. The day after Christmas, I came down with the first cold I've had in years. My immune system has withstood the perils of coughing coworkers, people who don't wash after using the restroom, sneezing children in public places, and most recently, the locker room at the health club where guys are overheard to cough loudly and then say, "I'm past the contagious stage."

But the stress of the holidays (sharing everything with family from togetherness to food to germs), lack of sleep during that busy festive week, and severe below zero temperatures which actually made it hard to breathe, wore my body out and made me susceptible to "the bug that's been going around."

It was never very serious. I had both flu shots (H1N1 and regular) early in December so I wasn't worried about dying. I only had a fever for one day. I didn't miss much work because I was taking time off anyway. I only missed a couple days of working out, which has become something of a compulsion.

The worst was coughing so much at night that I couldn't sleep. The usual drugs didn't work. I also lost my voice and couldn't talk on the phone when I most wanted to.

And now it's back. My energy is zilch and I'm reaching for the cough drops again. Dang it! I am now the person coughing in the office that people look at wanting to say, "Don't bring your disease here."

I drink orange juice. I use hand sanitizer, even keeping a bottle on my desk at work. I wash my hands so much that I have cracked wrinkly skin. And still I cough. It's not fair.

This weekend will be dedicated to cold survival: sleeping, cat cuddling, blankets, resting, watching movies (falling asleep in the middle, necessitating watching them again), and reading if I can focus my eyes.

I will, of course, try to make it to the gym. Coughing is no excuse for slackness. And I'm surely past that contagious stage.

The Uneasiness of Division and Unity Concurrent

I’ve been thinking a lot about my grandparents lately. Perhaps I’m getting old enough to see passing time actually turn into history. I’m also trying to remember that the strident and divisive discourse in American life these days is really nothing new, frustrating as it is.

What’s the correlation?

If I hadn’t been related to the parents of my own mom and dad, I don’t think we’d have known each other. Their worlds were completely different from mine. All four of them were staunch Republicans, life-long residents of rural areas and small towns. One of my grandfathers was a terrible racist. My mother’s father and step-mother, the pair I was closest to growing up, were appallingly myopic. If it didn’t conform to their central Nebraska worldview, formed in the 1920s and shared by everyone of their daily acquaintance, they didn’t understand it, couldn’t tolerate it, and were not interested in learning about it.

My maternal grands were nice to me when I was young. I visited them on their farm a couple times a year and enjoyed exploring the woods and dilapidated old buildings in their barnyard. I particularly loved hearing their stories about the old days.

My grandfather’s family came over from Germany in the early 1900s. He taught his parents the English he picked up at the country school. The family suffered when World War I came along and the community ostracized them for resembling the enemy. Grandpa could never relate this experience to that of the Mexican immigrants who came to work in the local factory in the 1980s. Instead, he said, the Mexicans brought crime and took jobs away, and they didn’t even speak English!

It wasn’t just ordinary racism that enflamed their prejudice. When I told them I had enrolled at Nebraska Wesleyan University, Grandma nearly had a stroke. “But that’s Methodist,” she cried, barely spitting out the next part. “They have Bishops!” I hadn’t realized that Methodist and Catholic were practically the same to these people. How could I tell them I was queer?

While my parents struggled for a while and then came to accept, even celebrate, the fact that I was gay, my grandparents were unable to acknowledge it even enough to deride it. The best they could do was politely ignore what was perfectly obvious.

I never gave them the courtesy of pretending I was anything but what I was. I even pushed it into their faces a few times; once by bringing my boyfriend with me on a visit and sleeping in the same bed with him. Grandma’s only remark was to ask which of us did the cooking, since we were both men.

Over time, I couldn’t tolerate their intolerance. All their information came from other ignorant people and conservatives like Paul Harvey (sort of the Rush Limbaugh of the day). When my mother finally forced the issue and they still wouldn’t discuss my real life, we became estranged. I didn’t speak to my grandfather for 15 years until the month before he died. His only question for me after a decade and a half was, “What kind of car do you drive?”

And yet, I respect these people. They embodied some of the best Midwestern characteristics which I try to exemplify myself: common sense, practicality, and independence. These people lived history: immigrating to America; the worst of the great depression and dust bowl; the dawn of rural electricity, telephones, and indoor plumbing; and prohibition (Grandpa claimed to have followed bootleggers, unbury their whiskey, and reuse the bottles). Perhaps there was so much change in their lives that they lost all tolerance for change later on.

Though they are dead, I continue to struggle between respect for and anger towards them. How can I admire someone who hates Mexicans and rejects me personally? How can I rage against people whose practical temperament I emulate?

It’s the same struggle I observe in our national life. We seem so divided. Republicans simply will not compromise because their only goal is to oust the Democrats. Progressives, on the other hand, debate with each other to the point of powerlessness.

It’s something of a comfort to know that Thomas Jefferson and John Adams were the best of friends before differing beliefs caused many decades of estrangement. But both loved their country, and that country survived those early years of national division and bitter partisan politics. The two men reconciled late in life.

Does the uncompromising character of Americans from John Adams to my grandmother to me mean that we can’t live together? Or does the tension somehow keep us moving forward? No answers here, but I’m sure plagued by the questions.

A BillsWeek Guest Entry: You had me at LOL

Turns out this old Boomer is not alone in adjusting to technology. Apparently changes affect Gen Y as well. This is Joey Halligan's second contribution to BillsWeek and I think there may be more. Stay tuned! - editor

I just received a text message from my father. It read: “Joey, I need tech support. Pls call me when you can. Love, Dad.” My father is 63 and texting.

As recent as three months ago, my cell phone plan included 300 text messages for an additional $5. That included incoming and outgoing texts. However, picture messages were a la carte - a whopping 25 cents each. In the last four years with that plan, I may have gone over in text messages once, and it wasn’t by much. Then I got swept in by the overwhelming text craze. Now my phone buzzes constantly throughout the day. Fortunately, I’ve switched to an unlimited text and data plan since then.

I never considered myself someone who couldn’t live without their phone, until the last few months I suppose. Yet I can’t say that I don’t enjoy the interactions, which often seem more like interruptions. At what point, however, does technology cross the line of keeping us connected into creating an addiction to stay connected? Seriously, do I need to know every time you use the bathroom or stop at a red light? By the way, I hope you’re not texting and driving in Colorado - that’s illegal now.

But when my phone vibrates and my best friend in Florida sends me the latest picture of her 2 year old son, I stop everything. Then another friend will send me a picture of an outfit at the store and asks for my opinion before buying. Then Facebook sends me my nephew’s status update letting me know he’s bored at home with nothing to do. Of course, I’ve only subscribed to five of my closest friends and family members’ Facebook status messages, anything more than that would be text suicide.

So when did personal conversations evolve into hours of text exchanges? I used to be the first to say, "Just call!" You can say everything you’re texting in a fraction of the time! Yet here I am, averaging 1215 outgoing texts in a month. Drop your calculator, I’ll do the math for you: that’s about 40 texts a day, not including the more-than-likely accompanying inbound text. Yes - that brings me to a total of nearly 2500 texts a month. And that’s now. Who knows what I’ll be averaging in 3-6 months. For all this, I blame three things: my curiosity, the curiosity of my closest friends, and a QWERTY keyboard on my phone.

So is texting really all that bad? If it causes a vehicular accident - yes. If it isolates you from all other forms of interactions with people around you - yes. If you answer a text in the middle of a meeting at work - yes. If used wisely, texts can be a quick way to stay connected and exchange quick thoughts. But when you slowly start to forget what your friend’s voice sounds like because you only associate them with the acronyms they send, you may want to snap out of it, and ask them out to enjoy a cup of coffee or a meal.

“Can u pass the salt? lol jk :-)”

Joey Halligan loves technology. Need tech support? You can reach him at JoeyHalligan@me.com.