Pho: Worth the Hassle

Of course my order was wrong.

“Small number one without onions or cilantro”

I’ve been ordering the same item dozens of times over the past six years. I don’t get creative with the menu. I find something that works and I stick with it. Small. Number one. No onions or cilantro.

So I sit at the table with a streaming bowl of Pho filled with cilantro and onions. This scene has played out so many times that it doesn’t faze me anymore. Flip a coin. Even odds that I’ll have to send it back.

My last three visits? Zero for three.

They never hassle me, but I know that incredulous look that says, “Who does this American think he is eating Pho without onions or cilantro?” It’s like going to Fat Burger and ordering a salad.

And yet, I continue to return. Marketers like to say that consumers “vote with their wallets”. In that case, I’m encouraging poor service. But I return time and time again.

Because, when I finally get the bowl of Pho I ordered, it tastes and smells so dang good.

Well worth the extra wait.

Sling Shots and Sirens

Last night I raced home from work to change my clothes and grab a snack before leaving the house to play racquetball with a group of friends. By the time I returned home, my kids were on their way to bed. That same morning I saw them for a few minutes before leaving for work.

Nothing more than a quick conversation here and there. Time didn’t allow for anything more. Not much difference in how I was raised. When I was young, my father was either coming or going. He worked so mom could be home with us.

It all makes me wonder how much influence I have with my children. Not just today but down the road. Or am I merely a blur, always on the go?

And then I think of all the people who had a hand in teaching and raising me. I’m convinced that raising children requires a mix of effort, focus and sheer luck.

I remember the cub scout leader who taught me how to sew a button on a shirt and tie a number of useful sounding knots. That was offset by the neighbor who taught me how to win a fight with Roman Candles and craft a slingshot using surgical tubing.

Or the friend who taught me how to play chess and solve a Rubik’ Cube.

Or the neighborhood punk who taught me how to play pinball at pool. He’s the same one who taught me how to spin pennies into the Gorf machine for free games. Or shake the vending machine for extra Zingers.

Looking back, I didn’t do anything too illegal or dangerous. Unless you count setting a field on fire, but that was extinguished quickly before any homes were engulfed.

And I suppose this is why I worry about my own children. I know others will have an influence in their lives, and I probably won’t know it until I hear the sirens.

But I know many of these awkward teaching opportunities will be followed by moments that have a lasting impact on their lives. Many will come from people I’ve never met.

But they will happen.

Like the time a teacher pulled me aside to explain why I should be kind to everyone in class. Or the time a coach spent his weekend working with me on my hitting stance. Or the instructor at church who encouraged me to serve a mission. Or the woman at church who told me I had a nice smile.

I’m counting on life maintaining a natural balance. May the story times outnumber the smoke bombs.

Grades Don’t Always Tell The Story

During my second quarter of college since returning from a church mission, I met with the professor who taught a difficult German literature course. The quarter before, I’d taken a grammar class from this same professor. She was known for being tough on missionaries. She thought many were lazy in their approach to learning German and relied too much on their conversational skills while not spending enough time learning proper grammar.

I didn’t want to be one of those lazy students so I studied hard for the tests and turned in all my assignments. I wasn’t a model college student by any means, but I wanted to prove her assessment of missionaries was wrong.

I earned an “A” in her grammar course. But one week into her literature course, and I was ready to wave the white flag. My concern with the class had to do with the amount of reading she required. I’m a slower than normal reader, and I felt dropping the course now and picking it up during a another quarter when I was taking fewer credit hours would be a wise move.

As I explained this to the professor, she got up from desk and paced the room. I figured my reasoning was solid, and all I needed was her signature to drop the course. When I finished listing my reasons, she returned to her chair and didn’t say a word. She wasn’t happy. That much was clear.

Then she stood up and walked around her desk to me. She told me she was disappointed that I was giving up after only a week. She dismissed each of my excuses. And she said something that stung:

“Given how well you did in my class last quarter you’re the last person I expected to see in my office ready to give up. Guess you’re just like the others.”

She said she expected more from me. If I needed help, why wasn’t I there to ask for it instead of begging for her signature? She wanted answers. I had them, but they were not the answers she was looking for.

But then she did something that I’d never seen a college professor do: she offered to meet with me as much as I needed if I would remain in class. She said the only way to improve my reading speed was to read more. That’s not what I wanted to hear, but she was right. So for the next two months, I met with her at least once a week to discuss works such as Parzival and Die Verwandlung.

She never once made me feel as though I was imposing on her schedule. There were several instances where she worked around my class and work schedule to meet with me even it meant she remained in her office well outside of normal office hours.

At the end of the quarter, I earned a “B” from the class. Even with the help, I struggled to finish the reading assignments. Initially, I was disappointed with the grade because I’d aced her grammar course while putting in far less effort.

But looking back, I learned a lot more than German literature that quarter. I learned to ask for help when I needed it. I learned how to build a solid relationship with a professor and gained a respect for the work they do which oftentimes goes unnoticed.

And I learned a lot about myself. I was still early into my college years, and learning to work through a difficult situation would prove to be beneficial many times over.

Without a doubt, it was the proudest “B” I’d ever earn.

Replacing the Final Stage Unit

Up until two weeks ago I’d never heard of a “final stage unit” (FSU). And this is one reason I love the internet, because my car needed a new FSU, and I didn’t know it.

But the tech geeks on the BMW forums knew about it. Even better, they could describe a car’s behavior when the FSU needed to be replaced. For months, my car’s heating and cooling system has been erratic. Most days it worked just fine. But every so often it would turn itself on and off while the car was parked which drained the battery.

I asked a number of gearheads at work. Could be the electrical system. Or maybe I needed a new battery. But nothing specific.

Google to the rescue.

I was about to take my car to the dealer when I searched the internet for heating and cooling system problems for my car model. Within a few minutes, I found a number of owners describing the same problems my car was experiencing. Nearly every post pointed to the FSU or the “blower motor resister”. It took me a while to figure out the the FSU and blower motor resister are the same part.

The BMW dealer wanted $400 to replace it. One independent shop would do it for $300. But several forum members had installed the part on their own. Using a link to an shop that carries OEM parts I bought a new FSU for $67 shipped. Once it arrived, I followed the detailed instructions from the same forum. That helped. But it was the pictures member had posted of their own repair job that helped the most. I was able to see the best way to get at hidden screws. I learned that by removing one vent, I’d have better access to the FSU, which was positioned awkwardly under the passenger’s side of the dash. Dozens of tips made the difference for a rookie mechanic like myself.

Most forum members were able to complete the repair in two hours or less. But those estimates came from owners who do a fair amount of work on their own cars. I’m good with computers, and those skills don’t translate well to cars. So I doubled the time and figured I’d need at least four hours.

At one point, I was sitting on the floor of my garage surrounded by my glove box, screws and other parts I can’t begin to describe let along tell you what their purpose is. I took special care to keep the screws close to the parts that fell off when loosened by my Torx 20. At one point, I felt overwhelmed and went inside to stare at my computer screen until I regained the confidence that I could put everything back together. It’s one thing to have a few screws left over after assembling a bookcase from IKEA. It’s an entirely different scenario to be dropping car parts along the freeway.

After a number of Diet Coke breaks, a few pep talks, and timely encouragement from my son, I replaced the FSU and put my dash back together. My prediction was right: it took just over four hours. My heating and cooling no longer acts like it’s possessed by demons. Every screw found a home, and I didn’t have to explain away any left over parts to Kim.

This is one reason I love the internet.

Street Ball

My first thought was, “which one of the kids took my basketball?” I normally place it in the kid’s Radio Flyer wagon, but it was nowhere to be found.

After spending a day sitting in front of a computer, I enjoy the relaxation that comes from shooting around on the hoop just outside our home. A sliver of sun shone through the clouds and my neighbors car wasn’t blocking my designated 3-point line. Just me and the sound of a swishing net.

But none of that mattered if I couldn’t find my Spalding.

As I was about to head back inside, I heard the faint sounds of a ball hitting the pavement. I peered out of the garage to see my youngest son standing under the basket with my ball. I watched as he “granny” tossed it towards the hoop. A regulation basketball tossed upwards by a 2.5 year old doesn’t quite make it to the rim. In fact, it barely goes as high as he is tall.

If he was lucky, the ball would end up a few feet away on the grass. But if the ball hit the curb, he’d give chase until it rolled onto our neighbor’s driveway or ricocheted off their car.

I thought of the endless hours my father spent teaching me how to shoot a basketball. I didn’t possess much upper body strength, and I’d tend to drop the ball down next to my chin. I can’t imagine how many times my father instructed me to keep the ball above my head where it was more difficult to block. Before mom called us inside for dinner my dad would stand under the basket and retrieve the ball as I took shots from different areas of the court in a game called “Around the World”. The number of shots over the years would easily number into the thousands. Some even found the bottom of the net.

Those were my thoughts as I left the garage and headed towards my son.

For the next twenty minutes I stood under the basket and tried to anticipate what direction the ball would bounce after leaving his small arms. We talked, and laughed and danced around the court together. If I wasn’t already clear on the issue, he told me again that the ball was his.

A few more years will pass before he’s able to get the ball anywhere near the rim. But until then, I’m happy to play the role of rebounder. Because I know how much this time meant to another young boy many years ago.

The Shield

First came the Christmas episode of the BBC version of the Office where Dawn drives away in the taxi with her butthead of a boyfriend. It looks like that’s the end of Tim and Dawn. And then we watch as she opens the oil paints. Tucked inside is a napkin with a picture Dawn drew of Tim and the words, “Never Give Up”.

Watch Tim describe his coworkers and how he doesn’t feel like his relationship with Dawn will result in a happy ending. “Life isn’t about endings…it’s a series of moments”

The scene is so well done that it still feels genuine to me after dozens of views. It was the perfect ending to a show that few Americans had heard of. Even today, many fans of the US version don’t realize how great the original is.

The BBC version of the Office is my favorite TV show of all-time. It runs a total of 14 episodes over two years or about half the number of episodes typical American series produce. I like the American version of the show, but it lost much of the raw emotion of the BBC version. What the BBC had was Ricky Gervais.

I enjoy Dexter, Mad Men, and Breaking Bad. I had never seen the Shield or heard much about it until last year when I read a number of articles ranking the best shows of the decade. The Shield showed up on most of them along with Arrested Development, The Sopranos and The Wire, which many regard as the best television drama ever.

I’ve been making my way through the first two seasons of the Shield this summer. It’s a gritty (makes CSI look like Dora the Explorer) cop drama that follows a task force filled with cops who do a lot more than merely stretch the rules. It’s difficult to classify any of the characters as good or bad, just as in everyday life. I can’t think of another show since the Office where I care more about the characters starting with Vic Mackey. Donna Bowman said it best: “There’s never been a TV cop like Vic Mackey, who painted a blue uniform the most frustrating, vigorous, incredible shades of grey.”

Tonight I watched the seasonal finale of season 2, and I knew I was watching something amazing. Something that will stick with me for a long time. Like Dawn’s taxi ride.

I don’t know what I’d compare the Shield too. I didn’t watch Hill Street Blues, NYPD Blue or the Commish. But I can tell you it’s one of the best shows I’ve seen, and I highly recommend it if you enjoy this type of television.

Before it’s over, it may replace the Office as my favorite show. Here’s a video of the final scene from the season finale. The song is “Overcome” from Live.

The Shield–Season 2 Finale

The Ticket Taker

“One for the Social Network” I told the cashier sitting behind glass trying as best I could to aim my voice through the awkwardly placed speaker.

“Eight dollars” came his reply.

With ticket in hand, I made my way inside the theater and headed down the dimly lit hall towards the ticket taker. As I approached, I noticed a woman of small stature taking tickets. Well, she was doing more than just taking tickets.

She rested one arm against a podium. With her other arm, she read each ticket before putting it next to a pad of paper that listed each movie playing at the theater. A mark was made under the movie’s title before she put out her hand to take the next ticket.

As I watched her go through this routine with the next patron, I realized she had a disability. Her balance was wobbly and her hand shook as she scratched each check mark, but she had the podium to lean against, stabling her position.

Normally, getting through a line with 6 to 8 people ahead of me would take a few seconds. Tickets would be shuffled and then ripped in bulk, and with the swing of an arm, each patron would be on her way.

But this line barely moved at all.

When it was my turn, I handed her my ticket and said hello. She said hello back to me without looking up. She picked up a pencil and made one mark under “The Social Network”. She put down the pencil and glanced back at her pad of paper.

“Theater five is on your right”, she said, finally looking up. I smiled and said thanks. She smiled back before taking the next ticket.

As I sat in the theater waiting for the movie to begin, I thought about this woman who made me slow down for a moment and ponder, happy I’d not complained from the back of the line or stressed over whether I’d make to my seat in time to catch all the previews. Instead I thought about the pride this woman took in her job. She was organized. She appeared to enjoy her job. She made me feel like more than just an eight buck ticket.

Until now I assumed the goal of any ticket taker is to move the line through as quickly as possible. The owner must have recognized something in her more valuable than sheer efficiency.

I will remember this experience the next time I step into a slow moving line. You never know who is up front taking tickets and putting their heart and soul into the job.

Windows Update Problem

Here’s what my computer screen looked like this weekend. When I’d walk away from my computer for more than a couple of hours, Windows would reboot and attempt to install two critical updates.

I let it run for a few hours. No luck. I left it to install overnight and woke up nine hours later to find it at 12%. I don’t know what 12% of a Windows update gets me, but I wanted my computer back.

And here’s where I shouldn’t worry that computers are getting too easy to use, and I’ll bet out of job in couple of years. When I shut off my computer and tried to get back into Windows, the update would attempt to install before the Windows boot screen would appear. I couldn’t tell it to stop installing either. No cancel button in sight.

My computer was caught in the loop from hell.

I decided to boot into Safe Mode which is always an adventure. Massive fonts and crazy colors and all, I was able to see a screen saying the update had not installed properly. Over the next few minutes the update was reversed and my computer was back to normal after I rebooted again.

Let me say here that I’m a big fan of Windows 7 and its ability to handle problems like this. Although I wasn’t able to install the updates, I was able to get back to my desktop within a few minutes. This is the first problem I’ve had running Windows 7, and I will still recommend it to friends and family.

Here’s a screen showing the updates that refuse to install correctly. Has anyone else had problems installing these?

I told Windows Update to ignore the updates while I wait for Service Pack 1.

Mad Men

Although I’d watched Seinfeld for a few years, it wasn’t until season four when I began to believe Jerry, Elaine and the gang were creating a show that would transcend the sitcom. I felt the same towards basketball watching Jordan drop 63 on the Celtics or the album on my first listen of Dark Side of the Moon.

That’s how I feel watching Mad Men in its fourth season.

The manner in which the writers weave bits of history throughout the story is rewarding and thought provoking. The actors are at their peak and the entire set design and music evokes a mood that lingers past each Sunday evening showing.

We’ve witnessed a number of memorable scenes over the past three seasons such as the carousel or the constant banter between Peggy and Joan.

A few weeks ago I watched a scene of Mad Men that hasn’t left my mind.

Don has decided to jot down his thoughts in a journal. One night he sits at a table looking out the window. There’s basically no dialog except Don’s inner thoughts. Many shows would have forced the show’s star to put something down in his diary. Anything to keep the show moving along.

But not Mad Men. What fills the screen is an awkward silence that every father can relate to. Juggling family and work often leads to moments of reflection – wondering if you’re adequately balancing both commitments. Solutions don’t magically drop into laps. So we sit there alone pondering what’s next.

I’ve experienced many of these nights. While the kids are asleep and Kim is reading from bed, I’m sitting at my computer. With the lights off, only my reflection is visible on the screen. Although the thoughts run wild, they don’t always make it to my fingers.

And I’m left to think on my own.

How Raising Children Is Like Playing Racquetball

When I began playing racquetball about a year ago, I believed it was a game of power. Hit the ball as hard as I could off the front wall with little thought to placement or angle. My goal was to get my service in, track down the return and smack it off the front wall as hard as possible.

Depending on my opponent, I could get by playing this style. It leads to a lot of running back and forth from the front to back wall. Strategy didn’t play a role, and the player in the best shape usually won.

I didn’t give it much thought until I played a guy who plays a lot more than I do. He plays in tournament sand practices regularly. Physically, he didn’t look imposing, and I assumed I’d run him into submission with my style of play.

I was wrong.

I was the one who was running around the court. This guy didn’t hit the ball very hard, but he used angles to keep me off balance. When I was able to get to the ball, I was leaning, reaching or diving. He seldom returned the ball to my comfort zone, and he conserved his energy while I continued to hit the ball as hard as possible. It was as if he was taking my style of play and using it against me, wearing me down until a simple passing shot put me out of my misery.

I believe that raising kids has many similarities to racquetball.

As our four children mature, I’m finding that a shotgun approach isn’t always the best. There are times when a stern voice is needed to correct behavior. But I’m finding that a thoughtful, even finesse approach can be successful with older children.

It’s easier to say, “I’m the parent so end of story” without providing an explanation of any kind.

My daughter had a rough evening that ended with the cancellation of a play date with her closest friend due to her behavior. As much as I wanted to send her to bed without any of the normal routine, I sat next to her on the couch and listened. It was clear she did not understand how her actions affected others. Part of me wanted to say, “Here’s how it’s going to work…”

I decided it was best to table the discussion for now and return to it tomorrow when everyone has calmed down. I don’t know how it will turn out tomorrow or what I’ll say. Maybe it will take more discussion. But I know one thing: the finesse approach feels better in this situation.

Picture by Coolmallu