Titanic

I'm in rehearsals for a production of Titanic - The Musical. (No, this is not a joke; no, there is No Jack or Rose in this production---almost all the characters are actual people who were on the ship; no, it's not a light-hearted, upbeat Broadway-style musical; yes, it's a sometimes funny, ultimately tragic show with wonderful music and an epic feel.) As with any show, rehearsals tend to be mostly fun, with a lot of support and sharing among the actors and directors, and there is also a fair amount of hard work---learning lines and music, hitting the right notes, focusing on performance, character, and blocking. But this show has an added dimension: we're dramatizing the true stories of real people who suffered through a horrible experience. The majority of them died.

We've all researched our real-life counterparts. Some who lived in real life die in the show, and vice versa; some are a fictional blend of several real people. But it's all a fairly accurate presentation of the real event. And therein lies the difference from most rehearsal experiences. We all recall at various times during the process that the events we're portraying are real. When there's foreshadowing in the lines--for example, Ida Strauss's husband (both of them will die in the second act) offers to go get her coat to protect her from the cold, even though he fears he'll get lost on such a large ship, and she sings,  "No thank you; I'd rather freeze"---we know these two real people actually drowned. When my character--the ranking officer on the bridge when the ship struck the iceberg--apologizes to the captain for the accident, I know I'm playing a real person. I can imagine what he might've felt, and it hits harder because it really happened to a real human being.

Yesterday, we blocked the scene where we load the lifeboats. We officers were on the upper level of the stage; passengers stood with us, and the ones who would ultimately survive were allowed down to the main level, where benches awaited, representing the lifeboats. Once the "boats" were full, the rest of us onstage were the ones who would perish. I imagined the distance from the upper to lower level as it would have been that night in the north Atlantic: four to five stories down. The magnitude hit me. By the time we all sang together, survivors below and the doomed above, there were tears in some eyes. This was just a rehearsal, mind you, with people trying to remember their lines and blocking and vocal parts, and still the tears came. It has been half-seriously suggested that we should sell boxes of tissues in the lobby.

I have always been fascinated by the Titanic story, and have happily found several other "Titaniacs" among the cast and crew. Others have joined us, and there are emails almost every day from someone involved in the production who has discovered a new graphic comparing the size of the Titanic to a car, bus and airplane, or a link to a new museum opening in Belfast, or "gin and Titonic" ice cubes (yes, the macabre goes hand-in-hand with the serious). All this will mean, I hope, that our performances will be infused with an extra layer of intensity; that perhaps the audience will feel the realness of these people a little more.

Several people have asked me, why do such a tragic piece? Why even write it? Those questions might just as well be asked of any Shakespearean tragedy, or great American drama such as Death of A Salesman or Long Day's Journey Into Night. Or the James Cameron movie. This play is almost an opera, with grand themes and epic emotions. That it is based on a true story that continues to fascinate people a hundred years later just makes it that much more heart-wrenching. And people love a good cry. It can be cathartic to blubber over someone else's troubles.

So, during the next few weeks, I'll continue to experience deep emotions at certain, sudden moments even as I am, paradoxically, carefully molding my performance to entertain others.

The ultimate goal is to move the audience. But on this show, I get to be moved myself as well.

Car labels

I was grumbling to myself yesterday about the "universal" symbols used on car dashboards for the control knobs, buttons and switches. In an earlier, less-inclusive time when it was assumed that everyone who bought a car in America spoke English and when auto manufacturers could afford to more thoroughly tailor their vehicles to different countries, there were words on the controls. I put "universal" in quotes because that's an alleged function that the little pictures frequently fail to serve. I assume a little circle of fan blades would likely mean that the fan is on in that position. But what does a circle mean? I assume it's zero, but it could also mean an open duct blowing air.

We used to own two cars that used the O on the heating/AC system, but one was a filled-in white O on a dark background, while the other was a filled-in black O on a light background. If I used my wife's car for a day or two, it'd take several days for me to remember what it meant when I got back in my own car. I would figure---logically, I felt---that if it's white lettering or symbols on a dark background, that the symbols are meant to be read as one would normally read black letters on a white background---so a filled-in circle would mean the vent was open (black hole). But on one of the cars (and to this day I don't remember which) that meant it was closed.

It becomes even more of an issue when the symbols are tiny. A miniature "wave" that means airflow is on may become clear to a car owner after a few weeks of driving his or her own car--then the controls become second nature. But what about the person renting an unfamiliar car? Or the guy borrowing his brother's truck for a day? He goes to turn on the fan while driving, glances down, and sees some sort of horizontal shape but can't make out what it is.

I decided yesterday that at some point I might print up little labels on sticky, durable paper that I could mount over the annoying little symbols. They would say understandable things like RADIO ON, RADIO OFF, FAN HIGH, etc. And then it struck me: why don't car companies do that for us? It would hardly cost anything to add a sheet or two of durable, self-stick plastic labels with words in several languages. They could be waiting in the manual that comes with the car. A chart showing where each tag was to be placed on the dashboard and/or doors would be right on each sheet; thus, one would have the option of seeing words on the dashboard. And if you sold the car at a later date to someone with a different primary language, the new owner could stick different labels over the first ones.

Savvy dealers could even ask each customer if they would prefer words, and if so, would offer to install those words before the new owner took possession.

Maybe they could even provide the option of different lettering styles. I could see a funky font in a Kia Soul, or a cool italic style in a Mustang, or Old English in a Mini or a Rolls. They could even be made available online to print out yourself--although cutting the little shapes would be annoying.

One current option that I see is to use an old Dymo label maker--one of those gun-shaped devices that punches raised letters on a strip of self-adhesive plastic. But that would look tacked-on and tacky, and I still prefer incoherence over distractingly ugly.

So I guess I'll just continue to turn the O up to .... when I'm too hot.

Working out

I worked out this afternoon for the first time in about nine months. A woman could have delivered a healthy seven- or eight-pound baby in that time. I didn't deliver anything, but did gain an unhealthy seven to eight pounds in that time.

It began innocently enough. I had a lot of projects going on, so I decided to take a couple of weeks off from working out, just to finish up the backlog. Well, the projects took longer than expected, then there was always an excuse, then I started saying I'll do it this morning, right after I do that thing, and this thing...then it'd be the afternoon and I'd say "tomorrow for sure".  Finally, I reached a point where I stopped pretending and relagated working out to the category of Someday.

Around Christmas, I decided to go in and cancel my membership; I'd start it up again when I was really ready. Then I figured, if I have to go in to "resign" (you can't do it over the phone or internet!), I might as well actually go in and start exercising again. But I put that off for a couple of weeks, and just felt guilt...but did nothing.

At one point a couple of months ago I thought I'd start chopping and stacking firewood several days a week. That's supposed to be very good exercise, utilizing most of the muscle groups. That lasted one day. The wood was down in a gully, so hauling it to the house meant an uphill climb, and my knees were killing me that night. I took aspirin and abandoned the plan. The rest of the winter passed. Spring arrived.

So, today was the day I would finally start in again at the gym. I had to drive my daughter's boyfriend to the airport, so I figured I'd go after I got back. But I had mistakenly thought he was going to the Manchester airport, thirty minutes away, when he was actually flying out of Logan in Boston---an hour trip. And I wasn't ready with all the stuff I'd wanted to load into the car first for my other errands...so I just drove over and picked him up.

Coming back from Boston, I stopped at my wife's office and fixed her chair--luckily, the tools I had originally meant to bring, but didn't, weren't needed. (And, I must admit, I got a gourmet cupcake from a store downtown--the antithesis of working out.)

I headed home and put the stuff that had to go the transfer station in the back of the Bug. Off to The Dump (as I will always call it, even though recyclables go into one place and trash gets put into trailers to be disposed of elsewhere, and nothing is dumped in the landfill any more), drop off the load, and then...on to the Y. Would I actually make it? There had been many times during the previous three seasons when I'd headed in that direction and decided I really should get to work on something more important.

But I went. I stretched (the limits of my stretchability were a source of dismay, but I persevered), did the machines (no free weights at this point; I figured it was wise to stick to machines that would isolate the muscles being used this first time back), even ran for 15 minutes on the treadmill. My wife asked why not twenty? but I reminded her: First Day Back. Take it easy.

I had thought that the pain of this afternoon would be stronger than the rush of endorphins that I used to feel when I was working out regularly, but I was wrong! I left the gym feeling refreshed. The aches I felt were the same as I used to feel in the old days when I'd pushed a little but made progress, and my mood was elevated as it hasn't been in months.

I promised the trainer at the Y that I'll be back tomorrow for the stability ball/bar/mat training class. We'll be moving out of the usual exercise room to the field house...I fear running, jumping and who knows what else will be involved. But I feel too good to stay away.

I think.

Long time

Wow. Someone mentioned yesterday that I hadn't blogged in a long time. I see now that the last one was in June 2011! I only blog when I have something to say; it's sad to think I had nothing to say for almost nine months. But things happen, one puts stuff aside, and the next thing you know, it's the better part of a year.

We've had our house on the market since November. We've had close to a dozen showings, and that's not bad in this market. It's a unique house: superinsulated and built to look old. The thing people have the hardest time grasping is that you can heat a house in New England, keeping it at about 74 in the winter (yes, we like it warm!) and still pay less than $1,500 a year. (I just discovered this weekend that, if we kept it at 68F, we would've spent only about $1,200 annually the last two years---but I prefer the warmth.) When I built the house almost 26 years ago, I figured that superinsulation would be more common by now, and that when it came time to sell the house, people would be more or less educated about it.

The fact that they aren't explains a lot about our current fuel prices and maybe a bit about our economy. We've had the opportunity for the last forty years to build millions of homes that would've consumed half, maybe a quarter less in fuel per year. We didn't. And "we" means "not I". I spent $700 extra to superinsulate and tighten up our house when it was built, and our first year's heating bill was $250, so the extra cost was paid back in the first year.  We knew about this stuff forty years ago! It's not magic: just more insulation, tighter sealing-in, a heat recovery ventilator to provide fresh air (which even conventional homes should have--they're built too tight now not to), passive solar orientation, smaller boilers or furnaces and AC systems. The building industry may be the dumbest industry in terms of selling the public the best product. Automakers have been making ever-more-efficient cars over the decades, but do homebuyers ever ask the contractor of the house they're planning to have built, "Is it possible to spend a little extra to cut my heating bills in half forever?" Of course not. They haven't been informed. But that's not really their job. I know, I know--buyer beware. But how about builder beware--or, rather, be aware--of how you could make a little extra money, build a much better house, improve your reputation, improve the environment, and help reduce the cost of fuel?

I could go on, but the main reason for my ranting today is that I'm trying to sell a house that's still ahead of its time, evidently, 26 years later, and people are wary because they're not sure it actually works. Regardless of your political persuasion, won't you admit that if the government (or anyone) had somehow managed to teach people, back when prices were lower, that they could have better houses and help keep fuel prices from rising significantly, that we'd probably be paying less for fuel now? I hate to think that government mandates would have been a good thing, but I hate more that the building industry--people providing families with the homes they live in and pay for, for God's sake--hasn't embraced this approach. People complain about car salesmen and lawyers--if I'm going to be guilty of generalizing, I'll put contractors at the top of my list.

 

Inanity

I attended my niece's high school graduation last night (congratulations again, Dylan!) and encountered a stranger whose motives mystified me.

During the ceremony, there was a loud air horn that sounded repeatedly. It was amusing the first couple of times, but became increasingly obnoxious as it was blown too frequently. After all the diplomas had been handed out, for example, it was appropriate and fun, but after a beautiful, gentle song sung by a group that included several graduating seniors, it just seemed out of place.

As we were leaving and I waited outside the rest rooms for my wife, my attention was caught by a man in a tank top--evidently, he didn't see the graduation as an occasion to dress up at all--walking along a nearby path spouting obscenities as if he were in a private place. Now, I have been known to swear with the best of them, but not in public and not within earshot of strangers who may be offended. I counted at least five uses of the word "f**k" or "f**kin'" in the short time I heard him speaking, and I was far enough away not to hear every word of the few sentences I overheard. Then I noticed the air horn in his hand--this was the same guy.

As luck would have it, we wound up driving out of the parking lot behind a large pickup with dual rear wheels, a string of LED lights along the rear bumper, and a polished sheen that said this was no work truck, but rather an advertisement for how macho the driver was. And yes---I recognized the driver as the same person who'd been shooting off his air gun and his mouth. Then we noticed the license plate: I POLUTE. At the same time, the truck accelerated around a corner, and huge clouds of black exhaust spurted from the long chrome pipes that grew up the rear corners of the cab.

I'd like to think that POLUTE was spelled incorrectly because this guy couldn't spell, which would be consistent with the stereotype I'd already formed in my mind, but I realized that the second L would have been more letters than would fit on the plate. Still, why would you purposely put that on your license plate? Is he proud that he pollutes? Does he not care? I assume he's annoyed by people preaching about the environment and conservation, so perhaps it's just meant as a joke. Still, with everything else I saw this person do in my short experience with him, I tend to believe that he thinks everyone else should shut up and let him do whatever he wants, and/or that he wants to provoke people.

I also noticed some lettering on his rear window. It was hard to read because the letters were white and the sun was reflecting on the glass, but I made out the words "your hybrid", so I'm guessing there was another use of some variation of "f***" and a disparaging comment on vehicles like the Prius we were driving. For a fleeting moment, I wondered if he'd seen us in his rear-view mirror and blasted the black exhaust for our benefit, but my wife correctly said that I was probably being paranoid. Still, I have to wonder why someone would drive a truck that periodically spews big clouds of pollution and then try to draw people's attention to it. What can I compare that to? A person who eats a lot wearing a T-shirt that says I TRY TO EAT SO MUCH FOOD THAT THERE WON'T BE ENOUGH FOR STARVING  CHILDREN? A smoker with one that reads I SMOKE IN THE HOPES THAT YOU'LL GET CANCER FROM SECONDHAND SMOKE? A person (admittedly, like myself) who eats food shipped in from far away advertising that I DON'T EAT LOCAL BECAUSE THAT WOULD ONLY SAVE GAS AND SUPPORT THE LOCAL ECONOMY? (Yes, that last T-shirt would have to be an extra large.)

We are all guilty of doing something that isn't in the best interest of others or ourselves, but how many of us try to draw attention to it, or brag about it? We don't do these things to hurt others, or damage the environment, or waste resources--we do it because it's something we enjoy or covet, and we make the choice, consciously or unconsciously, to indulge ourselves. But to think about it and point it out to others? He even paid extra to have that license plate.

I tired to imagine a situation in which I could carry on a friendly conversation with this guy. Maybe, if I hadn't heard his air horn or breathed his exhaust or seen his license plate, we'd get along fine. But I'm guessing that it's more likely that he would soon say something so offensive that I'd feel compelled to walk away, muttering under my breath that he should go f**k himself.

Sanded in

Our downstairs floors are being sanded as I write this. I am holed up in my upstairs office as the gentle roar of sanders, hammers setting nails that have popped up too high and a powerful vacuum seeps through the floor. The floors will be stained tonight and the fumes will be pretty strong, so we'll retreat to our bedroom and hope it's warm enough to have the windows open through the night. The kitchen cabinets are covered and taped off with sheets of plastic, so there's no access to food or drink. I can reheat the leftovers from last night's takeout dinner on the grill out back--I just hope the clouds outside don't open up at lunchtime.

I enjoying sitting in the parking lot of McDonald's eating my breakfast this morning. I haven't been out to breakfast in about a year. I was disappointed that the sausage patty was so much fattier than I remembered, but I like their pancakes (a "top secret" version of their recipe uses 7-Up, and I suspect that's the secret; I've made them at home and they taste pretty much the same). I usually eat a healthy breakfast, so today I ate the hash browns, biscuit with jelly and the pancakes. I figure it balances out all my healthy breakfasts so far this year.

The guys who'll replace the insulation in the basement and re-sheetrock the garage ceiling will arrive this afternoon, at which time there'll be one crew sanding and staining the first floor (the Clean floor) as another crew sends dust and fiberglass fibers floating through the basement level (the Dirty floor). It's odd to be shut out of my own living space by a Dirty crew and a Clean crew at the same time. Unfortunately, we'll need to pass through the Clean zone to go out to eat and run errands, but that's what door mats and stocking feet are for.

Everything we had on the first floor is in a big storage locker out in the driveway. It blocks the garage, so our cars sit in the driveway, and I have to be sure to move mine up to the street in the mornings before the trucks arrive so I won't be trapped.

All of this disruption will only last a week. By the weekend, I expect we'll be moving everything back in. The floors will be clean and new; the furniture will probably be rearranged a bit, so there'll definitely be a feeling of renewal. We'll have the rental company take the container away; we'll park our cars in a garage with a new ceiling; and we'll forget in a week or so how intrusive it all was.

Then, in what I hope will only be a couple of weeks, we'll put the house up for sale. If it sells quickly (as the McDonald's ads used to say: hey, it could happen!) we'll go through the whole process of moving out again in a month or so! [When that happens, though, we'll hire movers. My wife, son and I (mostly I) moved everything out this time.] If it takes a long time to sell, at least it'll be clean and finished for our own enjoyment.

I'll probably take some photos before we move everything back in; then people can see what it looks like when it's empty. I guess that counts as an unexpected bonus.

The problem with working at home at a time like this is that I can't really get away from the reality that our home is torn apart. If I want coffee, I have to drive to get it. If I'm working quietly at my desk or drawing table, listening to music, the sound of destruction and repair is still in the background.

Of course, I don't live in Japan, or in the wake of a tornado, so maybe I shouldn't complain. In a week or two, things will be back to normal for us. I guess it's not that bad when I look at it that way.

Musings

I've been thinking about a bunch of sh*t today. I don't mean metaphorically; I've actually been thinking about sewage. It seems appropriate on Earth Day to ponder environmental issues.

Here in the Advanced Countries, we generate human waste in our houses and workplaces,as everyone does--but then we add lots of water and pour it into septic tanks which go to leach fields, or into public sewers which carry it many miles away to be put through a long process which destroys pathogens, cleanses the water we added, and releases it all as harmless stuff.
In the old days, they used outhouses. Not so good either. But there is a better alternative.

Composting toilets really make the most sense. They're not exciting and will probably never catch on for more than a few people, and I'm not suggesting we all install them. But think about it. Sewage is essentially biodegradable matter that really doesn't need to go anywhere. A composting toilet doesn't add extra water. It lets the natural microbes and bacteria break down the toxic components. What ultimately emerges is a moist, odor-free mulch which can be used on lawns, shrubs and other non-food crops. With a little further composting, it can be used to grow food. Even dumping it in the back yard or woods or paying someone to pick it up periodically would make more sense than shipping it far away.

We are supposed to get our furnaces and cars serviced regularly, so it would make sense to have periodic service calls set up, much as dental checkups are, so the work of maintaining the proper moisture content, temperature, etc. wouldn't fall on the homeowner. Right now, if you buy a system, you're responsible for watching over it for the rest of your life. A bit of a burden.

I imagine that, as adequate water resources are harder to come by, our grandchildren may see these systems become more prevalent. In a world where cars run on fuel cells and homes are heated and powered by solar, it doesn't seem far-fetched.

When the Rural Electrification Act of the '30s went into effect, millions of rural Americans were connected to the electrical grid. Prior to that, many farms had on-site generators to provide electricity. The total cost of the electrification of the rural U.S. was higher than setting up generators and/or windmills, with batteries, for all those country-dwellers would have been.

Of course, now the damage is done. We expect someone miles, maybe even thousands of miles away, to take care of us. The big electric, water and sewer companies or municipalities provide their products and services to us, when local service technicians could probably maintain smaller rural systems for a comparable price. Is the possibility of a site-based system failing for a day or two any worse than the four or five times a year I currently lose power because of a downed power line somewhere far away, while my own neighborhood, with its buried cables, is not the problem?

For urban and city dwellers, the larger, centralized grid makes sense, but not for Joe and Betty Corn-Farmer out in East Cow Flop, Tennessee. Ten years ago, I wouldn't have imagined 5% of cars on the road being hybrids, as they are now. So I can imagine a day when many of us stop dispatching our doodoo to a distant destination, and importing our electricity from an offsite entity.

So Happy Earth Day to you future composters!