Blog Central aka The Front Porch

Laurie at I Can Leave My Hat On (my blog mentor) asked her visitors to post their 'work stations.' You can see why my blog is called George's Front Porch.

Items of note (from left to right)

Antique trunk that my wife refinished. It contains family photos and momentoes and will eventually go to daughter #1. We have an antique tool box of similar size for my son and another trunk (still awaiting sandpaper) for daughter #2.

The radio on top of the trunk sat in my parents' garage for years. My dad would listen to it while he worked in the garage or on our car, and my friends and I would listen while we played. There's a distinct (and pleasant) memory of cigarette smoke, beer and motor oil associated with it. The radio originally belonged to my mom's Aunt Blanche (Domingue), who lived in Lake Charles.

A reflection of the flash because George doesn't know how to take pictures.

An antique sled that my wife loves. It's part of one of those winters that she's hoping we'll eventually have. MAJOR part of Christmas decorating around our house.

The book case also came from Aunt Blanche's. It's one of the pieces of furniture I salvaged after my parents' house burned.

Back two steps: that's my Austin Motorola Marathon coffee mug (with hot tea to help deal with the flu). I feel like a real runner when I use it.

Things to Do When You're Bored #1

I've been home with the flu since Monday afternoon, and I'm surprised I've lasted this long. Here's the first of what I hope won't be many tips on what to do when you're stuck at home and all the traditional activities have run dry.

Check out maps.google.com.

Here's an aerial view of my house. It must be in the winter, not just because my grass is dead but so is everyone else's. If it were summer, everyone else's grass would be green. That's my daughter's 1993 Jeep Cherokee in the driveway, the first of many substandard vehicles forced upon her in high school.

And here's a street view of my house (this kind of scared me when I first realized this was available). We're still trying to throw away that white thing on the curb; we just can't seem to put it out the week the City will pick it up. And that's my pick-up truck . . . adds an all-new manly appeal to me, doesn't it?

The street views are taken by a random crew that cruises up and down every street in America (or at least that's the eventual intent anyway). In the street view, you can actually 'walk' up and down the street, and I've heard there are groups of 24/7 Internet users who've searched to find the same people in more than one street view. A friend told me of one guy who'd supposedly given up smoking and his friends busted him via Google map. If I come up with another Things to Do When You're Bored idea, I may send it to those people.

By the way, we didn't have a cotton candy explosion. I think all the pink is from enlarging the photos.

Here's an aerial view of the building where I work, International Plaza in Fort Worth. I still haven't figured out what's international about it except that I understand that the owner also owns Rosa's Cafe and Tortilla Factory restaurants. We've got a pretty good cafeteria of our own on the first floor. Philly Cheesesteak sandwiches are the best! So are club sandwiches. And Wednesday is chicken wrap day. Breakfast burritos are available every day, too.

For those of you into George trivia, the building to the northeast of International Plaza is formerly the Boy Scout office, where I worked for about 10 years. At that time, the salad bar in International Plaza's first-floor cafeteria was the best. It's okay now; I just don't eat as healthily (Philly Cheesesteak and breakfast burritos vs. salads . . . duh!)

Here's a street view of International Plaza. I'm just about where the arrow is pointing. I've always described the building as looking like a Coors Light can (see the cylinder to the left). My part of the building is rounded, too, and so are the hallways inside. When I first started working there (it's an engineering firm, and stop me if you've heard this before), one of our more introverted engineers was trying so hard to not make eye contact with me as we walked toward each other in the hall that he missed the curve . . . smack!

I did look up the White House at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Nice aerial view but no street view, and I didn't see George W. or Laura out on the lawn. I'm just hoping now that I haven't made somebody's list for downloading a satellite view of the White House.

I'd better go back to work soon.

Our Dreams: A Family Tradition

When I sleep, I dream. Not simple, random dreams; but continuous, vivid dreams, from the moment I close my eyes, when the commercials and previews start, until I wake up following the final feature.

Vivid dreams seem to be a family tradition. My dad would talk in his sleep and often would 'act out' his dreams. During a weekend stay at a local Scout camp (I worked for the Boy Scouts for about 20 years), we stayed in cabins; and in our cabin, his side of the bed was up against a wall (apparently his side of the bed at home wasn't). From my room across the cabin, I heard him smack in to the bedroom wall, later learning that he had jumped up in bed and chased someone right into the wall.

I spent my 40th birthday in my dad's hospital room, where dehydration was one of the doctor's concerns. Apparently, hallucinations are a symptom of dehydration. After an evening of zig-zag, sometimes-difficult-to-follow conversation, my dad asked me to get the nurse a Coke. I realized that he thought she was his home-health nurse when I looked at her name tag, and it wasn't the same name he was using.

I went to the nurse's station to ask what to do about his hallucinations. The nurse said to gently bring him back to reality and let him know that he's hallucinating. Some time around 2:30 a.m., I'd pretty much resorted to 'yeah, dad. whatever.'

I've carried on the tradition, in many cases, much to the concern of my wife. A couple of recurring dreams from my earlier parenthood days:

- I'd dive out of bed to keep my kids from falling, a dream that made a trip to the dome of the Texas capital building a nightmare (get away from the railing! Daddy, we want to see!) and a visit to the Grand Canyon a real nerve-tester.

- I'd stand up in bed and reach up to get the kids off the ceiling fan, a dream that significantly improved my wife's sleep-to-alert reflexes (I'm sure her response saved my fingers and the top of my head many times).

My 'favorite' has its own place in the lore of our family history, a story oft' repeated 'round campfires and television sets.

My wife stayed up late to watch a movie with daughter #1, and I'd already gone to bed. She walked into our room, and I jumped out of bed, ran to her and grabbed her by the shoulders. With what I would call my best Jack-Nicholson-'Here's-Johnny' leer, I started shaking her and shouting, 'I've got you now!' My wife's not petite, so fortunately I woke up before she and daughter #1 threw me down the stairs (I did make it a point to tell a friend because I'd heard that sleepwalking was a solid defense for murdering your wife if there's documentation of previous, similar events . . . I have since heard that it's not).

Now it seems like my action-filled dreams are limited to seeing 3-D geometric patterns on the ceiling, usually well-lit, and me waking up my wife to show her and explain the details. She's usually not interested.

But the tradition continues . . .

So far, daughter #2 only talks in her sleep. When my son was much younger, I woke up to him standing next to my side of the bed. Fortunately, my ever-vigilant wife sounded the alarm, 'He's still asleep . . . and he's about to pee!' When daughter #1 was younger, I followed her down the stairs in the middle of the night and caught her pulling down her pajama bottoms as she was getting ready to pee in the middle of the living room.

I have the flu this week, and I left work early Monday. After daughter #2 came home from school, I went upstairs to take a nap while she went across the street to play. Unfortunately, daughter #2 has become quite the 5th-grade socialite, and her friends started ringing our phone just a few minutes after she left. Around 5 p.m., I gave up and called her to come home.

From 5:17 p.m., when I gave her the phone, until 6:35 p.m., when my wife called, there were no dreams.

For somebody who always dreams, that's pretty frightening. When daughter #2 woke me up to talk to my wife, I felt like I had to crawl out of a deep black hole to wake up. And that darkness is all I remember about those 78 minutes.

Pretty scary, although I'm sure the fever prompted that deep sleep; but I keep wondering, where did I go?

Just in case you missed my previous post, only one person can answer that:

Fever, Nyquil and Associated Creativity

I've been sick the last couple of days . . . running a 102+ fever and over-indulging in Nyquil. I've had some great ideas for blogs during the last 24 hours, blogs that The Twilight Zone's Rod Serling would've been proud of . . . just wish I could've remembered them by the time I got to the keyboard. Although my fingers are dancing across the keyboard . . . just like I do across the dance floor (I had a cousin tell me that he was happy to see me dance just to confirm the whiteness of our family's roots).

Monday Morning Mistake

There's Uncle Joe, he's a movin' kind of slow at the Junction. Petticoat Junction (for you youngsters, that's a 60s-era TV theme song)

That was my theme song this morning as I stumbled into our office break room and fumbled for a cup of coffee. This was a 'cuppa joe' morning . . . don't care what it tastes like, just pour over my head.

But one should never sacrifice sharpness for the desperation of a caffeine boost, and this morning I did.

My friend and co-worker Clay, the near-professional triathlete and a REALLY nice guy, asked me, 'how's it going?' and I muttered (in a friendly sort of way) something like, 'same ol' same ol'.'

Never say 'same ol' same ol' to a triathlete . . . people who are focused enough and disciplined enough and have enough energy and enthusiasm and attitude and strength and the wherewithall to be a triathlete NEVER have a 'same ol' same ol' kind of day. In the running vernacular, every day should be a shot at a new PR (personal record).

I usually consider myself kind of Pollyanna-ish, but Clay is Pollyanna on . . . well, whatever combination of herbs and proper diet that makes people mega-Pollyannas (he's definitely not a steroids kind of guy). By the time I'm able to pour the coffee over my head, he's bounced out of the room, HUGE smile on his face and has moved on to whatever young, overachieving engineers do on Monday mornings.

And I'd like to say that Clay's energy and enthusiasm for life was infectious . . . but sometimes, when Uncle Joe's a movin' kind of slow, it's best to save that shot at a PR for another day.

By the way, here's Clay finishing his most recent triathlon in Florida. That nine hours on the clock is how long he's been swimming, bicycling and running.

God Bless America!

My wife told me yesterday that we may get a $1,600 tax rebate to spend and help jump start the economy. Saving is discouraged.

I am feeling some kind of patriotic!

In This Corner, Wearing Calico Whiskers . . .

Revised recommended reading list for 10-year-old girls:

- The Art of War by Sun Tzu
- On War by Carl von Clausewitz

And then some book about cats . . .

It's fifth grade, and the cat-fights have started. Yesterday's best friend is in tears. Something about last month's best friend and the two Populars, or Plastics depending on the Disney movie you just watched, acknowledged bitches and leading candidates for Britney-hood.

She said, then I said and she laughed, then she came over, and I went over, then we laughed and she cried; I didn't mean to but they made me and said this, then I said, but before I could, she went and I didn't, but they did . . . and that was just on the phone while I was still at work.

Daughter #1 is nine years older than daughter #2. The heavyweight cat fights didn't start until seventh grade then, but as girls have become better trained and more catlike and the malls and movies and TV offers more catty opportunities, the title matches have dropped to the fifth grade.

Daughter #1 was pretty callous, when necessary; and at the drop of a 'you're not my friend anymore,' she would casually reply 'see ya' and walk away. In a day or two, they were friends some more. Daughter #2 has a harder facade and, as a result of having an older sister, is a little more savvy at 10 than her sister.

Fortunately in real life, but unfortunately in the cat wars, daughter #2 is very sensitive. If she accidentally hurts a friend, she is devastated,. Like her older sister, she is tolerant of just about anybody, which attracts guerilla cat fighters waiting for the opportunity to pounce on the weak and unsuspecting. And when the pipe bomb of non-Hollister clothes or Target shoes or last week's music explodes, daughter #2 and soon-to-be-victim friends are caught in the crossfire.

The hardest part for my wife and me is to avoid giving proven advice: 'Walk up to her and slap the holy shit out her!'

So, instead, we counsel and cuddle and help make amends with hurt friends, then we walk into our room and:

We're NOT ready for this.

Addendum: when we asked daughter #1 to give advice to daughter #2 on dealing with girls, she said; 'Hang out with boys.'

Mondays: All You Need is Love

Everybody knows Monday.

I crawled behind my keyboard about 6:45 a.m. I'm way behind on one job (because of last week's surprise), and I'm responsible for our Marketing Excellence Team (METs) meeting at lunch (and my preparation is far from excellent). I'm beat: I worked 23 hours just on Thursday and Friday of last week on the afore-mentioned 'surprise' project, then daughter #2 was sick most of the weekend, and, of course, the Cowboys lost (they didn't lose it; they gave it away).

I open my e-mail, and there's a note from the technical leader on last week's surprise project (two days to turn around what normally takes two weeks): 'thanks for your hard work.' Yeah, yeah, whatever.

Around mid-morning, I'm copied on an e-mail from a firm principal to the firm president: 'Major kudos to George Bowden, a miracle man, on the quick turnaround . . .'

At the end of my noon meeting, one of our conference call participants, before hanging up, takes the time to say 'Thanks! Good meeting.'

About 2 p.m., a technical lead's Reply to my draft of a proposal team org chart arrives: 'I think this is really great! You’ve captured just what I was trying to articulate.'

I'm headed out the door about 4:30 p.m. (I did come in early, okay?), and one of our marketing group members stops me at the door: 'I just wanted to say how much I appreciate the work you've put into the METs program. It's really good.'

I have to figure out a way to get to the office tomorrow morning; I flew home! What an amazing day . . . and it's Monday!

Make somebody's Tuesday. Or Wednesday, Thursday, Friday or their weekend. Sprinkle some of that magic 'thank you' dust, and watch 'em fly away (there's a little Peter Pan in all of us).

And thank you, Beatles:

All you need is love
All you need is love
All you need is love, love
Love is all you need

And to James Brown:

Wo! I feel good, I knew that I wouldn't of
I feel good, I knew that I wouldn't of
So good, so good, I got you

Wo! I feel nice, like sugar and spice
I feel nice, like sugar and spice
So nice, so nice, I got you

A Whiff of the Past

Ambition overcame me this afternoon, and I started disassembling this 40s-era floor lamp that my Aunt Mary gave me 10-15 years ago. It's a nice, off-white lamp, cast-iron base with a slender tube leading up to one main light with three small chandelier-like arms; all we need to do is add is a bowl for the top and re-wire it, which was my mission for the afternoon.

As I disassembled, I carefully drew everything I could, trying to record how wires were connected and which pieces were attached by what bits of hardware (the landfills are full of past projects that I didn't 'document' and eventually gave up on reassembly). I'm not sure what I took apart, but it was almost like an old movie where the pharaoh's tomb is opened and ancient Egypt whooshes out. Except in my case, as I opened the upper part of the lamp where most of the original wiring connections are, 'old electricity' whooshed and my Lionel train was on the tracks again.

I'm not technical enough to understand or explain how electrical components from six or seven decades ago smell differently, but revisiting this 60-year-old aroma was wonderful! This train first belonged to my cousin Jack, Aunt Mary's son, who is 10 years older than I am, and then was passed on the me. That was the same electrical smell that permeated the room for hours of moving freight along an oval route, until it said, 'find something else to do; this transformer's too hot.'

I gave the train back to my cousin years ago when I recognized the value the tangibles that made childhood memories. I made the trip to Home Depot this afternoon for some up-to-date, non-aromatic lamp components; but if I do want to play with my train again, I saved this one lamp switch in my work bench drawer.

Now where are those army men?

Santa Claus, Moses and Me

When did my beard turn so gray!? I'm blessed with non-graying genes from parents who were still salt-and-pepper in their 80s, and my hair's still brown, but I've been shocked at the last few photos I've seen of myself and how gray my beard's become (I'm also blessed with two college students and a 10-year-old, which certainly accounts for at least a couple of shades).

I've been tempted to shave by that sexy Swedish girl in the '60s Noxema shaving cream commercials from way back:

"Take it off. Take it all off."

Then I remembered a very special prayer. I prepared myself for worship. I dragged my straw out of the closet, wrapped a bandana around my head, slipped into my boots, knelt before the Lone Star flag on my bedroom wall, and prayed to the one who knows:

I was lost in trouble and strife, I heard a voice and it changed my life
And now it's a brand new day, and I ain't afraid to say
You're not alone when you're down and out
And I think you know who I'm talking about
When I don't know how I'll get through
I ask myself:

WHAT WOULD WILLIE DO?

NOT A DAMN THING!