Eleven in '11 ... No. 1

The "Eleven in '11" series is all about those favorite things we all have. Be they things small or large, simple or expensive, important or humble. Whether they're things bound or fitted, wrapped in steel or a pashmina, living and breathing or centuries still. If it's a favorite thing, we can't help it (and we don't care) if it means nothing to someone else. It's a you thing and it's a me thing when it comes to the Eleven in '11. It's personal and subjective, and darn it, we can't live without these things (or, perhaps it's a thing we'd like to have).

I'll share eleven of mine over the next era, epoch, or eon (however long it takes, there will be eleven entries from yours truly), and just as important, I look forward to hearing about yours! Our respective Eleven in '11 are coeval and equal herein the pages of the ole porkster.

So, here goes:

No. 1.

fountain pens.

Love 'em since high school when mom (lovely mom) gave me my first one. Here are some of the good or more popular ones that I have:

Pelikan

Montblanc

Parker

Shaeffer

Porsche

Namiki

Sailor

Waterman
Faber-Castell

.

There is something about fountain pens that hearkens back to a time when men wrote their letters to the women ("er, woman, Jg. You mean woman.") they loved; and young women at college wrote their betters, that is to say, the parents left behind in that one-horse town, who expected and received a beautifully crafted missive with nary a misspelling ... and both sexes drafted these fine documents via a writing instrument containing a gold nib and an ample ink reservoir, aka, the fountain pen.

Some mistakenly think that fountain pens are snobbish, and that those with a nice Montblanc in their pocket must be putting on airs. Not so! (Doth he protest too much? He doth.) Or, perhaps that's true for some, but you'll know in an instant when that cap twists off, and the pen is brought into service, if a dandy is prancing around before you with an affectation instead of a real pen. Have I ever played the dancing fool? Perhaps, but that would have been decades ago. Now, they're simply utilitarian. I like 'em well made, inexpensive, with plenty of elan. The old American pens (Parker, Cross, Sheaffer) are work horses, though most are now made in China. The Japanese pens (Sailor, Nimiki) have great nibs and the companies give great service. The German (Lamy, Montblanc, Pelikan) pens last a lifetime and are about function (think Mies Van Der Rohe and "form follows function"). The Italian and French pens are beautiful (Waterman, Dupont, Montegrappa, Aurora) and can be expensive.

But the folks (humble salt of the earth types, reared up here in Shropshire) that I spy with my wicked little eye carrying these badboys around in their jacket pockets tend to be academic or writerly or engineers. Nothing like indelible ink hitting a blank page -- a tabula rasa for dreaming or scheming -- a fresh surface to give birth to some wonderful idea that could change the world, or a funny joke that'll make audience members change their shorts. A man or woman with a fountain pen knows no bounds. They are merciless in crafting their prose or laying out architectural fenestration or editing some lucky bloke's latest opus.

Of course, you must have a decent journal to go with your pen. I carry mine everywhere I go to capture an idea for business, or note taking at church, or remembering a thought on a potential article, or suggesting a new direction on a screenplay I might be working on. Pen and journal especially come in handy when you hear GREAT dialog next to you flowing freely for all to hear at a restaurant or The Coffee Bean or your kid's school.

These pens can be very expense, that is to say, upwards of a $1,000 or more (There are some ridiculous examples with even higher price tags, but let's focus on an actual pen that we might like to have or use.), but most decent fountain pens can be had from $100 to $300 American.

And, did I mention they make great gifts? I've given these as gifts over the years to at least a dozen friends or more, and they do make an impression. I received one after high school, college, and law school graduation, and I still have all three and know who gave them to me. And some day, my kids already know this, when they get to high school, they can have any one or two of mine.

Up next?

No. 2.

books.

Share |

Let's NOT Politicize Murder

Every fiber in my being (an overused phrase if there ever was one) wants to shout out in anger over the attempted assassination of Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords. I have a personal response that I'll share with you Re: situations such as these: I never use the perpetrator's name. I give no satisfaction of limelight or infamy or notoriety to fools who seek attention by destroying others. I wish the media would follow suit and simply report on the event and victims and the arrest and eventual trial and execution of these maladjusted types. Instead, we will sit vigil for several news cycles as the media hordes and whores (you know the usual suspects of whom I speak) begin their preternatural muck-wallowing journalism, where they will roll around on their backs on top of the most putrid aspects of this story, like a dog would a carcass sniffed out in the backyard, all in the name of ratings.

I also was/am disgusted by media pundits (with political axes to grind) who seek to imply or impute political motives to this tragedy vis-a-vis certain political camps not of their liking. I found the following Taranto article to be thoughtful, informative and a sobering reminder of what happens when certain politicos and literati are confronted by the unsavory reality of the evil that lurks amongst us.

Click here for the --> JAMES TARANTO Piece in Wall St. Journal

We are all hurting when tragedies like the one in Arizona occur. We become distrusting, or nervous, or worst of all, inured to these sorts of tragedies. I go to a rather large church in Los Angeles, and there are times after I've dropped my kids off at their Sunday school classes, that I look around and wonder, "what would we do if a nutter walked onto our campus?" James Taranto's piece in the Wall Street Journal is worth a read if, like me, you find yourself dismayed by blubbering simpletons seeking to assign blame for this tragedy to their political enemies.

Each morning, I read several English papers (Telegraph, Globe and Mail [Canadian, actually], The Times) to whet my Anglophile appetite. Yet, all three of these fine papers were guilty of attributing, within mere hours, political motives for this tragedy across the pond or to the south. The evening of the tragedy, each had above the fold articles or opinion pieces wondering about, intimating or attributing a supposed motive to the shooting. Too soon? Yes, way too soon; they didn't have anything resembling the full facts of the situation. Nor do we still, IMHO. Bottom line, we need to support our friends in Arizona as they deal with this horrible situation, and send them our prayers and thoughts and well-wishes.

UPDATE: From Steve Kornacki, the News Editor at Salon.com (no conservative rag, she):
Article linked here: Salon.com

Headline: "Americans Get It: It's Just a Horrible Coincidence"

"CBS News is out with a new poll today that finds Americans strongly rejecting the notion that the political climate played a role in Saturday's attempted assassination of Rep. Gabrielle Giffords.

Fifty-seven percent of respondents say that the nation's "harsh political tone" didn't have anything to do with the shooting rampage, compared with 32 percent who say it did play a role. Not surprisingly, Republicans are more unified in denying any linkage (a 69 to 19 percent margin), but even a plurality of Democrats -- 49 percent -- agree that there was no connection. Among independents, the spread is 56 to 33."

.

Share |

Band of Brothers ... the Next Generation

My Life is forever better for having grown up as one of seven boys. There were some drawbacks to be sure (like hiding food so you can actually eat it later alone), but overall I would not trade my childhood with anyone else's. From a very early age you know that life is not about you; at a minimum life is 1/7th about you, and even that fraction would be stretching it.

Being one of the youngest (there's 16 years b/n me and the oldest), I would get a bit more attention from the parents as the years rolled on and the older boys moved out. Although all of us boys adore our mom, my fondest memories of my early years all involve my brothers.

It's kind of odd, but I don't remember my mom ever sitting me down and reading to me. I honestly can't recall a single book that I read with my mom, though I'm sure there must have been at least one. The home life didn't involve the mind so much as the body.

Early years in our house were about the "hunt." My little brother and I were constantly on the prowl for toys that were available to play with, or even better, older brothers to tag along with. As a result of my early tutelage I learned how to play baseball (hardball, not tee-ball); shoot a BB-gun; throw a football; light a firecracker; ride a bike (launching myself off monster jumps); how to expertly use my older brother Jim's slingshot to hail rock projectiles at the neighbor kids hiding behind the railroad ties in the yard; how to light a match with one hand (every 8 yr-old needs to know this); when to fake cry when caught red-handed trying to light the cat on fire; when to pout when the Malibu Sheriff's office saves you and your little brother from imminent landslide death; and how to courageously become fodder for the older kids' experiments which might involve being dragged behind their ten-speeds on your big-wheel at mach speeds, all-the-while screaming in sheer terror and absolute delight ... until you flipped-over in the street and scraped off half of your elbow with gravel embedded in your shin, chin, and ear canal. Good times.

Toys were often hand-me-downs, with an occasional used bike for Christmas. But, the best times were always being with my little brother who was 18 mos. my junior. We did everything together for about 12 years straight, and then only then were we separated by his untimely visit to a juvenile hall facility up by Lake Tahoe. Not so good times, but I wouldn't change any of them for all of the Lee's, knees and tea in China.

And, now my boys are growing up in a household of boys like their old man (they have a half-brother from their mom's new marriage). They see what it's like to love/hate the guy who takes 1/3 of the cookies, tv time, and attention away from you. It's quite a surreal thing to watch what goes around to come around. They have me to help guide them in their fights and quest for the perfect day (which may or may not involve their brother, though it usually does).

BB-guns are big for them right now. Sunday afternoon hikes into the Santa Monica Mountains with their cousin Ryan, BB-guns slung across their shoulders marching to the top of a hill in regimental form. They crawl on their bellies and shoot ancient bottles hidden like enemy positions in the chaparral. Days wind down with karate battles on dad's bed that often end in one of them falling off to a nasty thud, and then eventual laughter. There is always, for our little crew, time for books. The boys, especially the older, plow through one or two books weekly. And, not Dick and Jane, but Harry and Erragon. Waaay more advanced reads than I ever was brave enough to attempt, with 5x the number of pages.

Most important for me, however, is to instill in my boys how to be gracious to each other. It's taken me and their uncles a lifetime of learning this. I hope they give each other the benefit of the doubt, learn to forgive quickly, and hone a sense of "I got your back and will kick someone's ass if you need me to." They can fight with each other b/c iron sharpens iron, as long as they move back to play and loving the other guy with alacrity. When I see these two guys playing together, I am taken back 20 years in my folk's backyard with my little brother. A band of brothers is not easily broken, whether that band be seven or two.

Share |

Brankton Walks Austin (p8)

Earl said, “Brankton, do me a favor and let me look into this. I'll make a few phone calls about Marcus and then call you back. In the meantime, I’ve got this.” Earl stood up from his chair, a man about to swing some of his Fred Flintstone physique around. “What is your assistant’s name?” He dug his toes into the shag white area rug that framed his desk with an extra three feet of matting. Earl was wearing his best grandson birthday party shorts and Riviera Country Club golf shirt with his sandals slipped off somewhere near the ottoman next to his desk.

Brankton's admin was still in his office occupying his $1,200 chair. “Sophia,” she said answering Earl.  She heard the door open in the “reception area” where her desk was. “Hello?” she said.  Sophia and Friday both jumped when the door slammed behind the security officer’s entrance, shaking the wall as it always did when visitors arrived.

“NBC Security!” said a beefy, recently honorably discharged U.S. Marine. "Is Mr. Brankton Newhan here?”

Brankton looked up at Moises Yauch and pointed to an area of the courtyard, asking if he could sit there on the low brick wall. The Rebbe gave him the pointer-thumb okay sign.

“Sophia, can you please put me on speaker phone,” said Earl.

The door opened again, and for a moment Friday thought security had left the office. But, a distinctly high-pitched Brooklyn accent said, “NBC Universal Security!”

The Marine security officer rolled his eyes at his security guard colleague from Brooklyn, “I just said that,” he said. “What, you don’t see me standing here?”

“Yeah, but did you mean it?” asked Brooklyn security.  Brooklyn had been at NBC for twelve years and Marine all of three months. Brooklyn held a visceral and visible chip on his narrow shoulder because some jarhead from Newport Beach, California, already outranked him and was telling him what to do. It didn’t matter to Brooklyn that he himself never graduated high school and that Marine was an officer in the Marine Corps for six years, two tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, with a degree in Criminology from University California Irvine.

“Where are the banker’s boxes?” asked the Marine.

“I thought this was a priority walk-out?” said Brooklyn.

Marine walked back and opened the door a third time, “Here’s the priority: go get several boxes for this office to pack up some personal belongings and double-time it back here.” Marine gave Brooklyn wide berth to walk out the door with some semblance of dignity to carry out his assignment.

“Hello?” said Friday as she walked down the hallway toward Brankton’s office. She and Sophia looked at each other and shrugged shoulders.

Marine turned back to his assignment. He pulled out the email from Marcus Spilka’s office and re-read it to confirm the odd name of the executive he was to escort from the lot. “Is Brankton Newhan here?” he said as he walked in next to Brankton’s office looking about.

Friday with her long-legged stride met him within a few steps. She placed herself between Marine and Sophia. “Can I help you?”

“I don’t know if your office was made aware of this communication, but our Security group has been notified to escort Mr. Brankton’s office from the premises immediately.” Marine held up the email.

“May I see this please,” said Friday firmly as she tried to snatch it out of Marine’s hands. She was surprised how rapidly he moved it, leaving her with an awkward swipe at nothing. “Well, no we didn’t get this communication, and I’d like to read it,” she said.

“Yes, then this must be surprising to say the least, so I apologize,” said Marine ignoring her plea to read the directive and folding the email into his back pocket. “Is Mr. Newhan here or on the campus, because we have to escort him out as well?”

Brankton and Earl Buntz were both speaking, answering Marine and asking questions of their own, but could not be heard because Sophia hadn’t put the line on speaker phone properly. “Brankton, let me,” barked Earl with some finality as to which of them would be speaking to NBC Universal Security. Brankton now quiet in Austin, and Earl Buntz with a lung full of bated breath ready to pounce; both men waited for Sophia to remedy the speaker situation.

The door opened again. A slender 5’ 7” Brooklyn stood with the banker’s boxes next to 6’2” Marine who filled every seam and stretched every stitch of his paramilitary security uniform like some ancient wineskin.

“Let’s get these filled up ladies,” said Brooklyn as he tossed one in Brankton’s office and then another down the hall toward Friday’s office. “You’ve got three and a half minutes.” Brooklyn once heard a colleague say something similar to this some ten years earlier, and it just sort of slipped out of him now, like the kid who knocks the glass of chocolate milk with his elbow and knows it's on its way to the floor and that there's nothing to be done now but watch the final results splash out in an ugly way.

“Hey, what is going on here?” Friday immediately disliked the little guy with the accent that reminded her of her first husband who also just happened to be a full four inches shorter than her height of 5' 11" without heels.

Sophia added, “Yeah, who in the hell are you?” Sophia looked down at the speaker phone waiting for a word of authority to finally emanate from her GE phone system and realized her snafu. She punched the button, “Mr. Buntz, sorry about that – you’re on speaker phone now.”

“Who the hell am I?” Brooklyn looked up at Friday as he walked past her to show Sophia exactly who the hell he was. “I’m the guy who’s going to drag your bony ass up and out of here if you don’t get to steppin’, sweetie.”

Brooklyn grabbed Sophia by the arm and hauled her up and out of the Herman Miller chair. “Ouch, hey!” she screamed not so much in pain but fear and annoyance because no asshole should be allowed touch a woman with such disrespect. Friday immediately moved to the nearest object to swing, a silver platter sitting on its edge on one of Brankton’s bookshelves would have to do. It was engraved with the first public offering information for an Idealab company that Brankton was partly responsible for early in his career: four million shares were issued in its name raising over $22 million. It had never been used for anything but proud display, and with its two carrying slats on the side, it was perfectly suited for Friday’s double grip and her French tipped acrylic fingernails.

Marine hesitated for a brief second when he heard someone barking, “This is Earl Buntz! This is Earl Buntz!” He moved to go around the desk to grab a hold of Brooklyn's arm, hopefully snapping it in the process. He imagined throttling the little jerk’s neck as well once they got this office cleared.

Friday spun and aimed for Brooklyn’s head. Having played 3 years of softball and swung a hammer for almost 7 years as a contractor, she could bring the lumber when she needed to. She swung the platter with all of her might, wanting to knock Brooklyn into unconsciousness. She caught Marine mid-step and square in the side of the face instead. Pwang! The reverberation of the impact on Marine’s head almost broke Friday’s hand. She dropped the tray writhing in pain. The former-Marine security guard just stood there. Still. Not reacting.

“Son of a bitch!” said Friday. “Oh, my gawd, I think I broke my hand,” she grabbed her hand and held it close to her body. "Oh, my gawd!"

Earl continued, “This is Earl Buntz! This is Earl Buntz! My name is Earl Buntz! I am the President of NBC Universal.” Earl had a bank of three sliding doors that lead to his veranda. They were all slid opened and the entire party heard Earl telling all who had ears to hear that he was Earl Buntz. The clowns in clown make-up; the 6 yr-olds in Sponge Bob regalia; the moms and dads sipping on beers; the Mariachi band sipping on tequila shots with hot sauce between sets; and Earl’s wife Marjorie who just rolled her eyes. For about 30 seconds, the party turned in to an E.F. Hutton commercial waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Brooklyn looked on with full satisfaction at the left side of Marine’s face that was already turning three shades of red. “Oh, that’s gonna leave a terrific mark, Col. Oliver North!” Still, Marine just stood his ground.  He had once been in a Humvee in Falluja when his squad drove over an IED and the explosion threw the 6-ton jeep upside down and over the wall of a compound.  He and his men all thankfully survived the attack and subsequent burning vehicle and rocket-propelled grenades; the noise and pain was nothing like what just hit him in the side of the head.  Six years of near-death experiences and bloodcurdling combat, no problem.  Six months back and a sixty year-old, well-endowed administrative assistant  from NBC Universal knocks the living piss out of him but good.

Sophia twisted her arm free from Brooklyn’s grip like she had learned in self-defense class, “Let go of me.” She turned back to the phone, “Mr. Buntz, security is here trying to make us leave the office and we don’t know why.” She almost teared up, but fought it with all of her might.

“Who is there with you, Sophia? Can you read me their names that should be on their uniform,” said Earl.

“Sir,” Marine spoke up, “I recognize your name from your memos. Uh, we were told by Marcus Spilka’s office to come and escort Mr. Brankton and his staff from the lot.”  Marine yawned, trying to hear right.  His hearing was muffled, except for the ringing from platter up against the side of his head.  That was pitch perfect.

Earl cut him off, “Let me stop you right there, sir. I’m going to look into this right now. And, by "this" I mean the way Security treated our NBC colleagues in Mr. Brankton’s office and the sequence of events that lead you to believe you were supposed to escort these folks from the lot. And by "right now," I mean right effing now! If it is even half as bad as what I just heard, somebody’s going to lose a job. Sophia, are you and your colleague okay?”

“We’re okay,” Sophia looked over everyone in Brankton's office, and only Brooklyn seemed unscathed by the entire incident.  He was still smiling at Marine.

Brankton hung up the phone. He had heard enough. He knew someone would be calling him back with details, even if not good news. Brankton half-expected that there was a chance he’d lose his job this year, but he didn’t think Marcus Spilka would be the one terminating his livelihood. His hands were shaking a bit, so he rubbed them on his jeans and let out a long exhale -- a nervous habit from his mom the sigher. He hadn’t noticed at first with all of the yelling back at Team Brankton HQ, but there was the unmistakable aroma in the air of a dry-rub. Mo' the Texan had fired up the grill and had whipped up a mean rub to season the tri-tip steak that was going on the grill for his afternoon meal. It smelled like carnivore heaven.

Please find part 9 here to continue reading ...

Share |