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Photo Reflection [Feb. 21st, 2009|03:25 am]
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[mood | lonely]


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Desolation. Being alone in the world. Just sitting there. Stagnating. Going nowhere. Wallowing. Deteriorating. The kind of eerie quiet that just isn't a physical sensation but a mental feeling of nothingness. Devoid of meaning and thoughts. Seeming lifelessness.

I shot this pic just outside of the tiny town of Langtry, Texas (population 145, tho I saw no one) last summer. Langtry is home of the Famous Judge Roy Bean saloon/courthouse.

The pic was originally taken in color, but I stripped out the color because the black and white version conveys a more powerful meaning.

It was very late in the afternoon by the time I made it to Langtry from San Antonio, about 450 miles along old US 83 and US 90, some of the lonliest stretches of asphalt I've ever been on. There were stretches of highway where I didn't pass a single car for HOURS. Where I couldn't tune in any radio stations—not even AM. Where there were just vast expanses of nothingness. No cell phone signal. No communication with the world. You can't imagine how much of nothing there really can be until you've seriously traveled the lonely highways and byways of West Texas and along the Mexican border. South Dakota's roads come close to evoking this empty, lonely feeling.

Some of my favorite shots of the entire trip were shot in West Texas along old US 90, which for the most part snakes around the US/Mexico border. Town after abandoned town can be seen along the deteriorating mecadam. By the time I got to Langtry, all the "tourist attractions" (ok, two whole buildings...) were closed. I was about the only one in the entire town at that moment. Which consisted of three streets dotted with mostly uninhabited shacks. I drove around admiring and snapping pictures of the abandoned structures. There were dozens of outbuildings long since occupied. Long since cared for. Just forsaken. Left to the elements.

The only sound in the entire world I could hear aside from my own breathing and my camera's shutter were insects—millions and millions of simple bugs making a loud buzzing sound in the surrounding desert below my feet and over yonder. I couldn't get over how loud their collective calls were. It wasn't an annoying noise; it was peaceful. In a place where it seems there is no life there is life. Lots of life. Small creatures humming along, not even thinking about anything but what God intended them to do: make noise, eat, and reproduce. They don't think. At least I don't think so. They just exist. And do their thing.

Me. It was just me standing there taking it all in. Alone. Solo. Uno. Unaccompanied. Not matter how you slice it, it was just me. Very, very alone. Imagining what it would be like to live there. To sleep on the sandy desert floor below the glorious stars in this place of emptyness. To carve out a place of my own. To exist in a radically different way. To be abandoned here in this barren panorama where few venture and most have deserted for one reason or another. Who lives here? Why? Where did everyone go? Why have I come? Where am I going?

The unthinking person might conclude that this terrain epitomizes lifelessness with its shanties and rotting structures being consumed gradually by mother nature day in and day out. I beg to differ. The desert is teeming with life. The flora and fauna—they're small, but they're all very much alive. They don't sit there and think. They just exist. And co-exist. And live. And die. Even the dirt is alive. It is the basis for plant life; the anchor; the common denominator for those creatures and plants that make it their home and suck its stores of water and nutrients. Protecting roots. Providing dens and burrows. All to support life.

I sat down as the sun was setting. I closed my eyes. This land of dirt and rock and tumbleweeds. Of scrubby plants and warm exposures. I forced myself to purge my mind of everything. Just allow my senses to take command. To feel. To experience. To be primitively human. To reflect on my own self. That voice in my head. To really just talk to that damn voice in my head. And turn it off as if I'm just feeling. Not thinking. Just feeling. Not analyzing. Simply taking it all in like a giant recorder. I still remember how I felt at that moment. God, I remember. Surreal. It was simply surreal.

I sat there listening to the insects. The cool wind blowing on my face. The smell of fresh desert air entering my nostrils. I was in prefect harmony with nature and my soul. If only for an instant. It was superiorly grand to just not think about anything but how wonderful and beautiful and special this place was. To be quiet in thought. To meditate without realizing it. To appreciate God's gift to me at that very defining blink of an eye. To really and truly feel alone. So alone that nothing else mattered except me. It gave me goosebumps. In a good way.

As I sauntered back the the rental car and was about to get it in for the next leg of my 3,000-mile journey, I gazed at the setting sun before me. And I tell you at the very moment as I moved my head in a panoramic view across the lonely endless landscape, I was changed. The experience. The sound. The imagery. The smells. The wind. All of it culminated in a new horizon. A new perspective. A new way of understanding me and my place in the world. If only for a few moments.

I yearn to go back and experience it.  Again and again. To refresh my soul and broaden my dimensions. To purge my mind and reboot. To just feel with the senses. Not be burdened with analyzing much. To feel. To be human. Yet I consciously allow my life to be bogged down in meaningless drama and self-imposed sadness all because of fanciful expectations unfulfilled time and again. What really matters? What's truly worthy of worry? Who am I? What am I doing in my own stagnant life? Where am I going? I dunno. I simply dunno. My mind is a jumble of incoherence. My future an uncertain journey of its own highs and lows. But mostly lows. It's sad. Pathetic. It is what it is.

This photo to me is more than just an abandoned shack. It's a visual recording of an event in my life that I can joyfully recall with great accuracy. The pic symbolizes my experience. My snapshot of life at that very moment. Evoking very distinctive emotion and perception. My mind is abuzz. Taking me back to that place and time. Being at peace. Alone. But at peace.
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Equus on Broadway [Feb. 19th, 2009|05:54 am]
[Tags|]
[mood | pensive]

On February 5th a colleague and I ventured to NYC’s famed Broadhurst Theatre to see the now closed production of Peter Shaffer’s Equus. Before I get any farther let me make it clear that my primary motivation to get tix for this play was to see Daniel Radcliffe in the buff. I had been meaning to procure tickets for a while since I had heard about him ditching his clothes toward the end of the show, but they were outrageously expensive for anything remotely close to the stage. (And if I were going just to see the goods, why would I want to sit far away?!) It wasn’t until I got a sweet email offer from travelzoo.com that I decided their discounted price to see the boy wizard’s penis was compatible with my paltry entertainment budget. Not only did I get a fabulous rate (65.50 per ticket, or about half off the telecharge listed price!), but I managed to get STAGE SEATING, a new experience for me. We actually had elevated seats above the stage looking down on all the action. It was quite remarkable.

Two Co-Protagonists

There are two main characters: Alan Strang, played by Daniel Radcliffe, and Dr. Martin Dysart, a psychiatrist, played by the talented Richard Griffiths (whose performance IMHO outshined Radcliffe’s and stole the show from the otherwise famous Harry Potter player). There are of course other ancillary characters such as Alan’s parents who aren’t really worthy of any special mention here. For the most part, the entire production focuses on the boy and the psychiatrist either in session at the mental hospital or in a re-enacted flashback inside Alan’s mind.

A Sordid Plot

The plot revolves around Dr. Dysart’s indefatigable attempt to understand (if not treat) 17-year-old Alan Dysart who has been charged with savagely blinding six horses with a hoof pick in the middle of the night at a stable where he works. The court has been persuaded by a youth advocate (it’s not clear if she is a barrister, magistrate, or other legal representative) to order Alan undergo treatment with a psychiatrist—who turns out to be a close friend of the advocate—in lieu of a substantial prison sentence. The nearly 3-hour play is essentially a mental tour de France that circumnavigates Alan's unusual psychosis leading up to the vicious acts. Alan seems to become Dr. Dysart’s most challenging but fascinating patient. The playwright makes effective use of frequent flashback scenes to establish Dr. Dysart’s (as well as the audience’s) gradual understanding of Alan’s mental complexity.

Here is the 50-cent summary: After a painstakingly difficult time gaining the boy’s initial trust and willful compliance in understanding his own actions on the night of the crime, Dr. Dysart is able to successfully infiltrate the boy’s head deeply enough to (seemingly) rationalize what has happened. Dr. Dysart employs various techniques such as interviews with the boy’s parents and a mutual "truth game" whereupon each gets to ask the other any question which the other must answer honestly. But digging more deeply to the root of Alan’s troubles requires Dr. Dysart to resort to a much more questionable psychiatric methodology, including a placebo "truth pill", hypnotism, and creatively eliciting the boy’s own confessions and recollections of his deeply anguished childhood and adolescence through trickery, deceit, and dubious dream interpretations.

Barebones Stage

The stage was essentially bare save for four white rectangular boxes that were frequently moved to and fro to simulate various settings. Talk about low budget! In a semi-circle surrounding the tiny stage were stable doors which later in the play housed costumed men with horse heads that were used in a couple of flashback scenes. That’s pretty much it. There was no fancy lighting. No singing. No dancing. Virtually no props. A smidgen of music and sound effects. It was all dialog. Just dialog. And lots of it. (Kudos to Daniel Radcliffe and Richard Griffiths for remembering and sustaining all those lines for so many hours without scripts or queue cards. I couldn’t do it.)

Analysis

So why does Alan blind the six horses? It is Dr. Dysart’s conclusion that Alan, reared by a deeply religious and overbearing mother (and anti-tv father,—a sub-theme I'm not gonna' get into), somehow confuses sexuality with God and horses. It all starts when Alan becomes infatuated with horses at an early age while he is with his family at the beach. A stranger invites him up onto a horse, and Alan becomes mesmerized. He believes he is communicating with the horse. He believes he understands the horse. Connects with him. Feels his pain. Reads his mind. Knows his plight.

But more than that, Alan eventually views horses as god-like forms who are watching over his continual sins. Having read and re-read all of the passages in the bible that mention horses, Alan’s fucked up mind is unable to distinguish the horse as an animal from God the creator and judge of man’s actions. This confusion may have stemmed from a long-hanging picture of Christ on the cross that hung on his wall above his bed during most of his childhood which was later replaced with a picture of a white horse that somehow in Alan’s mind assumed the visual characteristics and head position of Christ during the crucifixion. Yea...kinda' weird.

But inasmuch as horses become god-like to him, horses’ freedom is restricted by man through physical and psychological restraints. And this becomes a concurrent theme along with the religion and sexuality twist. On the night when he’s about to sin by having pre-marital sex with a young stable girl (the very hot but freaky naked scene), Alan's mental state reaches critical mass and he has a complete meltdown resulting in uncontrollable rage because he not only believes what he is about to do with the girl is wrong, but he believes that the horses (or, basically, God) are watching him disapprovingly. Not being able to reconcile this belief, his impulsive reaction is to bludgeon the horses’ eyes so that they can no longer witness his immoral acts.

How and why Alan confuses sexuality with religious worship and God’s watchful eye is a matter of speculation for each viewer to wrestle with based on the yeoman’s work of Dr. Dysart dissecting Alan’s mind. There's substantial dialog regarding Alan's feelings about being in love with horses in a semi-sexual way. I say semi-sexual because he doesn't want to have sex with the horse per se; he desires a deeper emotional connection to the horse and wants to feel what the horse is feeling. But at the same time he has a sort of quasi-lust for the horse. It's really difficult to explain. Then again, the play is about Alan's confusion of sexuality, horses, and God.

The B Story

Richard Griffiths (P.S. LOVE him), who played roles as professors in both Naked Gun 2.5 (remember the lovable Dr. Meinheimer?!) and The History Boys (OMG I fricken LOVE that movie!), was a very believable and affable psychiatrist. Experiencing him in this role made it momentarily unimaginable to recall that this is the same actor who played the downright nasty and uptight Vernon Dursley—Harry Potter’s de facto father—in the Harry Potter movies.

But getting back to the play, while Dr. Dysart analyzes and gains incremental understanding of Alan, he concurrently discovers much about himself and his own issues with his less-than-satisfactory life and profession that makes for an interesting B story. Dr. Dysart is himself an unhappy and troubled soul. Though he hasn’t committed any psychotic acts, he has had dreams of eviscerating children. Being dissatisfied with his unfulfilling psychiatry work and his wife, Dr. Dysart often hints at or directly reflects upon his own depression and mental anguish.

I actually thought this side of the story was a tad more interesting because here you have a psychiatrist who is almost every bit as fucked up as his patient..at least inwardly, which made for some amount of irony in Dr. Dysart's own self-examination. This made me smile because I think most of us are a little fucked up and laden with depression and other problems, including many in the mental health field. The play is actually Dysart's own narration and recollection of his most peculiar case, a small fact that I think is important to keep in mind because everything we see and hear is his account, his perspective. Perhaps he embellishes, lies, or is just plain wrong in his analysis and recollection. Who knows...

Final Curtain

The play, which ended last weekend, was deeply disturbing yet intriguing on many levels. I left the theater with a flurry of conflicting thoughts and feelings about what I had just seen and heard. And what it all meant—if anything. The play was disturbing not because of what Alan did, but because of the religious and psychological reasons underpinning the act. The playwright IMHO was exemplifying what can happen when a deeply religious zealot who “blindly” follows his interpretation of the word of God does terrible things to others for the sake of that (misguided) religious belief. Such as those who interpret (or misinterpret) scripture a certain way, then use that interpretation/mis-interpretation to justify doing X.

Equus was a very cerebral play. Fascinating. Confusing. Weird. Scary. Kewl. And going in a hundred different directions all at the same time. It was really an arduous task to process my own mental reactions to what was being said and acted out on stage. My brain was like a fragmented hard drive spinning unpredictably in many directions, and linking and unlinking hundreds of data streams just trying to make sense of what was going on and reacting to it all simultaneously. Having talked to several people after the play at Junior's for a nice nosh, I wasn't the only one experiencing this.

Most people left the theater thinking about the serious and sordid issues acted out on stage, namely those of mental illness, religious extremism, psychiatry as both science and art, sexuality and religion, and the sheer complexity and individual uniqueness of the human mind. Sure, I got to see Daniel Radcliffe’s penis, which BTW wasn’t all that spectacular in its flaccid state. To my pleasant surprise, the play’s dramatic merits and thought-provoking dialog far exceeded expectations based on my own primitive voyeuristic motivation to see it.


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Destiny at the bottom of the candy bowl [Oct. 24th, 2008|06:57 pm]
[mood | excited]

We have this fairly ridiculously large bowl of "pre-Halloween" candy positioned atop the coffee table in our living room. Its annual mission is to tide the household occupants over 'til those nefarious rugrats dressed in their annual trick-or-treat livery come a rap-tap-tapping on our front door asking for handouts.

In the bowl are (or, more accurately, were) Snickers, Reeses, Kit Kats, Almond Joys, and Mounds—the usual suspects. For security reasons, my mom places the real Halloween candy destined for the kiddies in a clandestine location on par with Dick Cheney's vice-presidential hideout. Though I feverishly search every nook 'n' cranny each year, somehow I never manage to find the cache of candy despite employing search techniques that would make the Hardy Boys proud. I've actually come to the conclusion that said location is not even on the dwelling grounds...

But anyway, as of this morning all of these candies in the "family bowl" had been eaten save for the usual bunch of friggin' Mounds left at the bottom of the bowl like sediment in a cheap bottle of Merlot. I mean, who the hell eats Mounds anyway? They're like an old person's candy! I've been to many old folks' houses and have seen the obligatory dish of Mounds, which is usually adjacent to the hard candies...you know, the butterscotches and the rootbeer candies in twisted cellophane? I guess I've never really thought highly of Mounds because, I mean, there's no nut in them for chrissake! Most chocolate-coconut candies, IMHO, are just better with nuts!

Now, I normally love Almond Joys because of the delicious almond you get in each bar. MMM! But seeing as how someone (ok, it's POSSIBLE that it COULD HAVE been me...) ate the last one, I—in a desperate attempt to satisfy a nagging sweet tooth—reluctantly grabbed a Mounds bar earlier this afternoon.

Sadly, it was all that was available and I had an uncontrollable yearning for a sweet fix worthy of a heroin addict gettin' released from Integrity House in Newark on a welfare payday.

As I unwrapped the red and white wrapper, I smirked at the candy's flat, banal top.

"Humph," I thought.

"It's not really a mound, per se."

"It's more of a plateau. Yea. They should call these plateaus. I'll have to write Hershey a letter."

I was already critical of the candy before it even entered my lips. I was sorta' subconsciously and maybe somewhat intentionally looking for shortcomings to substantiate my pre-conceived opinion of Mounds as a substandard red-wrappered step-brother to the almighty and proud Cadillac of cocounty goodness: Almond Joy.

Bracing for the worst in bland candies sans the nut, I took a small and cautious bite.

As I masticated, something I wasn't prepared for was happening in my mouth. And this time it didn't involve another man.

I began to mull it all over as I chewed and swallowed.

"Oh my god!" I exclaimed out loud as if I just won $50 on a scratch off lottery ticket. (Sadly that's never happened.)

The Mounds bar was good. It was really, really good. I'm talking orgasmic good.

However it happened, I was satisfied. See, I was very pleasantly surprised that the coconuty goodness that is Mounds is actually enrobed in declicious DARK chocolatly splendor! MMM! I never realized Mounds were dipped in dark chocolate, as Almond Joys are covered in milk cholocate! What a wonderful candy!

And so I realized that the dark chocolate is just enough that you don't really need the almond to complement it! In fact, I think the almond would detract from the yummy dark chocolate. It's as if the makers at Peter Paul Company, the originator of the now-Hershey-made candies, actually knew what they were doing when they created two versions of this coconut-based candy.

I concluded that Almond Joy and Mounds are perfect ying and yang. And so it's true that sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don't. (Tho I usually feel like a nut all the time [and am a "nut in real life] I can understand why one candy bar has a nut and the other doesn't. Each has its own special taste and difference that make it unique and yummy.

So now I discovered I actually LOVE Mounds just as much as Almond Joy! 

Who knew?!
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Las Erendiras [Sep. 14th, 2008|09:26 am]
[Tags|, ]
[mood | impressed]


Larger version here.
See other photos from this set 
Wildcard photo.

On my way to el Paso from Austin I stopped for an afternoon in San Antonio where I found a fiesta at Fort Sam Houston, which featured a mini-carnival and an entertainment stage. One of the groups on stage was an all-female mariachi called "Las Erendiras." They were wonderful! I don't know the meaning behind their name, as "erendira/s" is not listed as a word in the three Spainsh-English dictionaries I checked. Perhaps it's their founder's last name...

These women could really play! And sing! I recorded some audio from them, tho I haven't yet listened to it. (I'm fixin' to do that soon!) I had never seen an all-female maraichi until that day, and I was really impressed with these young ladies. I LOVED their beautiful costumes adorned with all the requisite mariachi ornamentation and bling.

I also really hadn't thought about it much before, but a mariachi is historically an all-male ensemble...

Photo taken April 20, 2008.

UPDATE: Being dissatisfied with my inability to translate/identify the name "erendira," I did some more googling and am now comfortable in posting that the name represents a city in the Mexican State of Baja California Norte...

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Rushing to judgment? [Sep. 14th, 2008|06:59 am]
[mood | contemplative]

Yesterday a spokesperson for Metrolink issued a statement widely carried by the media that the deadly train wreck in Los Angeles was likely caused by the engineer's failure to stop at a red signal.

However, I was very glad to read that the National Transportation Safety Board (the agency that will lead the investigation) issued its own statement basically saying not so fast.

Indeed it is way too premature to assign blame so early; the investigation is only just beginning! Essentially, Metrolink has concluded that the engineer must have run a red signal because the CAD records indicate that the signal he passed was red. This is really faulty logic.

It is true that the CAD system (which interfaces the signals and switches) displays near real-time information about the status of every switch and signal that the dispatcher controls in his territory. However, just because the screen and the CAD record displayed a signal as a particular color doesn't make it so! There will need to be significant field analysis to determine if there could have been a malfunction in either  the signalling system OR the interface that updates the CAD.

This technology is far from failsafe, especially considering that Metrolink and Union Pacific use two different competitor CAD systems that are far from seamlessly integrated. (MetroLink uses DigiCon and UP uses CAD III by GE Harris.) In another post, I'll explain the relationship between Metrolink and Union Pacific in terms of dispatching and trackage rights.

I find Metrolink's jumping-the-gun conclusion very curious. Here's why.

As I wrote in yesterday's post, one of the worst things an engineer can do is run a red light. It's essentially an on-the-spot termination. Most engineers are extremely cognizant that not only will they lose their jobs if they run a red, but they're probably going to get killed doing it. A red light means STOP because the block up ahead is or could be occupied by another train or hazard fouling the track.

Depending on length, weight, and speed, a train may require many miles to come to a complete stop. Much like traffic light signals, there are "intermediate signals" between green and red that give the engineer time and distance to safely slow and bring the train to a complete stop without ever having to pass a red. In general, the intermediate signal aspects change gradually from GREEN to FLASHING YELLOW to YELLOW then to RED over many miles and many blocks. All of these pre-warning signals are networked to safely space and control the trains, and have been mathematically engineered to consider the heaviest, longest, and fastest trains that could possibly use that territory. And even then the engineers have factored in extra time and space that gives the engineer lots of warning and time to stop before he gets to the steady red.

The "signal aspect" (the color and its meaning) doesn't just turn from green to steady red in the face of an engineer UNLESS there is a last-second emergency situation ahead that causes the signal system to skip the pre-set order of  intermediate signals. In the railroad industry, a signal that turns to red without pre-warning via intermediate signals is said to have "dropped red in his face." There are really only three ways a signal will do this:
  1. Something on the track ahead is shorting out the signal for the block ahead. The track has low voltage running through it which is connected to the signaling system; kids placing a metal pole (for example) between the rails would be recognized as a block occupancy, which would drop the signal to red in that block and the block before it, without any intermediate signals for a train that is already in or is approaching that block;
  2. The dispatcher drops the signal to red in response to a reported emergency, thus overriding the pre-set intermediate signals. Example: When a police department reports a car on the tracks at X location, and the dispatcher realizes that the approaching train is already entering the block where the emergency has been reported. Here it's an emergency and everyone hopes for the best that the train will be able to stop;
  3. A malfunction. There is a LOT of technology built into the railroad, but it's really a hodge podge of analog and digital engineering manufactured and installed by all sorts of competitor companies and attempted to be seamlessly integrated and work 100% of the time in all types of weather, under all sorts of wear and tear. Yeah right.
It seems unlikely to me that the engineer would run through all of those intermediate signals without slowing down, then just blow right through the red signal unless that red signal was dropped in his face without any intermediate signals to caution and slow him down. Traveling at over 55 mph, it is plausible that if the red signal dropped in his face without the benefit of those intermediates, he may not have had time to stop the train. We just don't know yet.

And by the way, in all this talk about the damn engineer no one is talking about the conductor. No, I'm not referring to the guy who punches tickets (don't think Metrolink even uses those guys anymore), but the guy (or gal) in the cab sitting next to the engineer. The conductor is equally responsible for the movement of a train, and is supposed to ensure the safe operation of the train, including (at UP, at least) calling out to the engineer the aspects of the trackside signals as they are passed. Also, the conductor has his own controls to stop the train in an emergency, like if the engineer has a medical emergency or becomes incapacitated or deranged, which is also a possibility that no one is talking about. So we also need to know a lot more about what the conductor was doing, not just the engineer..

Finally, all of UP's (and probably Metrolink's) locomotives are equipped with SilentWitness camera systems that record and time stamp the engineer's field of vision (including signal aspects) when the train is running. Each locomotive is also equipped with an event recorder ("black box") that is constantly recording data such as speed, throttle modulation, and any adjustments to the controls that effect the movement of the train. Even every horn blow is recorded and time stamped to cross-reference with the video data. This data will be instrumental in determining if there was a malfunction of the signaling system.

I am hard-pressed to believe that the cause of this tragedy was as simple as the engineer running a red signal. But if it is as simple as this, then there are far greater concerns that face the railroad industry when such human error isn't checked by other safeguards such as Automatic Train Control, which has not been widely adopted by the railroads due to its cost. ATC is a computer system that would automatically seize control of a train that passes a red signal, among other features.

At this point I think there is a bit more to the story than just running a red. Once the NTSB collects and analyzes the event recorder and video footage from both trains, I think we'll have a much better picture of how this all happened.
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Railroad safety 101 [Sep. 13th, 2008|04:17 am]
[mood | pensive]

I feel badly for the dispatcher and the train crews involved in the horrific head-on collision that happened last night in Los Angeles which claimed the lives of 12 people and injured over 100 as of posting time.

This disaster makes a lot of people wonder how this could have happened.  Though we won't know who's at fault for many months, perhaps even a year, there are only a certain number of factors that can result in a head-on collision of two trains. As NTSB investigations generally conclude, it is usually a long chain of linked mistakes and unique circumstances that leads to these types of catastrophes. Rarely is it just one main error, and rarely is it just one person's fault.

Here's a cursory review of railroad safety 101.

The public may not be aware that there are many redundant systems built into railroad safety, and wrecks like this (head-on collisions) don't generally happen unless all of the safeguards fail simultaneously. Union Pacific and other railroads have been quite adept at safely moving opposing trains along one single track. In most territories there is only one track to begin with, but that single track has attached to it many sidings which allow opposing and following trains to meet and pass—safely. 

In general, no two trains can ever occupy the same "block" of track simultaneously. When they do, we have a crash. The railroads have developed time-tested safeguards and a solidly built technological safety infrastructure to prevent two trains from even coming close to occupying the same block. These safeguards include:
  • lengthy safety training for dispatchers and train crews who have to memorize the General Code of Operating Rules (GCOR), which if followed to the T would never allow any accidents to happen;
  • lengthy CAD training so dispatchers recognize and respond to potential two-trains-in-one-block scenarios;
  • CAD alarms that alert a dispatcher that two trains are—or are about to—enter the same block;
  • trackside signals that, when working properly and when followed by the crews, only permit ONE train in ONE block at ONE time
  • in-cab signals that show the engineer and conductor the status of the trackside signals for the particular block they are occupying at a given moment;
  • Independent "backup" trackside signals that are not dispatcher controlled which alert other trains that the upcoming block is occupied;
  • Automatic Train Control (ATC), a system that— if working properly—will automatically override the engineer and stop both trains once the trains have entered the same block (or if one train for whatever reason enters a block with a red signal.)
It should be noted that there is such a thing as "DARK" territory where there are NO SIGNALS at all, and trains move safely via "track warrants," or authorities granted by the dispatcher for trains to move between specified milemarkers. However, the territory where the crash occurred is not dark territory; it is "CTC" (Centralized Traffic Control), where there are dispatcher-controlled signals.

Properly working trackside and in-cab signals keep trains safely staggered so that crashes don't happen. Though the dispatcher controls MOST of the authority-granting signals for trains to follow, there are redundant block signals that the dispatcher does not control which, if working properly, will prevent two trains from entering the same block simultaneously. In this regard, even if the dispatcher screws up and gives two opposing trains the same authority to occupy the same block (and if the CAD [another safety layer] permits this, which it shouldn't), these secondary trackside signals work independent of the dispatcher and should signal the trains to stop. Passing a red signal is one of the worst rules violations an engineer and conductor can have. It's a terminable offense with no second chances. These red signals are life and death—job versus no job.

So, knowing that there's all these redundant safety systems interplaying, how can this wreck have occurred?

I have boiled down my hypotheses into two likely scenarios:
  1. Scenario one assumes that both trains were occupying the same block on ONE track (Which is unlikely)
  2. Scenario two assumes each train was on a SEPARATE track heading toward each other (Which is more likely) Update: 7:24 a.m. it is now widely reported that there was indeed only one track.
 Scenario 1:
If both trains were on the SAME track in the SAME BLOCK, ultimately the trackside signals on that particular block of track either malfunctioned *or* the train crews somehow disregarded them (which is highly unlikely). In general, the independent, non-dispatcher-controlled "backup" block signals are the last layer of safety to prevent head-on collisions after all of the other layers fail (attentive dispatcher, crews that properly align switches, etc.)

Moreover, I believe that somewhere along the line a switch from one track or siding to the other may have been improperly aligned (and here the dispatcher plays a key role because the dispatcher controls and monitors these switches), causing the two trains to inadvertently and unknowingly occupy the same bock. But even if that was the case and the crews didn't realize they were on the same block at the same time, the backup trackside and in-cab signals—if properly working— should have turned red, alerting both trains and giving the engineers ample time to safely stop and avert a wreck. All of these safety signal systems are carefully engineered to prevent these accidents, which is why wrecks like this one are rare.

If this scenario is true, at the very minimum I'd bet that it's gonna' come down to an improperly aligned switch (probably left open by the dispatcher from a previous train movement) coupled with a separate technological failure of the trackside signaling system and the failure of the dispatcher to realize and react timely to prevent the crash.

If this scenario is true, the bottom line is that the dispatcher *should have* realized these trains were on a collision course; the CAD system *should have* alerted the dispatcher to this fact even if the dispatcher was unaware, and the trackside and in-cab signaling system *should have* alerted the train crews to stop because both trains were occupying the same block at the same time. So that's at least three separate safety components somehow simultaneously failing.

Multiple layers of safety redundancy failing at the same time rarely happens, but when it does we get a wreck like this one: big, ugly, and deadly. In the final analysis guess who's responsible for the overall safety when it comes to the movement of trains on a section of track? That's right: The dispatcher. The train dispatcher is "the keeper of safety and the enforcer of rules."
 

Scenario 2: Update: 7:24 a.m. Scenario two is ruled out as it has been widely reported that there is only one track in this area.
Scenario two assumes the trains were on TWO SEPARATE tracks heading toward each other. If both trains were on separate tracks heading toward each other AND there was a curve (as has been widely reported), it is very easy for me to believe that train A on track one heading east could have somehow derailed (a whole separate set of factors and hypotheses), jumping its track and plowing head-on into train B heading west on track two. I think this is a more likely scenario than two trains having been in the same block at the same time. As in the previous scenario, I'd bet a switch issue is also at play. Curves and switches are not a train's best friend. You cannot overcome the laws of physics completely by attempting to engineer ways around them. Factors of speed, weight, center of gravity, track curvature, centrifugal force, etc all come into play here. Then there's the factors of weather, track creep (from hot sun spots), maintenance issues, track vandalism, etc.

In both cases, I bet the NTSB will find that there was significant human error in concert with significant technological failure. It is highly unlikely it's just one or the other.

As we learn more in the coming days and weeks, I'll of course have more to say in refining my hypotheses...
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Pecos Beauty [Sep. 13th, 2008|02:57 am]
[mood | peaceful]


Larger version here
See my flickr photos from this set here.
Wildcard Photo.

Pure beauty and peace.

This photo shows the bridge over the Pecos River near La Parida, Texas on US 90 (east of Langtry, Texas). I crossed this bridge April 17, 2008 while on a roadtrip from Austin to el Paso (among other destinations).

I was completely wowed by the majesty of the Pecos River as I drove across it, so once I made it to the other side I pulled a U'ey, drove back over the bridge and found a winding back road leading to a scenic lookout that I had somehow missed the first time I approached. (I guess at 90 mph you miss stuff!) Kudos to TxDOT for having built a great picnic area with such a scenic vista! The Pecos River feeds into the Rio Bravo a few miles south of this bridge.

I was completely alone in this desolate area, and waited about 15 minutes for a even a single vehicle to pass over the bridge. The serenity and natural splendor of this area cannot be explained until you're there. It's the kind of remote but peaceful and awe-inspiring locale where I'd love to sit with someone and talk for an hour or two about life and all its wonders. I walked around the area for a good 30 minutes thinking about how beautiful it all was.

A little field sleuthing revealed that there used to be a scenic lookout on the northwest side of the river (can't really see it in this photo) that has long been closed off and fenced in, picnic tables being completely overgrown. I also saw that there used to be an accessible viewing road that ran alongside the river's west bank (not in pic, sorry). But this too has long been been shut off from the world. I wonder why... You can see what I'm talking about in this google satellite image. (Yeah, I'm a dork.)

I really enjoyed photographing this bridge and canyon area. I'm very curious to know more about the Pecos River and the surrounding vicinity.

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Maybe I DID make the right decision... [Sep. 12th, 2008|08:53 pm]
[mood | uncomfortable]

Just found out about this horrific train wreck in Los Angeles tonight. A Metrolink passenger train ran into a Union Pacific freight train. It happened on the very territory I was training on as an apprentice train dispatcher—the Union Pacific "Los Angeles Subdivision, controlled by the UP San Bernardino Dispatch Center.

One of the reasons I resigned was because I discovered very early during on-the-job training that despite lots of safety features, dispatchers (especially on this particular subdivision) are overwhelmed with the massive volume of trains that have to cross this high-density rail territory, and are pressured by managers to move trains as quickly as possible out of the port of Los Angeles. This makes it waaaay too easy for dispatchers to make mistakes that could permit two trains on the same track at the same time resulting in catastrophic results.

Mistakes and General Code of Operating Rules (GCOR) violations happen ALL the time but generally don't result in such wrecks. Safety is supposed to be paramount, but Uncle Pete wants to get those trains a movin' on to their destinations. I guess that's why UP is self-insured and has a designated multi-million dollar budget set aisde for FRA fines and legal settlements.

I would bet any amount of money that when the NTSB concludes its investigation of this wreck a year from now, one of the main causes will have been dispatcher error.

Maybe I did make the right decision in leaving this pandemonium...

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American Express: Don't leave home without calling them and telling them you're leaving home... [Sep. 12th, 2008|06:24 am]
[mood | rejected]

A recent letter to the big wigs at American Express. I doubt it will ever make it out of the envelope...

Dear American Express:

I am writing with the hope that an actual human may read this letter and consider its merit. I have emailed customer service in reference to the substance of this letter, but have received no responses to my six emails over the past month.
 
For starters, I have been a loyal American Express cardholder for 10 years, and my accounts (one Gold, one Blue, and one Green) are—and always have been—in excellent standing. I travel out of state on long road trips about four times per year. Most of these trips are far outside of my home state of New Jersey, and each trip typically lasts between one and two weeks. I prefer to use use my American Express cards over others solely for the benefit of the unrivaled Membership Rewards program, in which I have accumulated 130,000 points to date.

I have learned from rough experience that any time I travel outside of the tri-state area and attempt to use any of my American Express cards, they magically become shut down for “security reasons.” I have been repeatedly told by your customer service representatives (hereinafter “CSRs”) that out-of-home-state transactions are suspicious and therefore trigger red flag "fraud holds" on the accounts pending verification of the cardholder’s identity. In these situations, I am routinely forced to call customer service and verify all sorts of information about my account before I can legitimately use my own cards.

On many occasions—especially in the middle of the night and in the middle of Nowhere, U.S.A.—my cards seem to get shut down just as I’m trying to get fuel or lodging.  Many times these are remote places with poor or non-existent cell phone coverage, and I must resort to using a Visa or Mastercard credit card in place of my American Express cards because there is no way to call customer service let alone go through the bureaucratic identity/fraud prevention rigmarole. (My Visa and Mastercard providers, by contrast, have never suspended charges pending a phone call as “fraud precautions” even when I am waaaay out of state and charging large amount$). It should be noted that while this de facto requirement to call customer service whenever traveling outside of New Jersey is an unnecessary hassle, it is not the core reason I am writing today.

On August 7, 2008, I called the toll-free customer service number on the back of my Gold card to proactively advise your “fraud detection department” of my plans to travel through seven different states in the Midwest. A less-than-helpful CSR by the name of “David” in what he stated was an “Indian call canter” (he refused to say which call center or city in India, a trend that would continue in my horrendous CSR experience) answered my call. In broken English, “David” assured me he would put a note on my account that I would be traveling in the states I provided to him so that my card was sure to be ready for use without interruption. “No problem!,” he told me as he clacked away on his keyboard.

After being reassured by “David” that he put a note on my account, I asked for his operator identification number. I always obtain this information for my records when calling about any of my accounts. “David” refused to provide his ID number, saying he could give me only his name because it was a “security policy.” Completely confounded, I further questioned “David” about his refusal and the alleged policy. I informed “David” that in all the many times I have called American Express for account issues, I have always been provided a CSR number upon request. “David” again told me he could not give me that information.

I asked "David" if I could speak to his supervisor, and after being placed on hold for nearly15 minutes, an alleged supervisor—also surprisingly named “David” (though, not surprisingly, also speaking broken English)—advised me that there was a “strict policy” that CSRs, for their own “safety”, could not provide callers with their ID numbers. I reminded supervisor “David” that these ID numbers are internal and alpha-numeric, and that I was unaware of any international guidebook for the public that cross-references American Express CSR ID numbers with their names and addresses. It is ironic that supervisor “David” provided me with his FIRST and LAST name (pseudonyms I’m sure), yet could not (or would not) provide me with his internal CSR identification number.

Supervisor “David” told me “not to worry, friend”… that I “don’t need an ID number” because my call is “all in the computer.”

I asked supervisor “David” to read to me the note CSR “David” posted to my account during our chat. I was not surprised to quickly learn that only half the states I provided as travel destinations had been included in that note.

This is a prime example why I ask for an operator ID number: so that when I’m trying to get gas at 3 a.m. in a remote town in Missouri and my AmEx card doesn’t work I can call customer service and be able to provide the CSR with a record of when I called, to whom I spoke in reference to the account, and what the note should indicate. CSR "David" failed to properly notate my account.
 
At this point, I asked to speak to the call center manager. Supervisor “David” said he could not allow me to talk to the call center manager, that he had the “highest authority” and that he felt I had been assisted “satisfactorily.” Supervisor “David” then told me the only thing he could do was transfer me to an American call center for further assistance.

I was then transferred to a call center in Canada (location kept “top secret”) where Ellen, operator N85229, assisted me. When she accessed my account, she told me that no record of my call to the Indian call center existed. I again provided the travel destination information to her, and she accurately read back to me what I had provided. She even gave me a reference number.

The next day, I called customer service again to ensure that my account had been updated properly. This time I spoke to Mark, operator N14691, at another Canadian call center (location of said call center again kept clandestine). Mark verified that there was indeed a record of my call to Ellen the previous day, and that a note on my account accurately reflected the states in which I would be traveling. Bother Ellen and Mark were happy to provide me with their internal operator ID numbers.

This practice of CSRs refusing to provide their ID numbers for customers’ records and peace of mind in your Indian center(s) is unacceptable, whether such a policy exists or not. There is no cogent rationale for CSRs to withhold their non-identifiable-to-the-public NUMERIC identification numbers. I have encountered this problem only with American Express. Over the years in dealing with utilities, banks, credit card companies, loan providers, merchants, etc., I always ask for—and am always provided with—the CSR’s ID number. CSRs working for companies that don’t utilize identification numbers always give me a first and last name or some other form of identification.

Moreover, I work in an emergency caller center and am required to clearly state my operator ID number at the beginning of every call. This policy makes sense for all types of call centers so that callers have a means of identifying to managers and others the person with whom they spoke in case an issue arises. It is also helpful for customers to be able to identify CSRs when corresponding with management to praise reps who provide good customer service.

In closing, I implore you to review your call center policies regarding the dissemination of CSR ID numbers and require by policy that all CSRs provide their existing identification numbers upon request to callers. Keeping communications transparent is paramount for healthy customer service. American Express cannot sustain quality improvement when its customers are not even permitted to know the secure identity of the CSR handling their requests and accounts. In the future, I will not discuss my account with any American Express CSR before obtaining his or her ID number. I am also encouraging friends and family members to adopt this routine when dealing with American Express and other large companies.
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Stupid people part IV [Sep. 8th, 2008|12:35 am]
[mood | mischievous]

I received an interesting icebreaker email from a user on a personals website I currently market myself on. In my "ad" I use the word "averse," as in I'm not averse to one-night-stands or friends with benefits. (I'm totally not, by the way, in case any hot and available men are reading this...)

Apparently HotGuyNJ84 thought he was smarter than me and thus sent a snappy obiter dictum in an introductory message indicating that the word I should have used in the aforementioned sentence is adverse instead of averse. Being confident in my correct word selection—and desiring to be a real dick in return—I sent him back my own snappy reply:

Hello HotGuyNJ84! Thank you so much for responding to my ad! It is with deep regret (but with a hint of diabolical glee) that I inform you that your correction of my word selection for the sentence in question is unfounded.

Syntactically, the proper word to use in constructing that particular sentence is indeed "averse" and *not* "adverse." Adverse is an adjective that describes something unfavorable, such as weather, while averse (which is generally followed by the preposition “to”) is an adjective describing the disinclination of a person to favor something—a verb (most common) or a noun (less common). The “something” is what comes after the preposition “to.”

Examples:

    * I am not averse to skiing.

    * I have an aversion to marshmallows.

    * Due to adverse weather, the picnic has been canceled.

    * Monica’s chronic lateness adversely effects the other team members.

Though I am quite liberal about the ever-morphing acceptable alternative usage and style of the English language (in terms of variations and creative twists in grammar, syntax, spelling, and abbreviations, to name a few), there are just some diehard principles that are indeed black and white…like the difference between adverse and averse. If you're going to have the gall to call me out on my purported misuse of a word in a personals ad, you might want to consider making sure you're right before sending me an icebreaker in which you critique my grammar/syntax, dumb ass.

It's too bad you're a moron because judging from the photos in your ad, you're pretty damn hot. I’d totally go out with you for that reason alone. Like my ad clearly states, I’m not averse to one-night-stands or friends with benefits. Unfortunately, I am averse to dating a guy whose clumsy and misguided attempt at introducing himself consists of saying hello followed by correcting the prospective date's grammar and syntax allthewhile being completely wrong about the alleged faux paux. It’s just not sexy.

Get a dictionary. Get a clue. Get a life. Thanks for messaging!


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In memoriam [Apr. 5th, 2008|04:49 pm]
[mood | sad]

Laurie Orologio
June 10, 1967-April 1, 2008

In memory of my cousin, Laurie, who sadly took her own life last Tuesday. We will miss you.


Photo from Cheryl's wedding, October 27, 2007.
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The evil of turning 30 [Feb. 12th, 2008|02:27 am]
[mood | morose]

Today I turn the big “three-oh”. Sigh.

I always knew this dreadful day would come, and alas it’s finally here despite my cleverest efforts to (psychologically) stave it off. I mean, if I don’t peel off the February 11th page from my Far Side desk calendar, it’s not really the 12th then, is it?!

Yes—more than one third of my projected life expectancy is now history. I can’t think of many other things this depressing at the moment, though I can thankfully say that lots of people don’t think I’m 30, and that helps to curb the mental anguish a little. Just this morning I had to pull out my driver’s license to prove I’m gonna’ be 30 to a co-worker who insisted I barely look old enough to drink (bless his sole). He’s a total heterosexist ass, so I know he wasn’t flattering me.

What bothers me most about the past three decades is that I always thought I’d be “somewhere” by age 30. “Somewhere” as in not where I’m at now, you see.

I always assumed, for example, that by now I’d be in a romantic long-term relationship with a guy; that I’d have a “successful” and “noble” career (I should be a lawyer by now, as I’m often reminded); that I’d be driving a BMW or some other sporty car; that I’d be totally independent in swanky new digs, attending cocktail parties and living the life of Riley. That’s the “somewhere” I always had in mind.

But the "somewhere" I’m actually at is a whole other zipcode on the other side of the continent.

I’m completely alone in terms of any meaningful relationships (even the cats only “love me” when I pop open Friskies, for Chrissake). I haven't ever known real romance; I’m in a dead-end job that sucks more and more by the week; I’m driving a riceburner with 130,000 miles on it; I’m back sleeping in the same lumpy bed I had when I was sporting braces and riding the cheese wagon. And as far as cocktail parties are concerned: my weekend nights are mostly spent at work often with people I dislike trying to help other people with their problems while my own problems fester. That’s the “somewhere” I’m at now.

These past few weeks I’ve been having these deep conversations with myself about the first 30 years of my life. Mostly these thoughts have consisted of chronicling my bumper crops of failure year after year, beginning with pre-school (I had to be removed from the class) and ending—at least up until the present moment—with me quitting a good job with a great company and regressing in every conceivable context.

Betwixt those two events is an ocean of monumental blunders that will forever be highlighted on my curriculum vitae of dumb decisions, stupid mistakes, and other enumerated shortcomings. Like having been through the criminal justice system—twice. Like not being able to cope with the stresses of law school and giving up. Like failing calculus FOUR times in college before finally passing—with a C. Like taking 7 years to earn my bachelor’s. Like landing a fabulous job with a Fortune 500 company, then bailing because I couldn’t handle it. Like meeting a terrific guy but letting go because I was afraid of commitment...afraid of having to break up down the road. It seems I have a penchant for failing, or at least royally fucking things up especially when they're otherwise seemingly good.

Of course, I must assume full responsibility. I can blame no one but myself for screwing up so much. I control my destiny. I am the captain of my ship. Yadda yadda yadda.

Yes, I’m wallowing in self-pity at the moment, but I think I’m entitled to be morose/bitchy/angry at the world and myself every once in a while. Sure, I’ve had good—even great—things happen in the past 30 years. I should be grateful I’m healthy and ambulatory and have a couple of redeeming qualities and worthwhile things going for me and around me. It's not all bad. But it isn't all good, either.

It would be un-American not to get on my soapbox to rant at times. After all, we Americans are supposed to keep wanting more and more all the while working hard and complaining as we achieve this semi-measurable thing called success, right?

“No pain no gain,” right?

“Gotta’ be in to win it,” right?

"You reap what you sow," right?

Is there any end to these hackneyed clichés that are part and parcel of the very culture in which I coexist but often despise?

True to my Aquarian nature, I’m an individualist and revolutionary who makes my own path and doesn’t worry what others think. I’ve never been in the mainstream and probably never will. I poke fun at the sheep in this world who aimlessly follow the cultural trends and the celebrity gossip and the incessant materialism that is synonymous with Americanism. But there are times—like now—when fitting in and attaining those tangible markers of success wouldn’t be so damn atrocious but would be welcome.

Lately my mind’s been a tempest of mixed emotions and contradictions fluttering about this whole dirty business of turning 30. “Magenta”, as Blanche from The Golden Girls would say to describe feelings that you can’t really explain to someone (or even to yourself) because they are mixed-up and ever-changing. I don't know what to think. I just know it sucks that I'm not nearly at the "somewhere" I thought I'd be on this very day. And maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't even like to be at that "somewhere" I always thought I wanted to be if I were there today. Who knows. All I do know is that I'm tired of being unhappy and I'm tired of  incessantly reminding myself of my many failures. I wish I could stop. But it's like having a physical scar as a constant reminder of the trauma that caused it. Only it's mental.

I guess we all play the "coulda’, woulda’, shoulda’" game when looking back on the past. This post reminds me of an earlier post I made just after pulling the plug on law school after watching the film Elizabethtown. Not much has changed since that post except my current occupational circumstances and physical environment. Though I’m no longer in law school and I’m back in the Garden State working the same job I left for greener pastures (and paper), I still stand by what I wrote. I only wish on this day I could really take my own words to heart a bit more.

Amid this madness of  turning the corner on what's really just a chronological age, the logical and reasonable thing to do is to suck it up and exercise some moxy while taking stock of what's good. That's easier said than done. Despite the mental peril of turning 30 amid little success worthy of showcasing on this grand occasion, I should probably set some realistic goals and work at attaining them. Indeed I do have some goals, both short term and long term, though of course they require lots of $$, which is in short supply at the moment.

But right now I'd rather sit in a dark room with depressing music and a bottle of booze to ease my sorrows. No, this isn't the worst day of my life. But it isn't the best either. This day can't end soon enough. And yes: tomorrow is another day blah blah blah and all that happy horseshit. I'll move on of course, but not without a bit more vitriol.

Oh, there’s nothing like the milestone of turning 30 to put everything in perspective.  And before I know it, I'll be saying the same thing at age 35 and 40 and 45 and 50. Aging is a motherfucker. It really is.
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T.E.R.M.S. what? [Jan. 17th, 2008|02:09 am]
[Tags|]
[mood | nostalgic]

Tonight I had the pleasure of chatting with a former colleague at Union Pacific Railroad. We were apprentice train dispatcher candidates who trained together for three long months this time last year. It was a blast regaling old times during our dispatchers’ “bootcamp” in chilly Omaha, Neb.

We were laughing our asses off at one of the funny events that happened at the hotel where we stayed, Candlewood Suites at 108th and Dodge in Omaha.

Kristi and I had hit it off from day one and became instant friends.  About three weeks into our stay, all the newhires staying at Candlewood were moved due to an ongoing renovation. Kristi and I requested (and received) an adjoining room in another part of the building. Now, ordinarily this wouldn’t have passed muster: two opposite-sex coworkers with an adjoining room. But being that we both slept with men, it seemed legitimate to me as the gay voice of reason.

Of course, there were rumors early on among the group that the two of us were sleeping together and that I “came out” only as a diversion so that I could screw around with Kristi without arousing suspicion. (Aren’t meddlesome colleagues a gas!?) That is until it was confirmed to the rest of the group by another nosy trainee next door that I had “entertained” a gentleman caller whom, he reported, seemed to have had “a really rockin' time” in my room (ok, I think I can pat my own back after that riveting account!) late one night, and thus I must indeed play for the other team. (Ah, DUH!)

Anyway, our suites all had kitchenettes. Nothing fancy: just a stove, fridge, microwave and some other small appliances and cookware. Kristi was always making or baking something in her room despite the fact that he had $40 a day on corporate cards to spend eating out at our pleasure. This one freezing afternoon in February after an especially rigorous day of training I decided to hop in the tub for a hot soak while Kristi was getting changed next door. We pretty much always left the adjoining door open except at night or when entertaining men, so we were used to walking around half naked in front of each other.

About ten minutes into my relaxing soak, I was jolted out of my near-catatonic trance by the blaring sound of the smoke alarm in what I thought was Kristi’s room.

Jumping to conclusions (as I’m [occasionally] apt to do [wink wink]), I started yelling (jokingly) at Kristi—who was in her bra and panties. I assumed she was burning something in her room.

OH GOOD LORD! I shouted (my signature saying according to Kristi),

What the hell are you burning now?!

Much to my surprise (err…dismay), as I emerged from the tub sporting nothing but a sandpaperish terry towel with Mr. Bubble in tow, the hotel manager had keyed into my room to check on the situation and found me—and Kristi—both half naked jumping on my bed flailing our pillows around in a fruitless attempt at silencing the detector. The look on this chick’s face was absolutely priceless! She turned red and ran out of the room.

She thought Kristi and I had been gettin’ our grove on in the shower and that she had walked in on us! Kristi and I busted out in near-pee-inducing laughter for like 30 minutes afterwards, and to this day continue to rejoice in robust gaiety when recalling this situation. It was absolutely hysterical. What made it even funnier was that the hotel staff (four people whom we came to know rather well) was totally confused because we all had so many different people coming up to our rooms at all hours of the night. They must've thought we were the biggest bunch of friggin’ pervs west of the Mississippi! Good times, though.

Those three months in Omaha were among the best and brightest in my life despite the undercurrent of stress UP put on us with weekly exams and quizzes that were job-dependent. I miss UP, Kristi, and Omaha very much. But I’ve moved on even though I long to return to those days when I thought life was just grand and couldn’t get much better.

Kristi and I also chatted about “rules violations,” which are violations of the General Code of Operating Rules (GCOR), an approximately 1000-page binder cataloging every rule, procedure, policy, and protocol that exists on Union Pacific’s 50,000 miles of trackage. As dispatchers, we had to know hundreds of these safety rules, some of which spanned several pages and read like federal statutes. Amazingly, I remember the bulk of them.

There’s one rule in particular called “Restricted Speed,” rule 6.27.

Restricted speed basically says that under certain conditions a train's engineer must proceed at a speed equivalent to his ability to stop the train in half the range of vision short of “T.E.R.M.S.D.” not to exceed 25 m.p.h.. And what does the acronym T.E.R.M.S.D. stand for?

T= Train

E= Engine

R= Railcar

M= Men or Equipment fouling the track

S= Signal displaying stop

D= Derail (an automatic device on the track to intentionally derail runaway trains) or switch lined improperly.

So when restricted speed is ordered, the maximum the engineer can go is 25 m.p.h, but not necessarily that fast. If it’s foggy or snowy or especially dark or the track is curvy, for example, restricted speed could be 5 m.p.h. or less because of the “half the range of vision short of T.E.R.M.S.D." requirement of the rule.

I can’t believe I still remember what T.E.R.M.S.D. stands for. LOL.

Kristi was amazed I still remember my verbal authorities, which are scripts that had to be memorized and regurgitated verbatim. Here’s one:

To allow a train to pass a RED signal (there’s a whole bunch of reasons why a dispatcher would verbally authorize a train past the equivalent of a red light for a motor vehicle, but no need to get into that here) the dispatcher would tell the conductor over the radio:

“After stopping, UP (engine number) at (control point) between (milemarker) and (milemarker) has authority to pass signal displaying stop indication and proceed (track designation) to (track designation), for a (direction)-bound movement. Over.”

Then the conductor would have to repeat back that verbal authority verbatim to the dispatcher.

There are nine other verbal authority scripts.

It was great chatting with Kristi, who is still with UP as a dispatcher in the Houston Operations Center. She still enjoys being a dispatcher and is making good $$ moving trains over the southwest network.

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Can u spell 'ironic'? [Oct. 19th, 2007|09:52 pm]
[mood | amused]

Will that be one lump or two?! I guess they couldn't find a dictionary.
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In memoriam [Jul. 21st, 2007|11:48 pm]
[mood | sad]

This post is dedicated to Tammy Faye Bakker, who died Friday from cancer. She was 65.

Tammy Faye was an amazing woman who was full of hope, energy, and endless spunk. She had a zest for life and spirituality unmatched by any other person of whom I know.

Most people who know me to be iconoclastic and near-Pagan would never think I'd post a memoriam to a former Christian televangelist, but surprisingly I came to revere this woman because of her enlightened values, wisdom, and worldviews first introduced to me when she guest-starred on MTV's The Surreal Life in 2004. Co-starring with porn-star Ron Jeremy and former singer Vanilla Ice, it was the best and most eye-opening TSL season ever. She and Ron Jeremy actually became good friends.
 
I'll never forget the heartwarming episode of TSL where she was mobbed by Tammy-loving drag queens and queers at one of the signings for her book I Will Survive... And You Will Too (a great read). There she made an impassioned impromptu speech about not just "accepting" but rather embracing gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgendered people as God's children and as our brothers and sisters. I think I actually teared up watching it. It was unbelievable and totally unexpected.

Anyway, her appearance on TSL influenced me to read some of her writings about life, God, community, and spirituality, and I came to realize that she was much more than caked-on clown makeup and fodder for bad jokes on late-night TV. I came to discover that she was a dynamic woman (if ever there was a definition for such a word) who was incredibly strong and unimaginably liberal on social issues who believed in loving thy neighbor and forgiving those who do us wrong. She struggled with many personal issues in her life, let alone health problems, and I give her mad props and extra kudos for overcoming the scandal that befell her first marriage and ended her televangelist career. It is sickening to read that nearly every news article about her death talks in great detail about her negative past.

Her son, Jay Bakker, is a revolutionary Christian preacher whose unconventional ministry holds church in bars and proactively reaches out to the homeless, sick, imprisoned, and underprivileged much to the criticism of many Christian leaders who have called his tactics and teachings tantamount to blasphemy. (He supports gay marriage as a Christian right, for example.) In many ways, he is faithfully carrying on his mother's legacy. I once saw a documentary about him which was as equally moving as his mother's speech on TSL.

Tammy Faye has always had a huge gay following mainly because she spoke out against other "Christians" who continuously bashed LGBT people and spewed hateful rhetoric (including "Dr." James Dobson, Pat Robertson, Jerry Falwell [may he rest in hell], and associate ilk.)

I will miss Tammy Faye. Goodbye Tammy!
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How I miss Lansing [Jul. 9th, 2007|01:16 am]
[mood | sad]


Grand River dam in Lansing, MI.
Bigger version.
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Just when I thought my life was back on track (sort of) from a continual pattern of poor life choices and other variants of flawed or questionable judgment, I find myself yearning to go back to Lansing to pick up my life where I abruptly left it. I know I can't do that, but I really wish I could.

This is a picture of the Grand River dam in Lansing. In the background stands the Lansing Board of Water and Light building, a beautiful old landmark downtown that will soon meet the wrecking ball as redevelopment plans seem to have been shitcanned by the city.

The photo makes me sad. Very sad. I used to trek down to the Riverwalk a few times a month all year round to just watch the ducks and talk to strangers and homeless people. It is a beautiful and serene place where I always found total peace and solace from the hells of law school, an endeavor I later abandoned in a dumb grass-is-greener decision to pursue "other opportunities" that proved to be colossal lemons.

The river, like my life, keeps rolling along, but its flow is kept in check by a man-made dam that is no longer needed to hold back the massive energy it stores. Sometimes I feel like that river—any river: just keep moving along day after day, week after week because that's all I've ever done and that's all one can really do. But unlike the river, I don't have a clear destination. The Grand flows into Lake Michigan. Where do I flow? Where will I end up? Nobody knows. I don't know. But yet I keep rolling along charting different courses and getting off track in different tributaries. My mind is a dam which holds me from those things I truly want to do, and it's a hard thing to accept. All the risks I've taken to date have made me stronger in some ways, but weaker in others. For every small victory there are hundreds of losses. Repeated failures build a stream of regret that can be tamed only temporarily.

I think one of the worst feelings in life is making a huge mistake that you can't take back. No matter how much you want to.  Sometimes I get caught up in the misery of the moment and bail out of a situation before it's been given its proper due. Being both a quitter and a failure, I know too well this feeling of complete regret and self-imposed agony in realizing that the future proved much worse than the past ever was. And yet there's nothing I can do to unfix it. So I roll on, and face the painful music of regression in all its repugnant forms.

Have you ever sat and told yourself that you hate your life? Have you ever pondered how much life can really suck, and how you alone got yourself in that miserable seat where you are today thinking about how much you hate your life? And it's not enough to be at your wit's end in a near constant state of total hell and self-pity. Oh no. What befriends the personal grief is the constant vitriolic reminders courtesy of nearly every one and every thing around you of just how much of a giant fuckup you really are. There are varying degrees of being a fuck up. Oh yes. I think I've mastered them all.

At one point I had plans and hopes and dreams; big lofty goals and small desires. I still do. But as time ticks on, it appears that much of what I always wanted will never be. Maybe much of it was never meant to be. I don't know. I don't have a lot of answers. Hardly any.  I'm left only with agonizing questions and "what ifs" that leave me sour and sick. True, life is uncertain, and you have to plod along in the muck and misery to get anywhere. But it's a lonely place. It's a sad place. It's a place I've been stuck in a lot.

I miss my old life. BIG time. I miss my nightly runs: Five and a half miles around MSU: Passed the frat houses  where people were partying. Passed the library where people were learning. Passed ol' Sparty, who always seemed to greet me as I looked up at his bulging pecs at the half-way point. Passed the wonderful gardens and meticulously kept lawns on Harrison. And passed the Red Cedar River, an oasis of calm and natural beauty that gently flows into the Grand. I miss resting at the boat launch where I'd sit on the dock and ponder life, admiring the reflections of the boats in the moonlight on the perfectly still water, thinking about my place in the greater cosmos. I was all alone, yes, but yet the whole world was with me. It was my place. Not just a physical place, but a mental retreat where my mind was free to wander and relax and enjoy, and where I was at total peace with myself both physically and psychologically.

Those many nights I felt like I was on top of the world. I was sweaty and thirsty and tired, but I felt in control of my life and in control of my destiny. I felt like a real person who was on his way to something spectacular. Now I'm left simply with the memory of what was, and it's painful. I got myself where I am today; no doubt about it. But if I could go back and pick up where I left off, I'd do it in a heartbeat.

I miss you, Lansing. I miss you, East Lansing. I miss everything you had to offer and everything you graciously gave me. But most of all I miss my old self. And I want it back.
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Shame on Big Brown [Jul. 9th, 2007|12:21 am]
[mood | cynical]

I stumbled across this gem of an article in Newsday. Apparently the number crunchers at UPS "outfoxed" the NJ Legislature's intent to extend "all" of the benefits of marriage—save for the precious title—to gay and lesbian couples in the Garden State. Um, big surprise that a huge corporation doesn't want to provide more health benefits. And UPS isn't the only mega corporation not playing nicely; FedEx (even more disgustingly than UPS) refuses to extend coverage to Massachusetts gay couples who are legally "married." (UPS at least complies with MA law.)

It is clear to me that UPS is violating NJ law, which of course they are free to do until a party in interest spends the money to fight for what they should rightfully be entitled to under state law. See NJAC 37:1-31 and 37:1-32, which makes it pretty clear to me that there is no distinction for married versus "unioned" when it comes to health benefits.

Of course now there's going to have to be a lawsuit, and we won't see any resolution for several years.

I addressed the subject of the landmark NJ Supreme Court case which forced the NJ legislature to revise the NJ marriage statutes in this post.
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Happy Independence Day [Jul. 4th, 2007|01:54 pm]
[mood | bitchy]


Fireworks slide show here. (New window)
BIG version here. (New window)
View all photosets here. (New window)
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Flickrmania [Jun. 26th, 2007|01:58 am]
[Tags|]
[mood |accomplished]


Larger version
Slideshow of this photoset.
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This evening I spent a few hours prepping photos for a huge flickr upload. I cherry-picked and cleaned up about 200 photos from my state/county fairs collection. I still have tons more to upload, but I made a good dent in posting almost everything I want from last year's marathon fair tour through the midwest (eight fairs in seven days covering five states). Because I take so many damn pictures (my fairs collection alone contains over 5,000 images) and because I'm so anal, it's a big undertaking to sift through, crop, touch-up, tag, and upload all the pics. But I'm glad I am finally making the time to get these up for others to enjoy.

This pic is from the Missouri State Fair last August. This handsome firefighter, Austin Sorenson, was quite photogenic as he hung from the side of a fire engine during the fair's daily parade. He can put my fire out any day.

Due to time constraints, I had only a few hours to spend at this fair, but they were well worth it. I moved like the dickens to see and photograph as much as possible. Then I ended up sleeping in my car in the fair parking lot to rest up for my trip to Iowa the next day, though I hardly got a wink. The next morning I spent photographing Sedalia's little downtown, which was nearly deserted. I then returned to the fair before taking off for Iowa, waaaay behind "schedule."

One of my favorite pics of all time was snapped on my way through Missouri, and I'll be posting that in the near future (it involves lightning!).
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Freak show by the sea [Jun. 24th, 2007|11:54 pm]
[Tags|]
[mood | amused]


Ok, so he's not a freak, but he's
the exception...

View this photoset as a slideshow.
My other photosets are here.

Yesterday I went to the 25th annual Mermaid Parade in Coney Island, NY. It was the biggest freakin' freak show I’ve ever seen in person, and it was totally fab. There were old freaks, young freaks, baby freaks, freak wannabes, and freak aficionados. This burlesque New York-style "Mardi Gras" drew tens of thousands of freak voyeurs curious gawkers like myself to the beautiful Coney Island seaside to initiate the official start of summer in a magical place once home to the Bowery, Luna Park, Dreamland, and Steeplechase Park. Though these legendary amusement parks are long gone, the spirit of Coney Island's halcyon days of sideshows and weirdos lives on due in part to this wonderful only-in-New-York annual celebration.

For years I’ve always wanted to see this bonanza of spectacularly-dressed marchers parading around (it's hard for me to pass up any parade, much less one with copious  eccentrics!...), but for one reason or another I never made it. This year I seized my fleeting life by the horns and hopped on the "F" train to join in the merriment.

Coney Island—long infamous for its plethora of masquerading freaks and oddities—had no shortage of said freaks and oddities marching in the parade (and spectating as well). Though mad props go out to the thousands of parade marchers who adorned colorful, stylish, flamboyant, and just plain off-the-hook garish costumes galore, my favorite getup was the Metro card clan. Their costumes were made completely out of…you guessed it, METRO CARDS. It was quite the creative wardrobe.

The most common costumes were mermaids, mermaid devils, pirates, sea hags, sea cowboys (first time seeing those), sailors, marine animals, and anything having to do with the sea or, as Sponge Bob would say, nautical nonsense. There were also lots of costumes that had nothing whatsoever to do with mermaids or the sea, which were equally cool. Many paraders took a lot of creative license in their mermaid/quasi-mermaid garb. Scores of women were completely topless, their tits hanging out (or drooping as often was the case) for all the world to see. (This was the Mermaid Parade, all right, but definitely not sponsored by Disney!)

I think what made this parade so well attended this year (as many annual attendees informed me) is the fact that this is the last year that Astroland will be open. When it closes this fall, Coney Island as we know it will be a memory. Thor Equities, a major real estate developer, recently bought most of the land between the NY Aquarium and the Parachute Jump (site of Astroland), and plans to turn the land that was once home to America’s playground into high-rise luxury condos, hotels, and malls after it razes the amusement park sometime next year. Only the Cyclone roller coaster, a city-designated landmark (which is apparently leased by the city; I have to research that whole thing), will remain. I am currently doing some fact checking so I can post about this ordeal. There are thousands of news articles, websites, and blogs to sift through.

There were a number of protesters at the parade who carried signs displaying their anger at Thor Equities. A large float with a coffin embellished with “RIP Coney Island” drew deafening boos from the crowd, as did signs with pictures of high-rise buildings and demolished carnival rides. (The coffin pic link above isn't mine...I didn’t get a good pic because I had my zoom lens on, and I was too close to get a decent shot.)

I would estimate the crowds at over 100,000, and that’s conservative. It took me nearly two hours to walk ONE block because the throng of hot sweaty cattle wasn’t moving and the NYPD totally fucked up traffic and crowd control. (More like what crowd control?!) I have never seen so many people at a parade except the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade. Fourth of July at the U.S. Capitol isn't as bad crowd-wise as this parade.

I took a little more than 1400 pictures, but I had no external flash, so most of them came out less than desirable because of the harsh shadows and inherent exposure problems shooting in such bright sunlight. I was lucky to get any pictures, as NYPD provided no crowd control on the boardwalk. Hundreds of photographers—some press but mostly hobbyists— pushed through the barricades and into the parade route to get the best shots, in front of those of us who had secured front-row real estate for over an hour before the parade. I declined to act so savagely even though there was near anarchy and I too could have stepped on men, women, and children to "get the shot." Shame on those photographers who took advantage and were downright barbaric not to mention rude. And kudos to the NYPD for enforcing some semblance of order...

Anyway, I posted 77 of the better pics on flickr. When I end up with about 5 percent of usable photos from any given event, I’m content. Ten percent would have been better, but oh well. The more you take, the more good ones you’ll have!  Anyway, there's no shortage of other pics on flickr....25,000+ and counting as of last hour.

Cost of trip:

5 gallons gas: $14.00 (30 miles to the gallon, baby! Go Honda!)
Parking in Hoboken: free (got to know the spots...)
PATH train from Hoboken to 34th St and back.: $3.00.
"F" train to Coney Island and back: $4.00
One bottle of COLD water: $1.00
Ice cream cone (with sprinkles) from Mr. Softee: $1.75
TOTAL COST: $23.75
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