A discussion after the joyful noise that was Friday's Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band show let to a friend asking me what does it for me? Why do I keep coming back? Why I have I seen upteen many shows? Still beaming like an idiot from the 3 hours we just witnesses, part dance party, part political convention, part tent revival, part depraved abandoned, part baptism, all I could say was"All of that." Early on in the show, Bruce promised our feet might hurt, our backs might shake, and you might still grin about it. One of my favorite television characters once said about great oratory "can lift whole houses off the ground." I feel the same about performance of all kinds, but especially about Mr. Springsteen.

He delivered again.

It's always great to hear songs you've always loved when they are performed with such conviction. The 19,000 voice singalong for "Thunder Road" is still in my head two days later, but the new songs and additional musicians that came to bring them alive were equally essential. I was a little worried about that after not really liking the Bruce record. I remember watching one of the televised Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction ceremonies some years ago and the Mamas and the Papas were being inducted. They had so lost a step that 8 singers were needed to help back them up. Springsteen and the E Street Band don't need the help. The horn section, extra singers, percussion added to the fact that something new was being said, and despite it all "the rich guitar player being given a pass" was still a man of the people. And this people was still all too eager to be a part of something larger than himself. Collectively, we've all be at it awhile, and it was nice that the folks on stage haven't lost a step.

There were a few presents for us long time kooli-aid drinkers: "Point Blank" appeared and the last time I heard it live was in 1980 at the Aud, "Rendezvous", which has only be heard on my Ipod and "Mountain of Love", which might have been on the first bootleg I ever purchased. It was fun to see young fans enjoying the new material and the mix of other songs was pleasing to this old pro. Apparently, we nearly got an "E Street Shuffle" according to a set list making the rounds. But, it's all good. It's embarrassing to want so much from music (as the man himself once noted), but when you get "it" there are no words to adequately describe that happy, buzzing sensation of your soul getting a musical feast. And to be a part of a 19,000 voice strong chorus on "10th ave Freezeout" just seals the deal.

Back to my friend's question, it's the music and the way it's performed that gets you, gives your soul a stern talking to, and takes you to places you can't give directions back from and a night on E Street is a sure a bet as you can get.

You got an irish guy and an italian guy sitting at the bar. After a few drinks, a predictable argument occurs. “You’re so stupid.” “No, you’re so stupid,” ” No, you’re so stupid, I bet you probably don’t know when Easter is.” Money get placed on the bar, bartender comes over and the pressure is on. Gent steadies himself, stands up, takes a swig, clears his throat and announces “Easter! is when Jesus Christ, rises from the dead…..rolls away the stone….and, if he sees his shadow….”

Never have I had a monday like I had this past monday. For a couple of years, a colleague of mine and I have had this mostly joking list of the stuff they don't teach you in Marketing/Public Relations/Journalism school.

Gorillagate makes it on to the list.

In case you were under a rock, the male gorilla got out of his cage on Monday. He never strayed more than a few feet away from there, but it was my first instance of being truly scared at work.

One of my reoccuring nightmares here is if an animal got out, then what and since Monday, my mental remote control has being going pretty much nonstop.

As soon as it was clear what was going on, we were dispatched to move people, zoo guests, away and in my place, be the police contact guy. So, I was just outside the gorilla house, keeping anybody who wasn't armed from going in and watching the doors.

Let me tell you, when the ruff lemurs are perturbed, they make a helluva noise, scared the shit out of me. I turned away for a second and they did it again, which caused a coworker to run back to our building. Afraid of what I didn't see, I did too. (Somewhere, there is footage of that embarrassment.)

Thankfully, it ended about as well as something like that could have, and I can remember the inanities of doing laps in my car around Delaware Park driving my boss so she could do live tv with each of the tv stations with a laugh, but it's not everyday Swat comes to call.

It's okay to be a little scared at work, just never thought I actually would be.

I found myself in a ready to smack people mood lately. My lovely eldest daughter has managed to own this year so far and it is really great. One of the jobs she has secured is at Vasillis Express across from Mr. Pizza. She has a couple of crappy shifts and one of those ended at midnight last week. I came over to give her a ride home, but didn't go in, to not get in the way.

Didn't stop four knuckleheads from getting in the way though. In previous weeks, she has come out in tears because the boss had a fit over them turning the open light off at before his perception of midnight had arrived. We've all had nuts supervisors so all I can or should do is listen. But I sat in my car in quiet amazement as these four jamokes were oblivious to the line cook and my daughter sweeping up, closing down stoves, taking in signs, shutting display case lights off. One actually left and returned??

After a long day of fun, the fact that it was 12:25 when they finally stood up quelled the urge to go in smack all four of them upside the head.

I stayed put and listened as my child came out a few minutes later weaving a rather impressive tapestry of obscenities. As she doesn't have the deepest of voices, I couldn't help it, a dumb smirk was sneaking across my face.

It is possible to laugh at !2:45 on a Thursday morning.

Off and on for the past few years, I’ve subjected myself to the hot box of fitness that is Bikram Yoga. After a breather, I pushed myself to three classes last week. The truly scholarly refer to it as “your practice.” I practice Bikram, much in the way an elephant “practices” tight rope walking. Sadly the resemblances don’t end there, but thankfully, that isn’t the point.

It’s all about doing the best you can. When you are as athletically gifted as I (and when I say gifted…), that is a good thing. There are no false expectations, competitions, just a gentle guiding toward better health, actual feeling good and sometimes more.

Every class is taught like it is happening to you for the first time. This makes it good and bad, as your muscles do indeed have memories, and apparently potty mouths.

Once you set yourself past the fact that it is both 105 in the room and somebody else’s heating bill, you can start to slip into the familiar, 26 poses that well, beat you up productively. A friend worried about the heat. I don’t think much about it as, it doesn’t take long for the desert like perspiration to start setting in. The first foreword bend sets off a series of snap, crackles and pops that rivals the freshest breakfast cereal. A series of exercises stressing balance reminds me that I don’t have any. The stretches that follow start to make my lungs hurt as this is where first few classes have thrown me a little, but I persevere, hanging in there. All hope might not be lost as I am able to even assume the tree pose with minimal resemblance to a weeble.

The second half of the class is down on the mats and one pose does have you laying on your stomach, trying to lift everything you can off the ground. Everytime an instructor says to “imagine yourself a bird,” my thoughts tend to go penguins as like them I apparently am not made to fly.

But after 90 melting minutes, I got through it and will head back for more later this week. It’s a bit torturous, and like that commercial with Charles Barkley, I’m not there for the higher consciousness, I’m there because a beer tonight would taste really good.

And it does seem to allow that.

For the unitiated, I do extra work at the First Niagara Center for events as an usher. All about not working terribly hard is me. For the Sabres/Stars game, I got the fuzzy end of the lollipop of assignments. It was nice to get the call as it had been a few weeks, but I was given a door to watch over, near restrooms in a little alcove. The door behaved itself. I couldn’t help but wonder if I was getting punished, but they were filling in the blanks. The usual doormeister was gone so I got the call. It is mostly boring, you can’t see the game very well, so you people watch and that is a festival as you might expect but you feel a little weird as half your sightline is folks entering the bathrooms. Had an awkward reunion with a guy I never really got along with in jr. high. That was weird and sort of set the tone for the night. He relayed to his date that he gave me a hard time and said he was surprised I never beat him up. I allowed how there was still time.

I was occasionally sneaking game glances but you did have to watch out for interlopers sneaking up the stairwell. The middle level of the place is restricted during the game to the folks who pay for the privilege, but that doesn’t stop some smoothies from taking a shot at getting in. I had a guy whose invisible wife was killing him to get a handcarved roast turkey sandwich (yeah, sure), a few other ner do wells, but my favorite was the guy who tried to talk his way up to see Sabres Broadcaster Kevin Sylvester, while Mr. Sylvester was speaking….on television. Something tells me that isn’t the best time for company to drop by, especially when they don’t seem to grasp the nature of your job. That same something told me that the gentleman in front of me knew Mr. Sylvester, from watching him on television like the rest of us.

The Sabres won in a shootout, so I’m thinking all the people who left early trying to “Beat the traffic” are feeling a little foolish, but I showed that door who was boss.

Continuing my car-ma theme from a couple of blogs ago, I did find a nice one. It's in the journal below, but it's acquisition was in an interesting tale as I don't think I want to buy that way ever again. But if I didn’t really like and I do, I might have walked away again. I went to recent used car warehouse sale at Eastern Hills Mall, largely to just see what parked out there behind the food court. There were some vehicles parked in the mall, but I took a “what the hey” stroll to see what was out and about. Now, it should be said, that volume used car shopping is bound to be a little bleah, beige, exciting as watching paint dry, etc. And going to one of these sales is something I don’t intend to repeat.

Anyway, nestled among some overpriced SUVs, Rav4, and other oversized trucksters, I found the Corolla. It looked great, inside and out. You knew it would be worth taking a swing at, so I flagged down a Sales rep to talk more. I had him go get the key after hearing his platitudes. He returned after disappearing to an “office” the dealership set up in an empty store front. I railed at him about all the stuff I wrote about in the “carma” blog two entries ago, so why surprise him with being a jerk later, might as well let him know where I stand from the get go.

We did a couple of laps of the mall and the car and I bonded. This is where the fun stops. I tell my new best friend, Tim, that this car and I are a good match. Let’s go talk to those who need talked to

We journey into the mall “office” where more sales reps, credit people are strewn across a network of card tables and water bottles. We start the ball rolling where an hour of waiting, while furious typing breaks out buying out the rest of my existing loan, evaluating the grand am that I was driving, and the dealership deciding where they will meet me on price. Where I screwed up was telling them to give me the best you can do from the start. Forgot to check on that, but learn from me dear reader. Tim reappears and advises me to follow down Transit Road to his actual office where we will get the papers signed, he’ll get the car inspected, detailed, and ready to go.

I get to meet the finance woman. Prior to arriving, I called my dad who was the wingman on my older sister’s recent lease from the same firm. I wanted to check when his finely honed b.s. detector went off. It was at this conversation. The finance “Expert” showed my deal. Then, the “genius” revealed all these other options available for my protection to further protect my car and my investment, since “Toyotas are complicated and foreign.” That sadly is an exact quote. This car was built in the exotic foreign land of…..Kentucky (thank you Car Fax). I managed to hide my contempt for this financial whiz kid, didn’t even ask her if when her boyfriend blows in her ear, does she remember to thank him for the refill. If she was the first person I met, this wouldn’t have happened.

With most of the staff at the mall, it seemed forever to get the paperwork done, a mere four hours after I stopped by, automotively six years and 40,000 miles younger. Not a perfect transaction, customers shouldn’t have to be on guard and reps shouldn’t be like vultures, and more importantly, the dealer’s staff shouldn’t have such contempt for clients that they barely mask their misinformation to get a deal done. Positives outweigh the negatives, but there shouldn’t be negatives.

Is that so wrong?

Picked up a new car on Saturday after spending some afterwork time looking at new used hooptys. After getting the run around at one sale on Thursday night, I found the 06 Carolla in the photo by chance. I'm laughing a little as the Rep from Thursday called Friday wanting to know if they could get in my price range would I come back. My thinking was if that could be done, why wasn't it the first time?



Found this one and kept a straight face while telling the Thursday Rep why we are done.

While cursing how the office’s enewsletter client decided to fail me, I was distracted again by a car salesman.

I’ve started shopping. While as a friend pointed out, a new ride is an absolute blast, new thrills and all. What wrecks that for me is the crap you have to wade through to get to the thrill point. Thursday night, I met up with a rep who I purchased my last car from at a “Warehouse” sale out at the Fairgrounds. Four years ago, I didn’t give a style or make in mind, just a dollar amount. I didn’t have to have “the car” just four wheels that weren’t trying to kill me.

So, four years later, I’m employing the same methodology as I’ve started to think about the next vehicle. I’ve been looking online for awhile and the danger about that is a simple inquiry gets you lots and LOTS of follow up. So, off to the ag center I trudged, looking for adequate doesn’t exactly get you all a flutter.

I tried out a Vue, a Monte Carlo, a PT Cruiser, a Nissan, Kia Diamonti, an Ion, a Sportage and finally a Camry. There was an Escape in there too, but I got serious about a Camry. Figuring that you can rarely go wrong, we filled out some papers and it could be done at a rate higher than I cared to pay monthly. So, after almost three hours of mucking about, I got up and walked. Crazy, right? Sales rep lets me sit in an Alero and I think I’m done and head for the door. Suddenly, the finance manager wants to talk some more.

And I tell him that the Camry is a nice car, but they want too much for it. I’m sure they can get from some guy, but it isn’t going to be this guy. I set a budget for car payments and that wasn’t a ballpark figure and bid them goodnight. I go about my business today, including layout out a newsletter whose software lopped it in half, subscribers of which will be receive by-weekly since the damn thing apparently can’t handle too much data. Repairing to a local tavern to hear a favorite band and have a beverage, my phone rings. It’s the sales rep wanting to know my thoughts, what do I think, and what if we can get you to those numbers, etc

This is why people do not like buying cars, do not trust car dealers, enter into purchases trying to minimalize their screwing…..

It shouldn’t come to that. Customer should be able to say and have their thoughts taken seriously the first time around. It shouldn’t take all the dickering around, the parades to the “Finance Guy,” the convos with the Sales Manager, as it is all bullshit. That is the part of the car industry is messed up. Sure, it is great at selling cars, but twisted at customers, fine at acquistion, shitastic at retention.

If we can give me more for my trade, then DO IT!!!

See, delete the crapfest of dealer shenanigans, and people become regular customers.

Maybe if the customers weren’t rogered, or have to be brace themselves, the gaggle of sales reps would seem less vulture like. Maybe an atmosphere of all cards on the table on both sides FROM THE START would be good for less grief for customers and less angst from commission hungry sales folks.

Maybe that wasn’t a pig flying by my window……

Thinking of my father-in-law (former father-in-law, not sure what the right title is) today. He passed away in 2008 after an tough cancer fight at Roswell. Today would have been birthday number 76. He died the day before my birthday, so as fellow aquarians, we were pretty tight.

He popped into my brain a bit with the news surrounding Roswell last week. My dad has been involved in some of the computer work there on a volunteer basis that helped move the program along a bit, given that he too is now a patient, makes me think that the facility owes us one.

So, I think Pop would think that was pretty cool. He was a natural cheerleader who was always looking for a way forward. Sometimes his suggestions might feel like a bit of wild goose chase, but in his eyes, it was taking a shot, taking that chance, because that was always better than wondering "what if" in the long run.

Lord knows the people that could use boosts receive them the least. He knew everybody and those he didn't know, a quick conversation might give way to a plan to accentuate those talents he knew you had. He was a pay it forward all the time kind of fellow. I'm sorry he isn't around now to see the great people his grandchildren are turning into, but glad he was here to get 'em started.

I remember telling him (and most of you via the journal) of the journey to get my current post here at the Zoo. Even in the middle of chemo battles, his sly smile couldn't help but come to the surface.

"Aw. c'mon man, you got this."

Yeah, I got it. Happy Birthday, Pop