From A Bird's Eye View

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Going to Kathmandu

June 2, 2014By Sparrow/WatsonComments:5 Comments

by Bob Sparrow

“If I ever get out of here, I think I’m going to Katmandu”

Katmandu, Bob Seger

Kathmandu

If Saturday’s Air Canada Flight 55 out of Los Angels to Vancouver was on time, I will indeed be ‘out of here’ and in Kathmandu by the time you’re reading this. No, LA to Vancouver didn’t seem like the most direct way to me either, but it actually was the first leg of the shortest (time-wise) that I could find . . . and afford – 26 hrs 33 mins (My back hurt just writing that). From Vancouver to Guangzhou, China (which is about 95 miles northwest of Hong Kong) and from there into Kathmandu, Nepal. Why Kathmandu, you ask? It was a 70th birthday gift from my wife. No, it was not a one-way ticket! Like most things she buys, she got a ‘deal’ on Groupon – a 12-day trip for two to Nepal, which included a 5-day trek into the Himalayas. Not being a hiker herself, she is not part of the ‘for two’. So I’m with my hiking buddy, who I’ve done lots of hikes with, including Mt. Whitney and Half Dome, Patrick “Trail Boss” Michael. He’s a good friend & neighbor, a good hiker with a quick smile and an engineer by trade, so we have checklists for our checklists. We had both been looking forward to this trip for several months, when after we told a 70+ lady our itinerary, she said that she and several of her friends did that same trip last year. We thought, ‘This may not be quite the adventure we were looking for’, so I contacted our travel agent and asked if there was a little more challenging trek we could take. She answered in spades. We’re now spending 8 days trekking in the Himalayas, with a Sherpa guide and a porter (we’re not sure if that’s a person or an oxen) and reaching altitudes of just under 14,000 feet. We should have arrived in Kathmandu around 10:30 Sunday night and be flying out of Kathmandu early Monday morning (because we needed some more flight time!) into the city of Pokhara (photo at right) where our trekking will begin that afternoon. Over the next several days we will be working our way up to Annapurna Base Camp at an elevation of 13,500 feet. Annapurna, at 26,545 feet is the 10th highest mountain in the world, but ranks #1 as the most dangerous to climb – it has a summit-to-fatality ratio of 38% (By contrast, Mt. Everest has a 9% ratio). That’s only one of the reasons we’re only going to Base Camp, no fatalities there unless it’s from the dal-bhat-tarkari soup. We’ll also be visiting the beautiful Chitwan National Park, doing some river rafting, taking an elephant ride safari, where we hope to see the elusive Bengal Tiger as well as traveling by ox cart through an elephant breeding camp to our hotel. I’ll be used to the oxen’s pace having driven in LA commute traffic.

Bengal Tiger

Nepal is 12 hours and 45 minutes ahead of Pacific Daylight Time (Yes, 45 minutes, just another oddity of this part of the world), so I’ll try to sum up my activities at the end of my day and post so you’ll get it that morning. I’ve read that wifi can be very dodgy over there, so if you don’t hear from me I probably just can’t connect . . . or had a very boring day. We’re crossing our fingers that the monsoons don’t come earlier than expected . . . oops, wait a minute, I just checked the 10 day forecast for Nepal: Rain and thunderstorms everyday for the first week.

It’ll be an adventure!

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A Car Dealer’s Worst Nightmare

May 19, 2014By Sparrow/WatsonComments:4 Comments

by Bob Sparrow

Negotiation with car dealers is child’s play for Linda

I bought a new car a while back; well I should say my wife bought a new car for me, well, not exactly for me, but instead of me. Let me explain. It was time for me to get a new car and I hate the car-buying process. Left to my own devices, I would go to the nearest BMW dealer, find the model and color I like and buy it. I’d trade in my old car – no, I’d never try to sell it myself and maximize my profit, I would take it to the dealer and have him tell me all the things that are wrong with it and generally what a piece of crap it is, so I would feel like he’s doing me a favor when he takes it off my hands for about half of its Blue Book value. So I end up paying top dollar for my new car and get bottom dollar for my old car. No muss, no fuss, no haggling. I’m a car dealer’s dream. That’s why I am no longer left to my own devices when it comes to buying a car, but it is right in Linda’s wheelhouse.

While I’m ecstatic about not having to deal with ‘those car dealers’, there is one major drawback: the black 740iL BMW that I wanted turned into a champagne 460 Lexus, but I guess non-negotiators can’t be choosy. She got a good deal on it and got top dollar for my old Lexus.

Reynolds Buick in West Covina

Linda has driven a GMC Yukon for the past seven years and it was still in very good shape, but it was definitely starting to show its age, a feeling I could relate to, so it was actually me who suggested that it was time for her to buy a new car. I don’t know whether she was more excited about, getting a new car or getting another opportunity to chew up and spit out a few car dealers. She is a super shopper when it comes to buying anything, but she is Wonder Woman when it comes to buying a car.

She decided she wanted another Yukon, so went on line and searched the 11 western states for the model and color she wanted, a champagne silver metallic, SLT – I’m wondering if she has a champagne addiction. Just so you know, if you spend more than a nanosecond on any dealers website, they will track you down and make you believe that you have committed to purchasing your new car from them. You will be bombarded with phone calls and emails, so much so that you actually start wondering if something happened to them if a couple of hours go by without hearing from them.

Anaheim GM dealer

Linda had found 1 (one!) champagne silver metallic SLT in southern California, it was in possession of a dealer in West Covina, who Linda had previously talked to (of course), but the dealer she was presently grinding into fine powder and was ready to strike a deal with, was in Anaheim. It is customary for dealers to ‘swap’ cars with one another if a dealer feels confident he can sell it. The Anaheim dealer, who now figuratively looked like he’s just gone 15 rounds with Mike Tyson, tells Linda that the car she wants is in West Covina and he’s going to get it from them so he can sell it to her. But when he calls them, they tell him that they think it’s sold, so he can’t have it. When the Anaheim dealer tells Linda this, she calls the West Covina dealer and asks if they have ‘her’ car. They say yes, but that another dealer wants it. Linda asks if it’s the Anaheim dealer that wants it and they says yes it is. Linda tells them that the Anaheim dealer wants the car for her and that if they want her to buy it from them, they’ll have to accept the same terms she’s already negotiated. When the West Covina dealer hears the terms, he groans, then is silent (he’s thinking, “A very little commission or no commission?”) and finally says OK. This all may sound confusing to you, but just understand that the bottom line here is that Linda now has the two car dealers trying to screw over each other, while Linda gets the keys to the car.

2015 GMC Yukon SLT Champagne Silver Metallic

As we were heading home in Linda’s new car, I started recounting the savings: a rather large GM Family discount for me being a retired GMAC employee, a rebate from our insurance company, USAA as well as a less-than 2% auto loan and top dollar for her old Yukon. Linda interjects, “Add another $100, I’ve got a full tank of gas here and there’s not enough gas in my old car to drive it off the lot.”

Maybe that black BMW isn’t that far in the future; when I get it, I’ll buy Linda an nice bottle of champagne.

Posted in opinion

THE BIRTHDAY DILEMMA

May 12, 2014By Sparrow/WatsonComments:7 Comments

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Alan with his perfect present

Today is my husband’s birthday. Which means that for the past several weeks I have been struggling to figure out an appropriate gift for him. Some years he goes out and buys himself a whole set of golf clubs and then tells me that’s my gift. But I’m old-fashioned when it comes to gifts. I think it matters that someone puts thought into finding the perfect present. Of course, Alan and my definitions of the “perfect” gift differ a bit. What he really would like is a Shelby Cobra. He has been known to make a perfect fool of himself by approaching Cobra drivers in parking lots with drool slithering down his chin. He also would like to have a date with Kate Upton. He hasn’t seen her in person but I’m sure he’d be drooling over her too. The chances of him getting a date with her is about the same as me buying him a Cobra. It’s just not happening. So I’ve been in my usual quandary about finding him a great birthday surprise. I was going to send him to golf school up in Sun Valley until he said the other day that he hoped I wasn’t buying him golf lessons because he has miraculously fixed his swing. This is generally what happens every year – I think of something “creative” and it turns out to be the wrong thing at the wrong time. But I like to have something for him to open on his birthday. I could rest on my laurels, since bringing Dash the Wonder Dog into our home racked up LOTS of gift points. But I’ve never been one to pass up the opportunity to have a birthday celebration so I was determined to forge ahead in my quest for a gift.

The “new” sensation

A week ago I was lucky enough to get a good hint as he made his daily trek into our office to watch YouTube videos of Brazilian jazz artists. He just discovered YouTube about six months ago,even though they’ve been pretty popular with anyone who likes cat videos for the past eight years. He is constantly going up to friends and saying “Hey, have you heard about this YouTube thing?”. Sadly, given the age of most of our friends, he sometimes finds people who haven’t. He has created his own account to bookmark all of his music and, for all I know, videos of Kate Upton. Luckily, as he was watching Ivan Lins for the 1,000th time last week he said, “Gee, I really wish I could take this music with me when we travel this summer”. I paused. How could I explain that he could watch YouTube on the iPad? Instead, I saw an opportunity and immediately began to research iPods. The next day I bought him the iPod Touch. As long as he is coming into the twenty-first century I thought I’d drag him all the way – messaging, FaceTime and all the games he desires. I was going to unwrap it and download several of his CD’s and favorite songs from the Apple Store, but given my success rate with some of my past bright ideas, I have left it in its original packaging. Which means for the remainder of the day all I will hear is “Honey, can you come in here to help me download?” or “This *&^($# thing doesn’t work!”. It’s never easy. But I will give him this – he has a GREAT attitude about birthdays and aging in general.

Which is more than I can say for some of our friends. We know people who either hate to celebrate their birthday or are stressed out about getting older. Frankly, I think they’re crazy. First of all, birthdays are the perfect excuse to have a party. Secondly, and more to the point, getting older is a privilege. Walk into any pediatric ward at a hospital or talk with a young widow with small children and it becomes very apparent how lucky we are to grow older. And the old saying is true – if you have your health you have everything. Complaining about getting old seems a bit selfish or at least self-centered. Sure, we have more wrinkles and the bones creak a bit more, but if you’re generally feeling good a birthday should be a mark of accomplishment. Being as good as we can be at whatever age we’re at is a good goal to have. Besides, birthdays are the perfect occasion to eat cake and what is better than that? So Happy Birthday to my dear husband today. I hope he hears me since I have a feeling he’s going to have ear buds attached to him for the foreseeable future.

Posted in travel

The Tape Chapter 3 – A Visit with Chief Chuckwalla

May 5, 2014By Sparrow/WatsonComments:7 Comments

(If you have not been following the story of ‘The Tape’ or need a refresher, you can read Chapters 1-2 by going into our archives and looking under ‘January 2014’.)

by Bob Sparrow

While at our timeshare at the Marriott Desert Springs a few weeks back, I decided to take advantage of being near the home of the Cahuilla Indian tribe and follow up on the information given to me by Matt at Chapman University and pay a visit to the tribe. I had contacted Chief Chuckwalla and made arrangements to meet him in a coffee shop in Palm Springs. With The Tape in my hand and Don in my head, I walked into the coffee shop looking for the Chief. I stood at the entrance surveying the small, sparsely populated room when a voice came from my left saying, “Are you looking for a guy in a headdress and war paint?”

Chief Chuckwalla

Embarrassed that I probably was, I turned to meet Chief Chuckwalla, who was wearing a plaid sports coat.

“Good morning, I’m Bob, we talked on the phone”

“Yes, I’m Chuck”

“Oh, so it’s Chief Walla, your first name is Chuck?

“No, my first name is Mark.”

“So it’s Mark Chuckwalla?”

“No, I just use Chuckwalla because it’s the last remaining Inviatim word left in the English language, so I’m holding on to it. You can call me Chief.”

“So are you the current chief of the Cahuilla tribe?”

“No”

I felt like I was part of the Abbott and Costello Who’s On First routine.

Nonplused, I decided I would try to impress the chief with the fact that I’d done my homework on his tribe, by using a Cahuilla greeting. I smiled and said, “Yee-Makh-weh”

He stared at me just long enough to make it uncomfortable and said, “I think you mean Mee-Yakh-weh, which is how the Inviatim Indian would greet a friend. You, on the other hand, just called me a grapefruit!”

“Sorry.” I guess I never was much good with homework.

I continued, “I notice you use the word Inviatim rather than Cahuilla when you talk about your tribe, why is that?

“Cahuilla is the name that the Spanish gave to our tribe; it would be like calling the Italians ‘Wops’ or the Puerto Ricans ‘Spicks’.

(Don echoed in my head: “How’s this going for you so far, you’ve screwed up his name and now you’ve insulted his entire tribe?”)

I doggedly pressed on, “I don’t know how much Matt told you, but I have a tape that a dear friend sent me years ago in a language or various languages that I’m trying to translate, Matt believed part of it was in the Cahuilla, er Ivia language.”

(Don: “I was wondering when you were going to bring me into the conversation, are you going to tell him that I’m dead?”)

Chief: “Matt has done much to help the Inviatim cause. What is this tape?”

The Tape

I held up it up and the chief stared at it

Chief: “Why did your friend send it to you?”

I told him I wasn’t sure.

Chief: “What does your friend say it says?”

(Don: “See I told you you should have told him I was dead!”)

“I actually got the tape in ’95 or ‘96, but when I asked him about it at the time and on several occasions after that, I couldn’t get a straight answer from him, so I just forgot about it. When he passed away a couple of years ago my curiosity was raised again.”

(Don: A couple of years ago, gosh, it just seems like yesterday – where does the time go?”)

The Chief and I sat down in a corner booth where it was relatively quiet and I pulled out my cassette player and popped in The Tape. We both fell silent as I watched the Chief listen. His expression changed from dutiful to curious to interested, to visibly shaken when he stopped the tape and stared at me trying to decide what to do next.

Finally he stood up from the table and said, “You need to see something.”

Entrance to ‘Sec-he’

I followed him outside and got into his dusty Jeep Wrangler and we headed for the nearby foothills. After a few miles we left the main road for a seldom-traveled dirt road which, after a few more miles, turned into no road at all, until we were deep in the Santa Rosa Mountains. After about twenty minutes, we came to a narrow opening which revealed a boarded up, washed out ranch-style dwelling tucked in the back of a canyon behind an outcropping of granite boulders. As we neared the structure, we passed under a weathered wooden archway entry gate with a name carved in it that was barely legible; as we passed under it I read it aloud: “Sec-he”.

I asked Chief what it meant.

“Sec-he is the name the Inviatim gave to this whole desert area, it means ‘boiling water’; when the Spanish took over they changed the name to ‘Agua Caliente’, meaning ‘hot water’. Then the white man came and decided that neither of those names would help them sell memberships to private golf clubs or luxury homes for celebrities, so they changed the name to Palm Springs”.

Chief drove under the archway and parked the car in the shade of a Palo Verde tree in front of the gray wooden structure. He slowly pushes open the front door that had neither locks nor hardware. The wooden floor creakes beneath our feet as I followed the chief to a small room off the main living area that had only a crude wooden desk and chair sitting on a dingy brown rug. Chief moves the desk and chair off the rug and slides the rug over several feet revealing a trap door. The hinges squeak as he slowly opened it. There is a narrow wooden staircase that leads into darkness. I notice for the first time, a kerosene lantern hanging on the wall next to the trap door, as the Chief pulls it down, lights it and heads down the stairs motioning me to follow.

To be continued

Posted in opinion

THE WATSONS WALK WASHINGTON – THE END

April 28, 2014By Sparrow/WatsonComments:7 Comments

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Obviously they didn’t want to hear my insurance woes.

Our final day in Washington DC dawned bright and beautiful. We rose early, anticipating our 9:30 tour of the Supreme Court. As those of you who follow this blog know, I have lost my health insurance, so I viewed this as another opportunity to plead my case. After all, if the Highest Court in the Land won’t hear me out, who will? Unfortunately, those nice people who run the Metro apparently weren’t aware of my plight – or our schedule. There was a huge back-up that caused us to miss our tour. On the upside, we got to experience – and smell – the local Metro riders at very close range. Despite missing the formal tour, we were still able to view the inside of the building and see the Supreme Court chambers from the hallway. It is MUCH smaller that you might imagine. I mentioned this to my neighbor who has argued before the Justices and he agreed with me – he said he had been in small town courtrooms that were significantly larger than the Supreme Court. So just like the First Ladies’ ball gowns, things are not always the size you would imagine. As you can see from the picture (left) they apparently knew that I was coming ahead of time. Of particular interest to us was the exhibit that depicts Sandra Day O’Connor’s rise to the bench. Upon graduating from law school the only job she was offered was as a legal secretary! But she forged ahead and has been a great example of determination and fortitude. We visited the gift shop which sells all sorts of Supreme Court mementos, but somehow I thought it would be hard to take the Justices seriously after seeing them on shot glasses and bobble heads. We decided to bypass the tchotchkes and move on.

Me…being totally ignored by the Speaker of the House

Our next stop was an appointment with Shelley’s congressman, Ron Barber. Actually, our appointment wasn’t with him, but with staff that draws straws to see who has to lead the tours for constituents. We made our way into the bowels of his office building finding, once again, that the office of a Congressman is not as large as you might expect. Think of your dentist’s waiting room and you’re very close to the size of your elected official’s place of work. We had a wonderful tour of the Capital Building – the artwork and statues are truly breathtaking. The capital dome is currently under repair but even through the scaffolding we could see its beauty. As we entered the National Statutory Hall we passed by the Speaker’s Office. I wanted to poke my head in, certain that he, of all people, would be sympathetic to my loss of insurance. Unfortunately, he wasn’t there. Or so I was told. They never let me get close. But then, as if by miracle, as we were touring the Hall, we heard some rustling and sure enough, the Speaker was walking right by us to his office. I shot up to the front of the crowd, jumping up to get his attention. You can see his reaction in the picture (right). Harumpt! All I can say is, he’s just as orange in person as he is on T.V.

We moved on to the Senate Chamber, where we spent a long while, mainly because Abby loved being there and seeing all the goings-on. Which, frankly, wasn’t much because they were in recess. Senator Landrieu gave a speech with no one in attendance except the acting chairman. It’s rather odd to see a Senator give a speech to no one. Then again, the CSPAN cameras were on so for all I know people back in her state were listening with rapt attention. Several senators, including our own John McCain, walked through the chambers while we were observing so at least we knew he was working…or passing through on the way to the men’s room. We then progressed to the House Chamber where I was almost taken down by Security. We had been through security check lines every where we went in Washington but it would seem they are most sensitive when it comes to protecting members of Congress (which is a bit odd given their popularity level). In any event, one half of a foil from a stick of gum set off the alarms. Sheesh! Once in the famous chamber, we tried to imagine State of the Union addresses from the past and where everyone sits. As it happens, there was an active debate on the floor concerning the definition of full-time work. Having spent my career in Human Resources I wanted to chime in with my opinion but I got the distinct impression they were not taking comments from the gallery. Besides, I already knew the Security Guards on a first name basis. One more disruption from me and I would have been touring the Capital clinker.

A beautiful building, and the cafeteria serves a great chocolate chip cookie.

Our beautiful Capital, and the cafeteria serves a great chocolate chip cookie too.

Once our term on Capital Hill ended, we took a pedi-cab back to the Smithsonian American History Museum. Unfortunately, several busloads of intermediate school kids had been let off there to further their education. Here’s all I’ll say about that: if you are going to send your child on field trip to Washington, they should be going on tours, not goofing around with their friends as if they’re at the food court of the local mall. I think I’m getting old.

Finally, we ventured back to Bethesda and to Tommy Joe’s for dinner. It was our luck that it was Trivia Night. We named our team “Elementary, My Dear Watson” and took second place. It was delightful to play as a team; because we spanned so many decades between us, we got most of the answers right. We only lost because we didn’t quite understand the bonus point system, which Abby tried in vain to explain to us. We should have let the youngest of our group be in charge. Anyway, we won a $20 gift card for our efforts. And Watsons, being nothing if not thrifty, used it when we toured Bethesda the next day.

All in all, I have to say it was the trip of a lifetime. Even though I made no progress regarding my insurance. To spend five days with my niece was a gift – we have always enjoyed each other’s company so it was special to share this with her. And I have to say that if my two great-nieces are any indication of the future generation, we’re all in good hands. They “get” history and appreciate those who have gone before them. And for the 26 miles we walked in four days, they were extremely kind about “waiting up” for their Old Aunt Sue.

Posted in opinion

THE WATSONS WALK WASHINGTON – PART TWO

April 21, 2014By Sparrow/WatsonComments:2 Comments

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Eleanor Roosevelt in 1933

When last I left you I was in Washington DC, exhausted, achy and feeling every day of my age. But sleep is a magical antidote and sure enough, the next morning I was raring to go. After another trip on the Metro (we had already learned how to shove ourselves into a crowded train car), we began our day at the Smithsonian Museum of American History. If left to my own devices, I would still be wandering around there. If you love history, The Smithsonian is nirvana. We toured it twice and STILL didn’t visit every exhibit. We loved the wing that displays various artifacts from the Presidents’ administrations but were particularly enthralled with the Inaugural Ball gowns of the First Ladies. Not only were they beautiful examples of couture fashion, but the exhibit gives you a different perspective on the size of the women who wore them. For example, I always thought of Eleanor Roosevelt as a rather large woman but her dress would indicate the opposite. So maybe it was just her height that made her seem big. Or it could be that since this was her first of FOUR Inaugural gowns, the talent of the White House pastry chef took its toll. I saw a picture of her 1945 gown and let’s just say that by then even a good pair of Spanx would not have helped her into the gown from 1933. And who among us can’t relate to that?

A fraction of the shoes in the display

Next we went to the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum. I have always had a special interest in WWII so I was anxious to see it. I was particularly heartened to see that Katie and Abby were very interested in learning more about it and absorbing all that they could. The building itself is a marvelous structure, four stories high, light in the center atrium but dark and somber on the perimeters. As you begin the journey through the museum with movies, pictures and artifacts from the early years of the war, the hallways are quite narrow and gives one a slight sensation of what it must have been like to be hoarded like cattle to an unknown destination – everyone pushing and jockeying for position. To compare one section or display of the museum as being the “most” anything – frightening, scary, sad, depressing – is futile. Each person needs to judge for him/herself what is the most meaningful. Personally, I found the exhibit of over 4,000 shoes on loan from the Auschwitz museum the most unforgettable. Shoes and other personal items were taken from the prisoners upon entry to Auschwitz and sorted for distribution to local citizens or shipment back to Germany. At the end of the war when the camp was liberated there were hundreds of thousands of shoes piled up. In 1945 when the great journalist Edward R. Murrow visited Auschwitz he saw the shoes and wrote the following: “One shoe, two shoes, a dozen shoes, yes. But how can you describe several thousand shoes?” The fact is, you can’t.

After the emotional experience of visiting the Holocaust Museum we were in need of fresh air and food. We found our way to the Shake Shack – one of the more delightful eating establishments I’ve frequented. As the name implies, there is ice cream involved here. LOTS of ice cream. We each had burgers and possibly the best french fries I’ve ever tasted and then moved in for the real deal…ice cream. How good was it? I could have taken a bath in it. I’m glad I don’t live in D.C. – I’d be a Shake Shack junkie. As it was, I needed to get on with the business of why I really came to Washington.

This is as close as they let me get

The fact is, I have had my medical insurance cancelled due to the ACA. All I did was raise my deductible way back in 2010 and – whammo! – they cancelled me this year. Lots of people In Washington had assured me that if I like my policy I could keep it, so I decided I’d go right to the horse’s …. mouth to get some answers. I started with the White House. We had requested a tour and I thought perhaps I could just ever so briefly pop into the Oval Office to see if the President would hear me out. Unfortunately, they told us that they weren’t giving tours that day. The picture (left) is as close as I got to the Oval Office. I was going to shout my questions across the lawn but there were some men on the business end of a some weaponry patrolling the perimeter. They looked like they had had a lot of experience with “kooks”. I decided to look elsewhere for answers, which brought us to the National Archives. Nothing like a little bolstering from the Founding Fathers. I’m not sure they ever had to deal with Blue Cross Blue Shield, but they seemed to be pretty far-sighted on a number of issues so I thought they might also have some insight on deductibles. Turns out, the line to see the Declaration of Independence, The Bill of Rights and the Constitution was the longest we waited in all week. After 45 minutes we finally were let into the rotunda where the three documents are displayed. It is somewhat surreal to see them in person, although “see” might be stretching it a bit For example, the Declaration of Independence was kept in a west-facing window for over 40 years and was thereafter subjected to flash photography until 2012. So unfortunately it is so faded that unless someone told you you were looking at the Declaration of Independence, you might think you’re looking at an estimate for getting your car repaired. Still, to see the founding documents is a real thrill and inspired me to continue on my quest.

Be sure you “subscribe” so you don’t miss out on next week’s thrilling conclusion.

Posted in opinion

THE WATSONS WALK WASHINGTON – PART ONE

April 14, 2014By Sparrow/WatsonComments:2 Comments

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

The Watsons at the Washington Memorial

Several weeks ago my niece, Shelley, asked me if I’d like to accompany her and my two great-nieces to Washington DC over Spring Break. It took me a day to mull it over – not because I didn’t want to go but because I was afraid that “Old Aunt Sue”, as I am affectionately known, might drag down the trip. After all, my two great-nieces, Katie and Abby, are elite athletes and Shelley is an ace tennis player. I try to walk 10,000 steps per day, which is about 5 miles, but the sport I excel at is sitting on the couch, knitting and watching re-runs of Downton Abbey. Often when I move the snaps, crackles and pops that emanate from my back, hips and knees are reminiscent of Rice Krispies. But what the heck, it was the chance of a lifetime so I packed my ibuprofen and off I went. Through some cosmic coincidence, my niece’s husband is also a Watson so the trip was dubbed “The Watsons Go To Washington”. We met up in Dallas and flew into Reagan airport, landing at 12:30 a.m. I was already way out of my element…even though my “body time” was 9:30, I was ready for bed. We hopped in a cab and made the rookie mistake of telling our cab driver we wanted the “fastest” route to our Bethesda hotel. He interpreted that as “speediest” so he took us the long way via freeway vs. the short way via city streets. So it took 20 minutes and $30 more than it should have. The rubes had arrived.

The WWII Pacific Memorial

The next day we set off to see the sights. We quickly learned the Metro system, which is pretty much like every other rail system in the U.S. – it’s crowded, makes frequent stops, and is full of “interesting” people . After a 20 minute ride we disembarked in downtown Washington and began our walk to the National Mall. The first thing that struck me was the sheer size of it. It spans two miles from the Lincoln Memorial on one end to the Capital Building on the other. We decided to split up our tour – half one day and half the other. Since the Lincoln and War Memorials were high on our “must see” list, we began there. First up was the Washington Memorial. Unfortunately, it was under construction or as the guides told us, it was undergoing a face lift. Aha! Something I could relate to – I felt like I was back in Scottsdale. We ventured on to the World War II Memorial which is massive and beautifully thought out. One side is devoted to the Atlantic theater and the other to the Pacific. The countries where the fighting occurred and the names of the major battles are listed on the fountains under each cupola. The most sobering feature was the wall of stars – over 450 gold stars on a field of blue, each star representing 100 men who died in the war. No WWII vets were visiting when we were there but I imagine it must be overwhelming for them to see such a stunning tribute.

Abby’s perfect picture

From there we walked along the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool to the (you guessed it) Lincoln Memorial. Let me just say …it is HUGE. Oh sure,we’ve all seen it in text books and movies but really, you cannot grasp the scale of it until you’re standing on it. My knees and I would like to report that there are 145 steps from the Pool up to the Memorial…and another 145 back down. But the trip was totally worth it. The Gettysburg address is carved on the left chamber and Lincoln’s Second Inaugural Address on the right. I was struck by how moving both of those speeches are; they were artfully crafted and in language that is plain yet eloquent. And most importantly, you get the sense that Lincoln labored over every word until it exactly reflected his beliefs and hopes for the nation. A bit different from the “double speak” we hear today, written by professional speech writers and delivered via teleprompter. When we walked around the perimeter of the monument, Abby, a budding photographer, took the picture (right) that perfectly frames the Washington Monument in the distance.

Next up was the Vietnam Wall. I’m not sure that anything can prepare you when faced with all of those names on the wall. It is truly overwhelming. I knew five boys from my small home town that died in that war. Seeing their names carved in marble is something I will never forget. I’ll write more about that experience in another blog. We sat on a bench near the memorial to rest and plan the remainder of our day. By this time I was exhausted (mentally and physically) so we ventured to the Reagan Commerce Building for lunch. I eased myself down in my chair, every bone in my body aching and desperately in need of serious drug intervention. Alas, I had forgotten to put my ibuprofen in my purse but Shelley saved the day by giving me some of hers. I don’t think anything has ever felt so good as when those pills started to take effect. So, now laced with pain-killing drugs, I was ready to go. We decided to visit one of the lesser-known museums – the National Portrait Gallery. It is a fabulous museum and, among other things, holds the most extensive portrait gallery of American presidents outside the White House. I didn’t read the fine print on the information panel and took a picture with my cell phone with the flash feature on. Apparently this is frowned upon and brought immediate action by the security guards. I had visions of being hauled off to the hoosegow. Luckily, they have seen hopelessly ignorant people before and gently told me to turn off the flash. As if I knew how to do that. I did notice that they followed me at close range for the rest of the day.

By the time we left the Gallery it was early evening so we headed for the Metro station and back to Bethesda. I checked my pedometer when we got back to the room and was amazed to see that we had walked NINE miles. No wonder I was moving like a hippopotamus in three feet of mud. A break was definitely in order. Abby worked on editing her photos, Katie went to the gym for a 50 minute run on the treadmill (because nine miles just wasn’t enough exercise), while Shelley and I exercised our arms lifting wine glasses in the bar. That night I flopped into bed, took more ibuprofen, and prepared for the next day and my real reason for coming to Washington.

To be continued next week…

Posted in Uncategorized

In Search of the ‘t’ in Mortgage

April 7, 2014By Sparrow/WatsonComments:2 Comments

by Bob Sparrow

Mortgage: a French law term meaning ‘death pledge’. For me it must be a ‘death wish’.

There’s a phrase in the mortgage industry that describes someone who is either new to the business and doesn’t know anything or someone who has been in the business a while and is still clueless. That phrase is, “He doesn’t even know where the ‘t’ goes in mortgage”. After a 27-year career in the business, I once again find myself wondering if I remember where the ‘t’ goes, as I was recently presented with an opportunity to get back in the business. As I considered this prospect, I reflected on my nearly three decades in the business and concluded that I could have been a poster child for the ‘Peter Principle’. For those unfamiliar with Peter Laurence’s 1969 book, The Peter Principle: Why Things Always Go Wrong, it goes like this: if someone is good at something, they get promoted, and if they’re good at that job, they get promoted again, and that keeps happening until they are elevated to a job and stay there because they’re not good enough at it to get promoted. More simply put, it says that people are promoted to their level of incompetence. In 1983 I started in the business as a loan originator and was pretty good at it, so was promoted to branch manager and continued through the management ranks until I ended my career as president of a joint venture. No matter what your political bias, we know that we’ve all seen our share of incompetent presidents. I was no exception.

If you’re saying, ‘Wait a minute, why are you telling me about the mortgage business, you’re suppose to take us on a journey to some off-the-beaten-path place?’ Hey, if I’m going back to work, you’re coming with me!

My reasons for contemplating a return to a business that was a major player in bringing our economy to a screeching halt in 2008 are two fold: 1) I don’t seem to be adjusting very well to a life of retirement, and 2) perhaps I wanted to end my mortgage career doing something that I was good at. So after twenty hours of on-line course work and hours of studying and passing both a state and a national exam, I received my mortgage license and last week started working as a loan originator for Metropolitan Home Mortgage, a mortgage banker based out of Irvine, CA. (949) 428-0134.

It’s bad enough that I’m getting back into a business that doesn’t enjoy the best of reputations, but to put some whip cream on this mortgage meadow muffin I’ll be specializing in reverse mortgages. Reverse mortgages or as they’re know in some quarters, Perverse Mortgages, have a rather sullied reputation in spite of the efforts of Fred Thompson, Robert Wagner and ‘The Fonz’ – all espousing the benefits of the loan that pays you. I call it the ‘Hollywood Loan’, not because of the celebrity pitchmen, but because every loan requires the applicants to go to counseling, which is code in Hollywood for therapy. I’ve learned that it’s a very complex loan that has changed dramatically since its inception in 1990 and that it’s not for everyone, but it’s a great loan for the right people.

So sister Suzanne and I have sort of switched rolls with me staying close to home and she off cavorting in Washington DC – a trip that you’ll hear about next week. In the mean time, if I work hard and use spellcheck I may once again find the ‘t’.

Posted in opinion

THE LOST DIVAS

March 31, 2014By Sparrow/WatsonComments:2 Comments

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Last Friday night we planned a great dinner with friends, followed by an Il Divo concert. What we didn’t plan was spending our remaining years lost in a parking garage.

The Seinfeld group was organized compared to us

How can you get lost in a parking garage, you ask? Well, apparently pretty easily. It started out innocently enough – we made reservations at Kincaid’s in downtown Phoenix for a nice dinner before the concert. Problem is, we didn’t check the sports section before we left home and as luck would have it, BOTH the Diamondbacks and the Suns were playing in their respective arenas right across the street. Which in Phoenix means that every street is turned upside down for “game night” – one way streets are reversed, lanes are blocked off, and the police seem awfully serious about imposing their silly “game night” traffic rules. So we pulled up to the corner where the Kincaid’s parking garage is, only to be told by a very nice policeman that we couldn’t cross the intersection to get into the garage – we had to turn left. Traffic was horrendous and we began to panic that we might lose our reservation. So my girlfriend, Terri, and I got out of the car to secure our table and left our husbands to find their way back to the parking garage. Big mistake. Big, big mistake. Let’s just say that if Lewis and Clark had depended on these guys to find the Pacific Ocean they would have ended up in Spain. Terri and I settled into our booth, read the menu, ordered a drink…no sign of our husbands. Another five minutes went by. Neither guy had their cell phones with them (naturally) so we couldn’t call. Finally, my husband came panting into the restaurant with a wild-eyed, distress-call look. Turns out they couldn’t find the right parking garage. At which point I did what every woman in America would do – I sent my husband to the booth to order a drink and I went down to our friend’s car to give directions.

That crisis averted, we had a wonderful meal at Kincaid’s with about 40 minutes to spare before our concert, a 10 minute drive away. We hopped into the car and circled our floor (P2) several times. There was no exit. We circled again, almost getting into a head-on accident when we tried to go “up” the “down” ramp. Finally we found a ramp and followed it…DOWN. And the sad thing is that the four of us thought we had achieved success. We wandered on P3 like Bedouins in the desert until we finally realized that we had only buried ourselves deeper in the garage. Up we went again to P2 and circled. By now the language was becoming colorful. I was imagining a life lived in a parking structure. Finally we figured out that in their effort to control traffic on game night, the garage had put traffic cones blocking the “up” ramps. Once we had dispatched the cones (and we’re very sorry to whomever owns that 2010 Toyota that now has a door ding suspiciously the size of a traffic cone) we sped to the theater. I had purchased reserved “special” parking ahead of time. It turns out that meant we could park on the fifth level no where even close to an elevator.

Our view from the stolen seats

FINALLY, we reached our seats just as the curtain was rising on Il Divo. People all around us asked us (quite curtly, if you ask me) to sit down and get out of their line of vision. We attempted to secure our seats, once again wandering about in a quandary, until we figured out that someone was already in our seats. We quickly found a security person who looked at us with some suspicion. Frankly, I couldn’t blame her – we looked a bit frantic given our recent brush with Death By Parking Garage. She reviewed our tickets, scanned our faces, and then assured us she was on the case. Inspector Clouseau had nothing on her. She had us stand in the holding area while she marched right back down the aisle to grill the people in our seats. So while Il Divo was wowing the crowd with their rendition of “Tonight”, the people in Section 3 were being entertained by a security guard, a flashlight, four idiots in a holding area and the scofflaws in our seats. Turns out, the people in our seats had discovered that someone had taken THEIR seats, so they took ours. Apparently there is an outbreak of seat-stealing in Phoenix. Several minutes later, we finally settled in, much to the relief of everyone in the immediate area.

As for the concert…it was FABULOUS. For those of you who have never heard of Il Divo, they are four tenors who were assembled by Simon Cowell, of American Idol fame. They are from Switzerland, France, Spain and the USA and did not know each other before Mr. Cowell decided they would make a great group. They have previously focused on classical music but this tour they are singing songs taken from the musical theater. They have soaring voices and their close harmony is worthy of goose bumps. Phoenix is the first U.S. stop on their world tour and they frequently said how glad they were to be here after touring Asia where no one understood a word they were saying. Joining them on this tour is Lea Salonga, the beautiful Filipino soprano star of Broadway and the West End. In 1996 I was lucky enough to see her in London in Les Miserables. To hear her sing “On My Own” again after 18 years was one of the highlights of my life. She has not lost one ounce of her talent, range or phrasing.

Lea Salonga in 1996. One of us has aged.

Oh, and about becoming a diva. We learned from several Il Divo fans around us that if you are really a follower of them you are referred to as a “diva”. Based on Friday night’s crowd of self-described “divas”, I’d say their demographic skews to the high side of Social Security. There is something that is both heart-warming and pathetic about senior citizen women shouting out “I love you” to 40-something entertainers. Someone in the crowd offered to take a shower with the French member of the quartet, which he deftly laughed off. I was waiting for one of the “divas” to throw her panties on to the stage. Which, from all appearances, the men from Il Divo could have used as a car cover.

At the end of the night, now considering ourselves “divas” in spirit if not in actual fact, we all agreed that it was one of the best concerts we had ever attended. If they come to a city near you, RUN, don’t walk, to buy tickets.

Posted in Uncategorized

Cinderella’s ‘Big Dance’

March 24, 2014By Sparrow/WatsonComments:5 Comments

by Bob Sparrow

This week I found myself in a bar (What?!) trying to explain to a Brit, who was now working here in the U.S. and who apparently has been in a cave for the last 30 years, the excitement around all the college basketball on TV. I explained that this is the N.C.A.A. College Basketball National Championship Tournament; more succinctly referred to as ‘March Madness’ or ‘The Big Dance’. He asked if this was the finals of Dancing With The Stars. I patiently explained that it is a 64-team, single elimination college basketball tournament for the national championship. I wondered if I was going too fast for him.

“The Wizard”

I proceeded to tell him that for the seeding of this tournament, he’d have to throw out where he thinks regions are in the United States. There are four 16-team brackets, South, East, West and Midwest (I said I think the North is still playing hockey), but this year Milwaukee, a Midwest team, is seeded in the East, Louisiana-Lafayette, a southern team, in the West, Manhattan College, in New York, is in the Midwest and UCLA, is seeded in the South. UCLA however, has no one to blame but themselves for this. The tournament used to be seeded by region, so there would always be a team from each region in the Final Four. Until from 1964 to 1975 ‘The Wizard of Westwood’, John Wooden’s UCLA teams won 10 of 12 championships and the other coaches in the west argued that they never got to go to the Final Four because they were always eliminated by UCLA in the regionals. While geography still plays a small role, it’s more about seeding teams according to ability. My new European friend only perked up when I said the word ‘Wizard’.

Win $1,000,000,000

I asked him if there was a lot of buzz at work about the ‘office pool’ and then disappointed him by telling him that there is not a new aquatic center being built at the home office, that the pool is merely the 64-bracket seeding sheet that allows folks who think they know basketball to prove that they don’t. I told him Vegas gets more bets during this tournament than at any other time of the year, including the Super Bowl. Super Bowl, he asked? Never mind. There are all kinds of ways to bet this tournament and this year, for the first time, billionaire Warren Buffett has offered $1,000,000,000 (yes, that’s with a B) to the person who picks every winner of every game – that’s picking all 62 winners without a mistake. Actually there are 4 ‘play-in’ games making it 66 winners. The odds? One in 9 with 18 zeros behind it! (Update: after two days and only 25 games everyone who entered for a chance at the billion was eliminated)

I told him that he’ll hear some alliterative terms being bantered about this week, ‘Final Four’, Elite Eight’ and bet him that he’ll never hear the word ‘sixteen’ without the word ‘sweet’ in front of it. At the risk of confusing him even more I mentioned that he’ll also hear the term ‘Cinderella’ quite a bit over the next couple of weeks.

I continued by telling him that the term has nothing to do with wicked stepmothers, glass slippers or getting home before your horses turn into mice. Rather, it’s a term for the ‘long shots’ in the tournament. It is usually a small college, seeded 10^th or below in their bracket, with a charismatic coach, who, after his team loses in the ‘Sweet Sixteen’, will dump that school and accept a pumpkin chariot full of money to go to a non-Cinderella school. It usually doesn’t work out and he ends up scrubbing gym floors for a wicked Athletic Director in Podunk Hollow, Mississippi. There have however, been ‘Cinderella exceptions’ in recent years; Wichita State, Butler and George Mason all made it to the Final Four. Coach Brad Stevens, who took Butler to two Final Fours, skipped going to a non-Cinderella school and signed a contract to coach the Boston Celtics, where his team has a .329 winning percentage this season. I think he left his pair of glass slippers back at Butler. Who are this year’s Cinderella teams? Stephen F. Austin, Oregon, Harvard (yes, that Harvard), Virginia Commonwealth, Nebraska and Mercer. If none of these teams are still in the tournament as you’re reading this, you’ll understand why Buffet’s money was so safe!

Cinderella schools can also have unusual mascots. This year we have the Manhattan College Jaspers (a long story), the St. Louis University Billikens (an even longer story) and the Coastal Carolina Chanticleers.

Upon hearing this last name, my new acquaintance lit up and told me that Chanticleer is the rooster in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales (which is exactly where Coastal Carolina got the name!). He was now interested in ‘The Big Dance’ and has a ‘Cinderella’ team for which to root. He thanked me as he left and I thought I saw him doing the ‘Chicken Dance’ on the way out the door. Brits!

(Update: Coastal Carolina lost it’s first game and is out of the tournament)