Well, it happened.
And I have no one to blame but myself.
But for now, whatamiproducing.blogspot.com is being suspended.
I have every intention of starting up somewhere else, because I do enjoy writing, and having 3 other people in the world read it. And I do understand that a blog is a public forum.
But, because there is now a 4th person reading this, a person I’ve spent years trying to stay one step ahead of, I’m moving.
To my blog friends, I’ll email you a new location soon.
To the rest of you, sorry I can’t hang around.
JM
Monday, April 16, 2007
Crabs
My friends live right on the beach, on the west coast of Okinawa. All around the clock there are SCUBA divers in the water out front, checking out a reef and the very cool fish and other water creatures that live in it (around it, under it, I don’t know).
At low tide, the shoreline reveals lots of tidal pools. There’s volcanic rock, covered with seaweed, and then these big puddles of seawater, filled with that same cool oceanic life. Only now it’s accessible to those of us in sandals rather than people with gear strapped to their bodies.
I went wading out yesterday and saw blue fish (not bluefish), starfish, sea cucumbers, and a blowfish that was right out of Finding Nemo.
It’s also a treasure trove of great shells.
I picked up a couple, peered inside, and saw they were still the homes of crabs or gooey things that live in shells, so I tossed those back.
Then I picked up a perfect spiral, with bright red streaks on it, swirling up to a sharp point. It was a keeper. I looked inside, didn’t see anything curled up in it, so I stuck it in my pocket and continued wading.
I got back inside an hour or so later, and put the shell on my dresser to dry out.
We went off to dinner, walked around one of the towns a bit, and got home a few hours later.
I went in my room, and the first thing I noticed was my shell, on the floor, a good 3 yards from the dresser. I seemed unlikely that I had knocked it that far.
My suspicions were confirmed when I picked it up.
This was not your sweet little elementary school hermit crab inside. It was a long hairy legged, tarantula looking, angry crustacean, wondering why it wasn’t in its warm puddle of seawater.
I tried to scare it back into its shell. It was too pissed to be scared.
I retired from baseball this year. I couldn’t hit a 26-year-old’s slider anymore. I can still field and throw.
And I threw the shell through the living room door, across the street, over the beach, and right back into the China Sea.
I have no doubt the thing was fine. The nasty monsters always survive.
At low tide, the shoreline reveals lots of tidal pools. There’s volcanic rock, covered with seaweed, and then these big puddles of seawater, filled with that same cool oceanic life. Only now it’s accessible to those of us in sandals rather than people with gear strapped to their bodies.
I went wading out yesterday and saw blue fish (not bluefish), starfish, sea cucumbers, and a blowfish that was right out of Finding Nemo.
It’s also a treasure trove of great shells.
I picked up a couple, peered inside, and saw they were still the homes of crabs or gooey things that live in shells, so I tossed those back.
Then I picked up a perfect spiral, with bright red streaks on it, swirling up to a sharp point. It was a keeper. I looked inside, didn’t see anything curled up in it, so I stuck it in my pocket and continued wading.
I got back inside an hour or so later, and put the shell on my dresser to dry out.
We went off to dinner, walked around one of the towns a bit, and got home a few hours later.
I went in my room, and the first thing I noticed was my shell, on the floor, a good 3 yards from the dresser. I seemed unlikely that I had knocked it that far.
My suspicions were confirmed when I picked it up.
This was not your sweet little elementary school hermit crab inside. It was a long hairy legged, tarantula looking, angry crustacean, wondering why it wasn’t in its warm puddle of seawater.
I tried to scare it back into its shell. It was too pissed to be scared.
I retired from baseball this year. I couldn’t hit a 26-year-old’s slider anymore. I can still field and throw.
And I threw the shell through the living room door, across the street, over the beach, and right back into the China Sea.
I have no doubt the thing was fine. The nasty monsters always survive.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
So Much To Learn
Did you know there are more than 1800 varieties of pineapples?
That as just one of the things I learned today at Pineapple Park near the city of Nago on Okinawa. It’s not as big as Disney, but boy are they able to pack in a lot of fun in just a little space.
The experience starts in a pineapple-shaped golf cart, and that’s where you feel the true magic of it all.
The cart drives itself!
It may be the power of pineapples that propels it, but somehow, the cart knows where to turn, when to stop and just the right speed at which to travel.
This part of the visit lasts about 10 minutes. Then, before you now it, you’re in the pineapple wine tasting room. Sweet, dry, and dessert are the three main types, and you’re allowed as much as you want, in thimble sized portions.
Honestly, it’s not all that bad. I wouldn’t pull out a bottle for a dinner party, but considering it’s from pineapples, it’s quite drinkable.
Then there’s the foodmart, but it’s not just straight-off-the-plant pineapples, there’s pineapple cake, pineapple jewelry, pineapple soap (I swear), and this horrific pineapple gel stuff.
And they also had sugar cane.
Oh… I also learned that pineapple has enzymes that help digest meat.
Which is good, because last night’s Japanese barbeque had a little extra something with it. We either ate nuggets of chicken cartilage or pig knuckles. We couldn’t tell and there was a major language gap. Whatever it was, it tasted ok, but calling it chewy would be an understatement. In fact, I could still be gnawing on it tonight if I wanted.
A little extra pineapple in my stomach will be a big help.
That as just one of the things I learned today at Pineapple Park near the city of Nago on Okinawa. It’s not as big as Disney, but boy are they able to pack in a lot of fun in just a little space.
The experience starts in a pineapple-shaped golf cart, and that’s where you feel the true magic of it all.
The cart drives itself!
It may be the power of pineapples that propels it, but somehow, the cart knows where to turn, when to stop and just the right speed at which to travel.
This part of the visit lasts about 10 minutes. Then, before you now it, you’re in the pineapple wine tasting room. Sweet, dry, and dessert are the three main types, and you’re allowed as much as you want, in thimble sized portions.
Honestly, it’s not all that bad. I wouldn’t pull out a bottle for a dinner party, but considering it’s from pineapples, it’s quite drinkable.
Then there’s the foodmart, but it’s not just straight-off-the-plant pineapples, there’s pineapple cake, pineapple jewelry, pineapple soap (I swear), and this horrific pineapple gel stuff.
And they also had sugar cane.
Oh… I also learned that pineapple has enzymes that help digest meat.
Which is good, because last night’s Japanese barbeque had a little extra something with it. We either ate nuggets of chicken cartilage or pig knuckles. We couldn’t tell and there was a major language gap. Whatever it was, it tasted ok, but calling it chewy would be an understatement. In fact, I could still be gnawing on it tonight if I wanted.
A little extra pineapple in my stomach will be a big help.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Snack Time
I know… I’ve been here for 4 days and I haven’t written a thing. Take that as a good sign.
This first part of the trip is in Okinawa, where my college roommate and his wife live.
So far I’ve eaten a lot of cool food, and only once have I had something gross.
I’m willing to try most things, so last night at the minimart, I grabbed a bag of these things that looked like green stars. They felt like they’d have a bit of crunch to them.
We were pretty sure, although not positive, that we hadn’t grabbed a bag of cat food, so as we walked up the street and opened the bag, we decided we’d just pop a couple in our mouths.
Again, realizing we could have some sort of exotic pet food in our hands, we looked closely at the locals, to see if they were watching us in horror, or laughing their asses off at the stupid Americans who were about to eat Kibbles 'N' Bits.
Not seeing that, we each took a bite.
It’s interesting how the brain works when it comes to identifying tastes. When you bite into a piece of fish, even if you don’t know what kind of fish it is, you’re prepared for a fishy flavor. When it’s a fruit, your tongue is prepared for fruit.
We didn’t know what to expect, and it took several seconds to identify the flavor, and to determine that we really didn’t like it.
They sort of tasted like cheese puffs, with a sugary coating. The consistency was of old meringue. There was also a buttery feel. And maybe a hint of mint.
The rest of the bag is in the glove compartment. I figure if my hosts ever get stuck in the wilderness and need some food to survive, they’ll eat the leftovers.
This first part of the trip is in Okinawa, where my college roommate and his wife live.
So far I’ve eaten a lot of cool food, and only once have I had something gross.
I’m willing to try most things, so last night at the minimart, I grabbed a bag of these things that looked like green stars. They felt like they’d have a bit of crunch to them.
We were pretty sure, although not positive, that we hadn’t grabbed a bag of cat food, so as we walked up the street and opened the bag, we decided we’d just pop a couple in our mouths.
Again, realizing we could have some sort of exotic pet food in our hands, we looked closely at the locals, to see if they were watching us in horror, or laughing their asses off at the stupid Americans who were about to eat Kibbles 'N' Bits.
Not seeing that, we each took a bite.
It’s interesting how the brain works when it comes to identifying tastes. When you bite into a piece of fish, even if you don’t know what kind of fish it is, you’re prepared for a fishy flavor. When it’s a fruit, your tongue is prepared for fruit.
We didn’t know what to expect, and it took several seconds to identify the flavor, and to determine that we really didn’t like it.
They sort of tasted like cheese puffs, with a sugary coating. The consistency was of old meringue. There was also a buttery feel. And maybe a hint of mint.
The rest of the bag is in the glove compartment. I figure if my hosts ever get stuck in the wilderness and need some food to survive, they’ll eat the leftovers.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
The Longest Day
I have just landed in Tokyo... not really sure what day it is. And I still have another 3 hour flight to Okinawa.
Here's what I wrote while airborne:
According to my little readout, I am at 34,000 feet, cruising at a ground speed just below 500 miles per hour, over the frozen tundra of Alberta, Canada.
My day started at 5am, eastern time. They say get to the airport two hours early for international flights. I’m sure they were doing something important behind the scenes, but I was through security and at gate D11 by 6:10, for an 8:02 flight.
As I wrote earlier, I do enjoy flying. I do not enjoy the complete lack of customer care that comes from the airlines. And it’s not just the big things, like lost luggage, sitting on the tarmac for hours on end, being shuffled from one gate to another. It’s the little things too.
Flight number one for me today was on United Airlines to Chicago. We boarded, and it wasn’t even close to being a full plane. As the flight attendants did their preflight scurrying, I asked one if I could move up to the emergency exit row. I have long legs, and I’m more than willing to be the man who kicks people in the ass if their too slow jumping through the emergency hatch while the cabin is on fire.
The guy told me no, no I couldn’t. It seems that United now charges people extra to sit in that row. I understand that there is a premium economy class on United. Pay $40 extra and you get a few extra inches for your legs. They have a special section.
I didn’t know that the cheap mother fuckers were now charging people to sit by the escape hatch. I thought the responsibility of all of those lives would weigh heavily enough on my shoulders, and that would be the burden I’d carry in return for not having my knees forced back into my chin.
Update… we just cranked up the speed a notch… we’re doing 512mph.
Now I am on flight two. Air Nippon from Chicago to Tokyo.
On this one I am in the exit row and it’s glorious. I couldn’t touch the wall in front of me if I wanted to. No one else is in my row, I have my own little video screen on the arm of my chair. It’s great.
I just finished Casino Royale. I think he’s the coolest Bond in a long time. Some of the movie was a little, well, not so good, but whatever. I’m on a 13 hour flight. There will come a point where I’ll be willing to watch Barney episodes.
I was saddened a bit by the meal we just had. No airline sushi. It was sweet and sour fish, noodles, salad and a cup of Haagen Daz. Yes, I know, it’s better than anything US Airways will ever serve, but come on, I want maki.
Here's what I wrote while airborne:
According to my little readout, I am at 34,000 feet, cruising at a ground speed just below 500 miles per hour, over the frozen tundra of Alberta, Canada.
My day started at 5am, eastern time. They say get to the airport two hours early for international flights. I’m sure they were doing something important behind the scenes, but I was through security and at gate D11 by 6:10, for an 8:02 flight.
As I wrote earlier, I do enjoy flying. I do not enjoy the complete lack of customer care that comes from the airlines. And it’s not just the big things, like lost luggage, sitting on the tarmac for hours on end, being shuffled from one gate to another. It’s the little things too.
Flight number one for me today was on United Airlines to Chicago. We boarded, and it wasn’t even close to being a full plane. As the flight attendants did their preflight scurrying, I asked one if I could move up to the emergency exit row. I have long legs, and I’m more than willing to be the man who kicks people in the ass if their too slow jumping through the emergency hatch while the cabin is on fire.
The guy told me no, no I couldn’t. It seems that United now charges people extra to sit in that row. I understand that there is a premium economy class on United. Pay $40 extra and you get a few extra inches for your legs. They have a special section.
I didn’t know that the cheap mother fuckers were now charging people to sit by the escape hatch. I thought the responsibility of all of those lives would weigh heavily enough on my shoulders, and that would be the burden I’d carry in return for not having my knees forced back into my chin.
Update… we just cranked up the speed a notch… we’re doing 512mph.
Now I am on flight two. Air Nippon from Chicago to Tokyo.
On this one I am in the exit row and it’s glorious. I couldn’t touch the wall in front of me if I wanted to. No one else is in my row, I have my own little video screen on the arm of my chair. It’s great.
I just finished Casino Royale. I think he’s the coolest Bond in a long time. Some of the movie was a little, well, not so good, but whatever. I’m on a 13 hour flight. There will come a point where I’ll be willing to watch Barney episodes.
I was saddened a bit by the meal we just had. No airline sushi. It was sweet and sour fish, noodles, salad and a cup of Haagen Daz. Yes, I know, it’s better than anything US Airways will ever serve, but come on, I want maki.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
The Wild Blue Yonder
I'm two days away from my great Japanese voyage.
(Burglars take note, I may be out of town for two weeks, but I'm leaving hungry poisonous snakes in my apartment, so don't even think about breaking in.)
I'm a good packer, for the most part. It's a little easier for this trip, because for the first week I'll be staying with friends, and I'm pretty sure they have laundry.
What always stumps me is the carry-on luggage plan. My airline will allow one carry-on bag, but I think that really means two bags, one bag bag and one purse-like personal carrying system. Because the flight takes a really long time, I need to pack entertainment, a clean shirt, a toothbrush, and more entertainment.
I am not rich enough for first or business class, but I did get an emergency exit row. Should we make a rough landing in the Pacific, I'll be the guy standing on the wing, heroically leading my fellow passengers into the shark infested waters. It's a small price to pay for a few extra inches of leg room.
I actually like flying, and this airline even serves sushi on board. Airline sushi is something I must try.
There are two minor questions I have with the carrier, however. For undisclosed reasons, the FBI raided their American offices a month ago. I'd like to know why. If there's an issue with the flight attendants serving airline sushi past its expiration date, I'd like a heads up before I order the blowfish. Also, a few mechanics were accused of making repairs on things they weren't actually qualified to fix. Again, if the plane's rice steamer was worked on by someone who is not certified, I want a warning.
I checked the flight route. It's fascinating. I'd always sort of thought we'd fly west over the U.S., head out over the Pacific, see Hawaii out the window and hit Japan that way. Apparently not. We'll head over Canada, Alaska and skirt the east coast of Russia, heading southwest to Japan.
Still, looking out the window won't keep me entertained for all of the 13 airborne hours.
So I'll have crossword puzzles, books, magazines, IPod, audio books, and my laptop.
What else do I need?
No, that's not rhetorical, seriously, what else do I need? Any suggestions?
(Burglars take note, I may be out of town for two weeks, but I'm leaving hungry poisonous snakes in my apartment, so don't even think about breaking in.)
I'm a good packer, for the most part. It's a little easier for this trip, because for the first week I'll be staying with friends, and I'm pretty sure they have laundry.
What always stumps me is the carry-on luggage plan. My airline will allow one carry-on bag, but I think that really means two bags, one bag bag and one purse-like personal carrying system. Because the flight takes a really long time, I need to pack entertainment, a clean shirt, a toothbrush, and more entertainment.
I am not rich enough for first or business class, but I did get an emergency exit row. Should we make a rough landing in the Pacific, I'll be the guy standing on the wing, heroically leading my fellow passengers into the shark infested waters. It's a small price to pay for a few extra inches of leg room.
I actually like flying, and this airline even serves sushi on board. Airline sushi is something I must try.
There are two minor questions I have with the carrier, however. For undisclosed reasons, the FBI raided their American offices a month ago. I'd like to know why. If there's an issue with the flight attendants serving airline sushi past its expiration date, I'd like a heads up before I order the blowfish. Also, a few mechanics were accused of making repairs on things they weren't actually qualified to fix. Again, if the plane's rice steamer was worked on by someone who is not certified, I want a warning.
I checked the flight route. It's fascinating. I'd always sort of thought we'd fly west over the U.S., head out over the Pacific, see Hawaii out the window and hit Japan that way. Apparently not. We'll head over Canada, Alaska and skirt the east coast of Russia, heading southwest to Japan.
Still, looking out the window won't keep me entertained for all of the 13 airborne hours.
So I'll have crossword puzzles, books, magazines, IPod, audio books, and my laptop.
What else do I need?
No, that's not rhetorical, seriously, what else do I need? Any suggestions?
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Look Out For The Other Guy
This just in from the Associated Press:
LOS ANGELES (AP) - Film director Robert Clark, best known for the beloved holiday classic "A Christmas Story," and his son were killed Wednesday in a car wreck, the filmmaker's assistant and police said... The driver of the other car was under the influence of alcohol and was driving without a license.
I am a good driver. I have good reflexes and pretty good instincts, and have been able to avoid disaster a couple of times. But as the above story shows, there are times when the best drivers in the world are flat out screwed by people who are assholes and don't give a fuck about anyone else on the road.
Last week, my friend Mike, whom you may remember from the near-bar-fight story, was sitting at a red light. He had come to a full stop, and was just waiting for the light to change.
That's when he heard the squealing brakes behind him.
The impact sent his car flying into the intersection, only luck kept him from getting hit by any oncoming cars. It took a moment for him to gather his wits, but when all was said and done, he was ok, sore, but not seriously injured.
I turns out a cop witnessed the whole thing, and upon questioning, figured out the other driver was hammered. But he was also fine. The drunk drivers always are.
It's the people they crash into who are fucked.
Mike's car, a paid off, but fairly old Audi, is a total loss as far as the insurance company is concerned. To him, it was as good as new. Now he has to buy a new one, with about $10,000 in insurance money. Sure, he could sue the guy who hit him, but there's no point. The other guy did have insurance, but the bare bones kind for people who only want the least amount of legal coverage. Her won't have any money of his own.
So Mike is screwed. Alive, and aware of how much worse it could have been, but screwed nonetheless.
Robert Clark and his son Ariel aren't so lucky. 24-year-old Hector Velazquez-Nava, the driver of the other car, is alive.
Like I said, it's the people they crash into who are fucked.
LOS ANGELES (AP) - Film director Robert Clark, best known for the beloved holiday classic "A Christmas Story," and his son were killed Wednesday in a car wreck, the filmmaker's assistant and police said... The driver of the other car was under the influence of alcohol and was driving without a license.
I am a good driver. I have good reflexes and pretty good instincts, and have been able to avoid disaster a couple of times. But as the above story shows, there are times when the best drivers in the world are flat out screwed by people who are assholes and don't give a fuck about anyone else on the road.
Last week, my friend Mike, whom you may remember from the near-bar-fight story, was sitting at a red light. He had come to a full stop, and was just waiting for the light to change.
That's when he heard the squealing brakes behind him.
The impact sent his car flying into the intersection, only luck kept him from getting hit by any oncoming cars. It took a moment for him to gather his wits, but when all was said and done, he was ok, sore, but not seriously injured.
I turns out a cop witnessed the whole thing, and upon questioning, figured out the other driver was hammered. But he was also fine. The drunk drivers always are.
It's the people they crash into who are fucked.
Mike's car, a paid off, but fairly old Audi, is a total loss as far as the insurance company is concerned. To him, it was as good as new. Now he has to buy a new one, with about $10,000 in insurance money. Sure, he could sue the guy who hit him, but there's no point. The other guy did have insurance, but the bare bones kind for people who only want the least amount of legal coverage. Her won't have any money of his own.
So Mike is screwed. Alive, and aware of how much worse it could have been, but screwed nonetheless.
Robert Clark and his son Ariel aren't so lucky. 24-year-old Hector Velazquez-Nava, the driver of the other car, is alive.
Like I said, it's the people they crash into who are fucked.
Monday, April 02, 2007
Play Ball!
Opening day is all about hope, rebirth, a new chance for greatness.
Reverse play-by-play.
* * *
And just like that, the fresh start comes to a crashing halt.
I will, as always, back my Fightin' Phils right down to the last pitch of the season, but, alas, they've already chipped away another little bit of me.
*
That fucker Renteria. Phils down by 2 in the 10th.
*
Extra innings, my friends.
*
Crud... 0 and 2 pitch to Renteria, right into the centerfield bushes. And we're tied. Myers is going to the showers.
*
Ooops... Braves drop a ball, and suddenly we're ahead.
*
Bang! The game is tied at 2!
*
Rollins puts it into the rightfield stands... 2-1
*
After 4, Atlanta 2-Phillies 0... Howard is screwed on a bad call
*
At the end of 2, 0-0
*
Phillies vs. Braves 1:05pm
Reverse play-by-play.
* * *
And just like that, the fresh start comes to a crashing halt.
I will, as always, back my Fightin' Phils right down to the last pitch of the season, but, alas, they've already chipped away another little bit of me.
*
That fucker Renteria. Phils down by 2 in the 10th.
*
Extra innings, my friends.
*
Crud... 0 and 2 pitch to Renteria, right into the centerfield bushes. And we're tied. Myers is going to the showers.
*
Ooops... Braves drop a ball, and suddenly we're ahead.
*
Bang! The game is tied at 2!
*
Rollins puts it into the rightfield stands... 2-1
*
After 4, Atlanta 2-Phillies 0... Howard is screwed on a bad call
*
At the end of 2, 0-0
*
Phillies vs. Braves 1:05pm
Saturday, March 31, 2007
We're Number 1!
We did it!
Congratulations to the people of my fine city. Last night we reached an exciting milestone: 100 murders!
And it’s not even April yet.
It took a lot for us to get here, of course.
When I was a young boy, playing on the streets here, there would be the occasional fight. We did it the sissy way, though. There would be punching, wrestling, yelling and then someone would run home in tears.
Then the next day, all would be forgotten. We’d play in the streets again, and the two people who had been slapping each other would most likely be on the same team, no memory of why there were fisticuffs the day before.
And then in school, boy did we drop the ball. Sometimes guys would “challenge” each other to a fight in the playground. The other guys would gather around and watch, take sides, make lunchroom bets on who was going to win.
As we got older, those classroom disagreements would lead to payback in the athletic arenas. There would be a little extra oomph during tackling drills in football, maybe a dirty shot on the ice in hockey, and then, like with the street fights, all would be forgiven later in the locker room.
Nowadays though, people get right to the point.
Forget the fighting. Let’s just kill each other.
What, in my day, would be an animated argument, now turns into a shoot out.
In school, kids don’t resort to more tradition means of anger management, they pop a cap into each others asses.
And then there are the witnesses, the honorable witnesses, the ones who wouldn’t dare damage their own or anyone else’s street cred.
No snitchen’!
Amen, that’s the way to keep our murderous streak alive.
It takes a lot for a city with the 6th largest population in the country to have more murders than any other American city. New York has more than 4 times as many people as this city, but we’re kicking their asses! L.A., Chicago, you call yourselves cities? HAH. I spit on your lack of deadly violence.
We’re so good at it, we share the fun with the uninvolved. Kids, mothers, little old ladies, don’t worry, just because you aren’t packing heat, selling drugs, or giving dirty looks, you still have a good chance of taking part in the killing, of course, by being on the receiving end.
See, we’re generous here. Our shooters aren’t stingy with bullets or aim, they fire enough lead to share.
Fuck you Detroit, our people love the killin’ and we’re making sure we’re the best.
Congratulations to the people of my fine city. Last night we reached an exciting milestone: 100 murders!
And it’s not even April yet.
It took a lot for us to get here, of course.
When I was a young boy, playing on the streets here, there would be the occasional fight. We did it the sissy way, though. There would be punching, wrestling, yelling and then someone would run home in tears.
Then the next day, all would be forgotten. We’d play in the streets again, and the two people who had been slapping each other would most likely be on the same team, no memory of why there were fisticuffs the day before.
And then in school, boy did we drop the ball. Sometimes guys would “challenge” each other to a fight in the playground. The other guys would gather around and watch, take sides, make lunchroom bets on who was going to win.
As we got older, those classroom disagreements would lead to payback in the athletic arenas. There would be a little extra oomph during tackling drills in football, maybe a dirty shot on the ice in hockey, and then, like with the street fights, all would be forgiven later in the locker room.
Nowadays though, people get right to the point.
Forget the fighting. Let’s just kill each other.
What, in my day, would be an animated argument, now turns into a shoot out.
In school, kids don’t resort to more tradition means of anger management, they pop a cap into each others asses.
And then there are the witnesses, the honorable witnesses, the ones who wouldn’t dare damage their own or anyone else’s street cred.
No snitchen’!
Amen, that’s the way to keep our murderous streak alive.
It takes a lot for a city with the 6th largest population in the country to have more murders than any other American city. New York has more than 4 times as many people as this city, but we’re kicking their asses! L.A., Chicago, you call yourselves cities? HAH. I spit on your lack of deadly violence.
We’re so good at it, we share the fun with the uninvolved. Kids, mothers, little old ladies, don’t worry, just because you aren’t packing heat, selling drugs, or giving dirty looks, you still have a good chance of taking part in the killing, of course, by being on the receiving end.
See, we’re generous here. Our shooters aren’t stingy with bullets or aim, they fire enough lead to share.
Fuck you Detroit, our people love the killin’ and we’re making sure we’re the best.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Delicious
Apparently there are some workplace scenes that, while normal here in a television newsroom, aren't so commonplace in the rest of the world.
Last night I was reading the details of Anna Nicole's autopsy out loud.
It included lines like: "The anus is unremarkable," "the vagina is normally wrinkled and contains no foreign matter," and "there is a deep seated abscess on the left buttock with a creamy, yellow-green pus."
This was our dinner break entertainment. I was eating a sandwich, one coworker, P, was standing behind me slurping down a bowl of salty miso soup, and another, W, was chomping on sushi.
"The implants were surrounded by a thick connective tissue with a clear thick yellow fluid."
Slurp.
"The abdominal cavity is lined with glistening serosa."
Chomp.
There was a visitor who watched us from across the room with a look of true disgust on her face.
What do the rest of you talk about when you eat?
Last night I was reading the details of Anna Nicole's autopsy out loud.
It included lines like: "The anus is unremarkable," "the vagina is normally wrinkled and contains no foreign matter," and "there is a deep seated abscess on the left buttock with a creamy, yellow-green pus."
This was our dinner break entertainment. I was eating a sandwich, one coworker, P, was standing behind me slurping down a bowl of salty miso soup, and another, W, was chomping on sushi.
"The implants were surrounded by a thick connective tissue with a clear thick yellow fluid."
Slurp.
"The abdominal cavity is lined with glistening serosa."
Chomp.
There was a visitor who watched us from across the room with a look of true disgust on her face.
What do the rest of you talk about when you eat?
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Turns Out My Male Friends Can Read
I got an email from a good college friend today. He'd seen my blog, and said he liked it. And that surprised me.
As I thought about why, I realized that it's because I never expected any male friends of mine to read it. Especially this guy, who, and I now know he'll read this, was the man's man of all of my friends in school. He actually carried the title of "Cool Guy" and it wasn't a joke.
Anytime I ever felt an overwhelming wave of political correctness in school, I went to see him.
If I was trying to make decisions between whether to do the responsible thing or the thing that would make my college years more memorable, I'd ask myself, what would BF do?
Years later, when I went running into a bomb shelter in Kuwait because of an incoming missile in the first weeks of the war, I actually thought, BF would think this was cool.
So, now I think I need to throw in some more macho stuff in here for a few days.
Instead of talking about the day I spent in the park with the woman, talk about how hot she is, and what we did when we weren't at the park.
Less about the little boys I supervised at day camp, more about the romping in the pool with the girls counselors during the overnights.
Not so much about how I think I'm fat, more about playing hardball in a men's baseball league, on a team where my nickname is "The White Guy," because I'm the only one, or how the picture in my profile is me serving time in the penalty box after some sort of heinous attack on an opponent in high school hockey.
Ok boys, I'm ready to be a man.
As I thought about why, I realized that it's because I never expected any male friends of mine to read it. Especially this guy, who, and I now know he'll read this, was the man's man of all of my friends in school. He actually carried the title of "Cool Guy" and it wasn't a joke.
Anytime I ever felt an overwhelming wave of political correctness in school, I went to see him.
If I was trying to make decisions between whether to do the responsible thing or the thing that would make my college years more memorable, I'd ask myself, what would BF do?
Years later, when I went running into a bomb shelter in Kuwait because of an incoming missile in the first weeks of the war, I actually thought, BF would think this was cool.
So, now I think I need to throw in some more macho stuff in here for a few days.
Instead of talking about the day I spent in the park with the woman, talk about how hot she is, and what we did when we weren't at the park.
Less about the little boys I supervised at day camp, more about the romping in the pool with the girls counselors during the overnights.
Not so much about how I think I'm fat, more about playing hardball in a men's baseball league, on a team where my nickname is "The White Guy," because I'm the only one, or how the picture in my profile is me serving time in the penalty box after some sort of heinous attack on an opponent in high school hockey.
Ok boys, I'm ready to be a man.
Monday, March 26, 2007
112 Across
A couple of times over the past two weeks I’ve mentioned the woman with whom I’m smitten. Henceforth, I shall refer to her as WWWIS.
I have hesitated to say much about her, because I really seem to like her but I’m afraid that if I put it out there I’ll jinx it. Also because I haven’t really gotten to the point of putting everything “out there.”
But for the love of all things good, I have to write about what could be the perfect dating day.
We slept in a bit (yes, we’re to the point of sleeping in together). Once we got vertical, we went out to brunch and along the way grabbed the Times. WWWIS has never done the Sunday puzzle, so we started it together, while eating at a neighborhood joint.
After filling ourselves with great Sunday brunch food, we went to the park, where we worked on the puzzle a little more.
Then we walked and walked around town before grabbing a movie. We watched Borat together and laughed our asses off. We were hungry, and went to another neighborhood eatery, had pizza and filled in a few more squares.
Finally, we had to go our separate ways for the day.
Look, I know this may seem a little dull on paper. It wasn’t dull to live through. It was just delightful.
And what am I supposed to think when one of the puzzle clues called for a 4-letter word for “Totally Nuts”
Gaga!
Yes, I think I am.
I have hesitated to say much about her, because I really seem to like her but I’m afraid that if I put it out there I’ll jinx it. Also because I haven’t really gotten to the point of putting everything “out there.”
But for the love of all things good, I have to write about what could be the perfect dating day.
We slept in a bit (yes, we’re to the point of sleeping in together). Once we got vertical, we went out to brunch and along the way grabbed the Times. WWWIS has never done the Sunday puzzle, so we started it together, while eating at a neighborhood joint.
After filling ourselves with great Sunday brunch food, we went to the park, where we worked on the puzzle a little more.
Then we walked and walked around town before grabbing a movie. We watched Borat together and laughed our asses off. We were hungry, and went to another neighborhood eatery, had pizza and filled in a few more squares.
Finally, we had to go our separate ways for the day.
Look, I know this may seem a little dull on paper. It wasn’t dull to live through. It was just delightful.
And what am I supposed to think when one of the puzzle clues called for a 4-letter word for “Totally Nuts”
Gaga!
Yes, I think I am.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Fun With Scanners
When I was forced to replace my recently deceased iBook last week, I figured, what the hell. I was already dropping a little more money than I had budgeted for the first quarter of the year; why not spend a little more.
So I bought a scanner.
I’ve been thinking about a scanner for a long time. Photography has always been the closest thing to art that I have been interested in. As a result, I have boxes and boxes of photos, going back to the mid 70s, when I was just a little boy with a Polaroid One-Step.
The pictures are slowly fading, so to save the literal snapshots of my life, I want to digitize them. Then, instead of boxes and boxes of fading pictures, I’ll have disks and disks of data that will sit on a shelf. I guess that’s better.
Anyway, won’t it be fun to make this a community project!
So we begin with this photo that I found in the 1986 box. 1986 as in 21 years ago.
I was about to go into my junior year in high school, and I worked as a camp counselor for the group of 4-year-old boys.
As I look at this picture, several significant things pop out.
First, I am having trouble realizing that these 4-year-olds are now in their mid-20s. I work with people in their mid-20s. The woman with whom I am smitten is mid-20s. These guys cannot be mid-20s. It hurts to think that way.
Also, there’s me in the picture. I’m the tall guy in the back. In addition to 21 years ago, this is 35 pounds ago. How did skinny teenage John turn into middle aged John?
Finally, there’s the hot pink shirt I’m wearing. Please remember, the mid 80s were when Miami Vice was popular. If Don Johnson could wear hot pink, I could too. That’s all we’ll say about that.
I remember a few of the names. In the front row on the left was Timmy Woehr. A couple over from him was Zach Carson. In the middle is a kid named Sam something, a down the row a bit is Steven D’Amico and I think the kid at the end was named Andrew. In front of me are Ted Bullock and Eyal Ebel.
I have no idea what happened to any of these kids. I’m pretty sure they’re really still in middle school somewhere. There’s no way they can be any older than that.
I'll have more trips down memory lane soon... if my ego can take it.
So I bought a scanner.
I’ve been thinking about a scanner for a long time. Photography has always been the closest thing to art that I have been interested in. As a result, I have boxes and boxes of photos, going back to the mid 70s, when I was just a little boy with a Polaroid One-Step.
The pictures are slowly fading, so to save the literal snapshots of my life, I want to digitize them. Then, instead of boxes and boxes of fading pictures, I’ll have disks and disks of data that will sit on a shelf. I guess that’s better.
Anyway, won’t it be fun to make this a community project!
So we begin with this photo that I found in the 1986 box. 1986 as in 21 years ago.
I was about to go into my junior year in high school, and I worked as a camp counselor for the group of 4-year-old boys.
As I look at this picture, several significant things pop out.
First, I am having trouble realizing that these 4-year-olds are now in their mid-20s. I work with people in their mid-20s. The woman with whom I am smitten is mid-20s. These guys cannot be mid-20s. It hurts to think that way.
Also, there’s me in the picture. I’m the tall guy in the back. In addition to 21 years ago, this is 35 pounds ago. How did skinny teenage John turn into middle aged John?
Finally, there’s the hot pink shirt I’m wearing. Please remember, the mid 80s were when Miami Vice was popular. If Don Johnson could wear hot pink, I could too. That’s all we’ll say about that.
I remember a few of the names. In the front row on the left was Timmy Woehr. A couple over from him was Zach Carson. In the middle is a kid named Sam something, a down the row a bit is Steven D’Amico and I think the kid at the end was named Andrew. In front of me are Ted Bullock and Eyal Ebel.
I have no idea what happened to any of these kids. I’m pretty sure they’re really still in middle school somewhere. There’s no way they can be any older than that.
I'll have more trips down memory lane soon... if my ego can take it.
Can't We All Just Ride Along?
I swear, I'm going to run one of them over, and when I do, the motorists of this city will erect a statue in my honor.
I love biking, really. I have a bicycle, it's fun, it gets me from point A to point B. Yay. And there are lots of fine bike riders around here who wear their helmets, stay in the biking lane (and there are plenty of biking lanes here), stop at lights, and signal their turns.
Then there are the shitty bikers. Some are the Don't-Give-A-Crap bike messengers, some think they're making a save-the-environment political statement, and some are just assholes.
They're all the ones I'm going to grind into the pavement.
There is one group that makes a bold demonstration of power once a month or so, at midnight. They ride in a massive pack through the biggest streets and they go out of their way to be obstructive. Last week, one of the dirty little pinheads chose to hold onto my bumper for a bit. No way dude, I'm not going to help you be a dick. So I "tapped" my brakes. He didn't fall, but he was outraged by my show of defiance to his show of defiance.
He and some of his pals slowed down in front of me, keeping me at a crawl for the rest of my ride home.
Whatever.
Like I said, they're really bold making this mass street blockage at midnight. It was me and 100 smelly, greasy hippie wannabees. I could have wiped a lot of them out with one quick movement of the gas pedal. I chose not to... that night. I'd like to see them try it when there are more than just two cars on the streets. Let's see their bravery while the union guys here are driving to their jobs.
Today on my way to work, a grungy dirt bike rider was weaving in and out of traffic. The car in front of me came to a red light. In this city, red means stop, and the driver did just that.
The sudden decision to follow, not just the law, but one of society's most basic norms, came as a total shock to Quicksilver (click on the link for the obscure Kevin Bacon biking reference). He slammed into the back of the car, and then went ballistic.
For the next several blocks he went out of his way to slow traffic and to get within yelling range of the driver, all the while, his baggy pants flapping in the wind.
Bikers of the world, what's your problem? You ride, I drive. I give you your space, why won't you give me and the other cars ours?
Anyway, if you find a pile of spokes, gears and chains, surrounding lots of cruddy helmetless bikers, you'll know where to find me, I'll be posing for my statue.
I love biking, really. I have a bicycle, it's fun, it gets me from point A to point B. Yay. And there are lots of fine bike riders around here who wear their helmets, stay in the biking lane (and there are plenty of biking lanes here), stop at lights, and signal their turns.
Then there are the shitty bikers. Some are the Don't-Give-A-Crap bike messengers, some think they're making a save-the-environment political statement, and some are just assholes.
They're all the ones I'm going to grind into the pavement.
There is one group that makes a bold demonstration of power once a month or so, at midnight. They ride in a massive pack through the biggest streets and they go out of their way to be obstructive. Last week, one of the dirty little pinheads chose to hold onto my bumper for a bit. No way dude, I'm not going to help you be a dick. So I "tapped" my brakes. He didn't fall, but he was outraged by my show of defiance to his show of defiance.
He and some of his pals slowed down in front of me, keeping me at a crawl for the rest of my ride home.
Whatever.
Like I said, they're really bold making this mass street blockage at midnight. It was me and 100 smelly, greasy hippie wannabees. I could have wiped a lot of them out with one quick movement of the gas pedal. I chose not to... that night. I'd like to see them try it when there are more than just two cars on the streets. Let's see their bravery while the union guys here are driving to their jobs.
Today on my way to work, a grungy dirt bike rider was weaving in and out of traffic. The car in front of me came to a red light. In this city, red means stop, and the driver did just that.
The sudden decision to follow, not just the law, but one of society's most basic norms, came as a total shock to Quicksilver (click on the link for the obscure Kevin Bacon biking reference). He slammed into the back of the car, and then went ballistic.
For the next several blocks he went out of his way to slow traffic and to get within yelling range of the driver, all the while, his baggy pants flapping in the wind.
Bikers of the world, what's your problem? You ride, I drive. I give you your space, why won't you give me and the other cars ours?
Anyway, if you find a pile of spokes, gears and chains, surrounding lots of cruddy helmetless bikers, you'll know where to find me, I'll be posing for my statue.
Friday, March 16, 2007
A Substitute Entry
I sort of want to write about this woman with whom I'm completely smitten, but I'm not quite there yet... there being that place where I can write everything about myself here where everyone can read it.
And because I'm not there, I know I have at times been a little boring.
Just wait until you read this one. It's about parking cars!
_____________________________________
There was a scene in the opening montage of a 70s cop drama that showed a dozen or so cruisers pulling out of the police station lot, in perfect unison.
Here at my workplace the parking lot here is divided into two levels. The bottom is covered, and those 12 spots go to the highest level bosses here. The rest of us park up top, in the open. Normally, that's fine, maybe even better, because our spots are actually closer to the door.
But, on a night like this, being outside sucks.
Our city is being pelted by little ice balls. So far there are several inches on the ground, and on our cars. It's just crappy.
At 6:30, when the daysiders left, they all had a good 15 minutes of scraping before they could actually pull out of the lot. From the windows, it sort of looked like the string section of a symphony, as they all moved their scrapers back and forth, back and forth.
We weren't just watching for fun, though. We were waiting for the all clear, and shortly after 7pm, we got it.
There are about 15 of us who work here in the evening. And while there are fewer than 15 official spots under the cover in our lot, we are a resourceful bunch. We also look out for each other.
One by one, like the open of that TV show, we pulled out of the upper lot and filled into the lower area. The lines dividing the spaces are unimportant. What matters is that we make room for as many cars as possible. Since we had only been at work for a few hours so far, we didn't have as much scraping to do, so we spent a few minutes clearing the icy crap, and then our cars got to spend the rest of the evening in executive luxury.
It's a bonding experience.
And because I'm not there, I know I have at times been a little boring.
Just wait until you read this one. It's about parking cars!
_____________________________________
There was a scene in the opening montage of a 70s cop drama that showed a dozen or so cruisers pulling out of the police station lot, in perfect unison.
Here at my workplace the parking lot here is divided into two levels. The bottom is covered, and those 12 spots go to the highest level bosses here. The rest of us park up top, in the open. Normally, that's fine, maybe even better, because our spots are actually closer to the door.
But, on a night like this, being outside sucks.
Our city is being pelted by little ice balls. So far there are several inches on the ground, and on our cars. It's just crappy.
At 6:30, when the daysiders left, they all had a good 15 minutes of scraping before they could actually pull out of the lot. From the windows, it sort of looked like the string section of a symphony, as they all moved their scrapers back and forth, back and forth.
We weren't just watching for fun, though. We were waiting for the all clear, and shortly after 7pm, we got it.
There are about 15 of us who work here in the evening. And while there are fewer than 15 official spots under the cover in our lot, we are a resourceful bunch. We also look out for each other.
One by one, like the open of that TV show, we pulled out of the upper lot and filled into the lower area. The lines dividing the spaces are unimportant. What matters is that we make room for as many cars as possible. Since we had only been at work for a few hours so far, we didn't have as much scraping to do, so we spent a few minutes clearing the icy crap, and then our cars got to spend the rest of the evening in executive luxury.
It's a bonding experience.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
RIP
My Apple IBook took a tumble off my bed last night.
It was pronounced dead early this afternoon.
The IBook is survived by a 1-month-old backup.
It was 2-and-a-half-years-old.
It was pronounced dead early this afternoon.
The IBook is survived by a 1-month-old backup.
It was 2-and-a-half-years-old.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Autumn
Out in the countryside of New Hampshire, on a cool fall Friday night many years ago, a group of early 20-somethings met for the first time as adults. They were all starting their lives as grown-ups, but they weren't quite ready, not just yet.
It was the eve of a huge Halloween party on a family farm. Hundreds of people were expected to roll in on Saturday for a bonfire costume bash.
But this was the night before. The people who were there that night were the core friends. And at the core of the core were young women who had known each other since their lower school days. They all brought the men in their lives, men they deemed worthy of a weekend trip in the wilderness.
On that night before the party, there would be perhaps 20 people, the girls who had known each other forever, and the boys who might be in their lives forever.
Two by two, the couples arrived, threw on their fleece jackets and grabbed spots around the fire.
The women picked up where they’d left off years before.
The men cautiously made friends with the other men. They drank beer, talked about their jobs, how they met their girlfriends, how they were selected to make the journey.
When the breeze would pick up, the women would snuggle up next to the men, together they would get warm in the glow of the fire, under their blankets.
The hostess gathered up the crowd after a bit and took everyone on a tour of the farm and into the newly built barn.
Someone found a soccer ball and then the children came out to play.
Teams were formed, positions taken, and a newly invented game of barn-broomball began. Some people used brooms like hockey sticks, some people actually found hockey sticks, one person used an old gardening tool, and some just used their feet.
It seemed like the game lasted forever. The music of the Samples played in the background, barely audible over the sounds of grown-ups yelling like kids on the playground.
No one hit their heads on the low hanging beams, no one was hurt when they ran into each other, or barn equipment.
They kind of kept score, but didn’t really.
And then, after a while, in the wee hours of that perfect fall night, the final buzzer rang. It may have been when the CD player stopped playing, it may have been that the players just knew it was time to call it a night.
The game was not one that could ever be replayed, its joy came from its sudden creation and its sudden end. For the core group, as much fun as the costume party would be the next night, Friday night would be the part of the weekend they would remember forever.
In the years since, time and distance have taken their tolls on the friendships, but those friendships remained. There were other great gatherings, although the same men weren’t always there. Still, on that night the men who met for the first time knew they would always remember each other, call each other friends.
That game, the cool New England breeze, the sounds of the Samples echoing through a big wooden barn left them all with a special bond, one of childlike fun, deep love and affection and the memory of the party before the party, the gathering of the core.
One last night when the kids could leave their newly found adulthood behind and play in the barn.
It was the eve of a huge Halloween party on a family farm. Hundreds of people were expected to roll in on Saturday for a bonfire costume bash.
But this was the night before. The people who were there that night were the core friends. And at the core of the core were young women who had known each other since their lower school days. They all brought the men in their lives, men they deemed worthy of a weekend trip in the wilderness.
On that night before the party, there would be perhaps 20 people, the girls who had known each other forever, and the boys who might be in their lives forever.
Two by two, the couples arrived, threw on their fleece jackets and grabbed spots around the fire.
The women picked up where they’d left off years before.
The men cautiously made friends with the other men. They drank beer, talked about their jobs, how they met their girlfriends, how they were selected to make the journey.
When the breeze would pick up, the women would snuggle up next to the men, together they would get warm in the glow of the fire, under their blankets.
The hostess gathered up the crowd after a bit and took everyone on a tour of the farm and into the newly built barn.
Someone found a soccer ball and then the children came out to play.
Teams were formed, positions taken, and a newly invented game of barn-broomball began. Some people used brooms like hockey sticks, some people actually found hockey sticks, one person used an old gardening tool, and some just used their feet.
It seemed like the game lasted forever. The music of the Samples played in the background, barely audible over the sounds of grown-ups yelling like kids on the playground.
No one hit their heads on the low hanging beams, no one was hurt when they ran into each other, or barn equipment.
They kind of kept score, but didn’t really.
And then, after a while, in the wee hours of that perfect fall night, the final buzzer rang. It may have been when the CD player stopped playing, it may have been that the players just knew it was time to call it a night.
The game was not one that could ever be replayed, its joy came from its sudden creation and its sudden end. For the core group, as much fun as the costume party would be the next night, Friday night would be the part of the weekend they would remember forever.
In the years since, time and distance have taken their tolls on the friendships, but those friendships remained. There were other great gatherings, although the same men weren’t always there. Still, on that night the men who met for the first time knew they would always remember each other, call each other friends.
That game, the cool New England breeze, the sounds of the Samples echoing through a big wooden barn left them all with a special bond, one of childlike fun, deep love and affection and the memory of the party before the party, the gathering of the core.
One last night when the kids could leave their newly found adulthood behind and play in the barn.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Funky Sh*t Going Down In The City
I haven't been in a bar fight in 16 years. And back then, it always involved pulling a fraternity mate out of a fracas with a guy from the fraternity across the street (those Fiji's were always asking for a beating).
Through my 20s one of my personal beliefs was that there was no good that could come from a bar fight. Drunks like to break bottles, throw chairs and sometimes someone has a knife.
Once, when an old west saloon-style brawl broke out at a local pub, I stood in one corner, drinking my beer and gnawing on popcorn, while my best friend positioned himself behind a couple of young ladies in the opposite corner. We cheared as furniture flew, ducked under flying bottles, and waved goodbye to the brawlers as the cops cleared the place out.
That said, if I or my friends are in peril, I won't hide.
So this weekend, I was with five friends, two men and three women at an upscale bar/restaurant. Let's just call it S&W.
A man walked in off the street and he looked a litle bedraggled. Wearing an old army jacket, his eyes were glassy, he was scary looking.
As he walked by my group, he rubbed up against two of the women and lingered, just a second too long. My friend Mike positioned himself between the ladies and the weirdo and the guy reluctantly walked away, looking back over his shoulder.
It seems Mike's steely glare wasn't appreciated and the crazy man spun around and came back. He got into Mike's face and said "You giving me looks?"
Our friend Bruce wasn't paying any attention, but I will say this about him, when the shit goes down, I want him on my side. I calmly said his name and gave him the non-verbal "check this out."
Next thing I knew, all three of us were up, chests puffed out, fists clenched, telling the eerie stranger to keep on walking.
It turns out we all agreed that this man had a weapon, a knife probably, and the last thing we wanted was to see it. So we put up a strong unified front, but spoke in peaceful terms: "No trouble here... keep on walking... we're all friends..." But, if I do say so myself, I think we were a pretty intimidating trio.
The guy sauntered off and left the bar, and the three of us felt very macho. We'd stood tall and protected our women-folk.
We were also very relieved, it had been a long time since any of our creeky bones had been involved in a brouhaha.
Apparently, I made an extra special impression on the place. A short time later, another man walked over and asked me if I wanted to get a bottle of champagne with him.
I was a little confused by the proposition, until I realized it was a proposition. He wasn't my type, because he was a he, but it was still nice to know that my powerful muscles got someone's attention.
Through my 20s one of my personal beliefs was that there was no good that could come from a bar fight. Drunks like to break bottles, throw chairs and sometimes someone has a knife.
Once, when an old west saloon-style brawl broke out at a local pub, I stood in one corner, drinking my beer and gnawing on popcorn, while my best friend positioned himself behind a couple of young ladies in the opposite corner. We cheared as furniture flew, ducked under flying bottles, and waved goodbye to the brawlers as the cops cleared the place out.
That said, if I or my friends are in peril, I won't hide.
So this weekend, I was with five friends, two men and three women at an upscale bar/restaurant. Let's just call it S&W.
A man walked in off the street and he looked a litle bedraggled. Wearing an old army jacket, his eyes were glassy, he was scary looking.
As he walked by my group, he rubbed up against two of the women and lingered, just a second too long. My friend Mike positioned himself between the ladies and the weirdo and the guy reluctantly walked away, looking back over his shoulder.
It seems Mike's steely glare wasn't appreciated and the crazy man spun around and came back. He got into Mike's face and said "You giving me looks?"
Our friend Bruce wasn't paying any attention, but I will say this about him, when the shit goes down, I want him on my side. I calmly said his name and gave him the non-verbal "check this out."
Next thing I knew, all three of us were up, chests puffed out, fists clenched, telling the eerie stranger to keep on walking.
It turns out we all agreed that this man had a weapon, a knife probably, and the last thing we wanted was to see it. So we put up a strong unified front, but spoke in peaceful terms: "No trouble here... keep on walking... we're all friends..." But, if I do say so myself, I think we were a pretty intimidating trio.
The guy sauntered off and left the bar, and the three of us felt very macho. We'd stood tall and protected our women-folk.
We were also very relieved, it had been a long time since any of our creeky bones had been involved in a brouhaha.
Apparently, I made an extra special impression on the place. A short time later, another man walked over and asked me if I wanted to get a bottle of champagne with him.
I was a little confused by the proposition, until I realized it was a proposition. He wasn't my type, because he was a he, but it was still nice to know that my powerful muscles got someone's attention.
Friday, March 09, 2007
I'm So Smart!
A few weeks ago I was taking a long drive and threw my Violent Femmes greatest hits disk into the CD player. It’s one of those CDs that I’ve had for a while but hadn’t listened to in ages.
The song Gone Daddy Gone came on and I rocked out. It’s a great tune. For the love of Pete… it has a xylophone (or one of those things that sounds and looks like a xylophone but is called something else that I can’t remember from 3rd grade music). Whatever, you can’t go wrong with a punk song with a xylophone solo in it.
So as I listened over and over I thought, “damn… what a shame that a great song like this is long forgotten. Too bad no one has ever remade it.”
Then this week I saw an ad for Chris Rock’s new movie, and immediately recognized the song in it as Gone Daddy Gone.
Ha Ha!
I know good music. I thought it and someone listened to my brain and they did it! I’m a genius.
Tonight I looked it up on ITunes. I didn’t expect to find it, it’s a new release, of course, and I’m so forward thinking, so ahead of the curve, I knew I’d probably have to wait a few weeks.
But, lo and behold, it came up…
And then I realized the truth of my genius. It isn’t really so genius.
Gnarls Barkley did it…
On their St. Elsewhere CD…
That came out last year.
OK, that’s not so dumb.
Except I have that CD.
And I’ve listened to it several times.
And that means I’ve listened to the new version of the song…
Several times.
So, not only has it been redone… but I’ve had the redone version myself for 8 months.
I pretend I know a lot about music. I don’t know sh*t… even about the stuff I have.
That’s alright… I have another big idea… and no one has thought of this: What if Sting got together with his old band mates and did a Police reunion tour?
If only people could read my brilliant musical mind!
The song Gone Daddy Gone came on and I rocked out. It’s a great tune. For the love of Pete… it has a xylophone (or one of those things that sounds and looks like a xylophone but is called something else that I can’t remember from 3rd grade music). Whatever, you can’t go wrong with a punk song with a xylophone solo in it.
So as I listened over and over I thought, “damn… what a shame that a great song like this is long forgotten. Too bad no one has ever remade it.”
Then this week I saw an ad for Chris Rock’s new movie, and immediately recognized the song in it as Gone Daddy Gone.
Ha Ha!
I know good music. I thought it and someone listened to my brain and they did it! I’m a genius.
Tonight I looked it up on ITunes. I didn’t expect to find it, it’s a new release, of course, and I’m so forward thinking, so ahead of the curve, I knew I’d probably have to wait a few weeks.
But, lo and behold, it came up…
And then I realized the truth of my genius. It isn’t really so genius.
Gnarls Barkley did it…
On their St. Elsewhere CD…
That came out last year.
OK, that’s not so dumb.
Except I have that CD.
And I’ve listened to it several times.
And that means I’ve listened to the new version of the song…
Several times.
So, not only has it been redone… but I’ve had the redone version myself for 8 months.
I pretend I know a lot about music. I don’t know sh*t… even about the stuff I have.
That’s alright… I have another big idea… and no one has thought of this: What if Sting got together with his old band mates and did a Police reunion tour?
If only people could read my brilliant musical mind!
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
The Great Battle of 1984
It started, as so many incidents do, with a piece of bologna.
It was also a perfect storm.
On one front were the students.
It was May of 1984. We were about to move out of 8th grade and middle school. It was the eve of exams and we were 88 13-year-olds who were under a lot of pressure.
On the other front were the teachers, or in this case a lack of them.
There was a scheduling screw-up of mammoth proportions. Somehow, that day, during 8th grade lunch, there was not a single faculty member in the cafeteria.
At my private school, the cafeteria was in its own building, on the opposite side of campus from the main academic buildings. When the fronts collided, adult intervention was a long way away.
In the 23 years since, many have claimed to have fired the first shot (or tossed the bologna in this case).
I was actually at ground zero. While I won’t use full names, I will say that it was MR who first decided to see if he could throw his slice of lunchmeat like a Frisbee.
The next few seconds went by in slow motion.
SP launched a spoonful of green jello.
CJ threw a handful of Shrimpies.
Then came the official call, the one every teenager dreams of, the one that had never been yelled in our school’s lunchroom.
“Foodfiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight!”
Immediately the lunch ladies went into a full retreat, pulling down gates and locking themselves in the kitchen. They may have picked up a phone and called for help, but they knew help wasn’t coming soon.
For some food fighters that day, it was a matter of brawn. They threw whatever they could get their hands on. They overturned tables for shelter. They aimed to kill.
For others, it was all about creativity. Shrimpies throw well, but they don't make much of an impact. Dunk those same Shrimpies in cocktail sauce and you have a weapon that leaves a mark.
For still others, stealth attacks were the name of the game. The same MR who first threw the bologna never saw SF creep up behind him with a full bowl of minestrone soup.
TM fell into the brute force category. He was a catcher on the baseball team, and even in 8th grade he could gun a base runner down at 2nd. I don’t remember why I turned when I did… a shouted warning, a spotted movement of shadow, maybe just The Force. What I saw was his arm coming down and a Red Delicious heading for my head. Remember that scene from the Matrix? I invented it to escape a flying fruit.
Mr. A was a math teacher and the varsity football coach. He had no idea what he was walking into. Actually, it could have been a lot worse for everyone, but someone was watching for trouble through the window.
“Teacher! Teacher! Teacher!” It sounded like a siren. Just as fast as it started, it stopped. Those of us lucky enough to be on the east side of the building had an escape route. The fire exit let out on the opposite side of the cafeteria from the door Mr. A was about to walk through. An entire building stood between us and identification.
Some others found the secret tunnel that led to the auditorium. It was a daring choice since there was a risk of entrapment. Had there been a drama class in session, those kids would have been screwed.
And then there were the ones who were left behind. They were the real heroes. While they had to clean and serve detentions, not one pointed fingers, no one named names. But they also got to see Mr. A's expression when he walked in. For years they said it was worth it.
Some of us got away clean. Others didn’t.
MR was one of the first out of the fire exit, but the blazer covered with minestrone was a dead giveaway.
There were a lot of khaki pants with cocktail sauce splatter patterns sitting in the front office.
In the years that followed, we remembered fondly of that spring day, and there were a few attempts to relive the moment.
But you can't remake a classic.
And you can't get into the school cafeteria without a teacher.
It was also a perfect storm.
On one front were the students.
It was May of 1984. We were about to move out of 8th grade and middle school. It was the eve of exams and we were 88 13-year-olds who were under a lot of pressure.
On the other front were the teachers, or in this case a lack of them.
There was a scheduling screw-up of mammoth proportions. Somehow, that day, during 8th grade lunch, there was not a single faculty member in the cafeteria.
At my private school, the cafeteria was in its own building, on the opposite side of campus from the main academic buildings. When the fronts collided, adult intervention was a long way away.
In the 23 years since, many have claimed to have fired the first shot (or tossed the bologna in this case).
I was actually at ground zero. While I won’t use full names, I will say that it was MR who first decided to see if he could throw his slice of lunchmeat like a Frisbee.
The next few seconds went by in slow motion.
SP launched a spoonful of green jello.
CJ threw a handful of Shrimpies.
Then came the official call, the one every teenager dreams of, the one that had never been yelled in our school’s lunchroom.
“Foodfiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight!”
Immediately the lunch ladies went into a full retreat, pulling down gates and locking themselves in the kitchen. They may have picked up a phone and called for help, but they knew help wasn’t coming soon.
For some food fighters that day, it was a matter of brawn. They threw whatever they could get their hands on. They overturned tables for shelter. They aimed to kill.
For others, it was all about creativity. Shrimpies throw well, but they don't make much of an impact. Dunk those same Shrimpies in cocktail sauce and you have a weapon that leaves a mark.
For still others, stealth attacks were the name of the game. The same MR who first threw the bologna never saw SF creep up behind him with a full bowl of minestrone soup.
TM fell into the brute force category. He was a catcher on the baseball team, and even in 8th grade he could gun a base runner down at 2nd. I don’t remember why I turned when I did… a shouted warning, a spotted movement of shadow, maybe just The Force. What I saw was his arm coming down and a Red Delicious heading for my head. Remember that scene from the Matrix? I invented it to escape a flying fruit.
Mr. A was a math teacher and the varsity football coach. He had no idea what he was walking into. Actually, it could have been a lot worse for everyone, but someone was watching for trouble through the window.
“Teacher! Teacher! Teacher!” It sounded like a siren. Just as fast as it started, it stopped. Those of us lucky enough to be on the east side of the building had an escape route. The fire exit let out on the opposite side of the cafeteria from the door Mr. A was about to walk through. An entire building stood between us and identification.
Some others found the secret tunnel that led to the auditorium. It was a daring choice since there was a risk of entrapment. Had there been a drama class in session, those kids would have been screwed.
And then there were the ones who were left behind. They were the real heroes. While they had to clean and serve detentions, not one pointed fingers, no one named names. But they also got to see Mr. A's expression when he walked in. For years they said it was worth it.
Some of us got away clean. Others didn’t.
MR was one of the first out of the fire exit, but the blazer covered with minestrone was a dead giveaway.
There were a lot of khaki pants with cocktail sauce splatter patterns sitting in the front office.
In the years that followed, we remembered fondly of that spring day, and there were a few attempts to relive the moment.
But you can't remake a classic.
And you can't get into the school cafeteria without a teacher.
Monday, March 05, 2007
Squeeze Me!
In 1987 my parents got their first CD player. I already had lots of cassettes and LP’s, but my first CD purchase had to be something I’d remember.
I ended up buying Squeeze's 45s and Under, their greatest hits disk, and for the next few weeks I played it over and over and over again. If it had been a cassette or an LP, it would have worn out.
Tempted. Black Coffee In Bed. Up The Junction.
I loved every song on the disk.
I never got a chance to see the band live though, until this weekend, when I got to see a close alternative.
Chris Difford was half of the duo that essentially led the band, the other half being Glenn Tilbrook. Once in the 80s I read that they had the potential to be the greatest writing team since Lennon and McCartney. Their relationship was also strained, like Lennon and McCartney’s. And while it sounds like they are on much better terms these days, Difford is still out on a solo tour.
The place where he played was one of those intimate venues not even big enough to be called a hall or a club. And it’s one of the best places to hear music in this city.
Instead of paying $150 and sitting a football field away, I bought the tickets with the cash in my pocket, and sat no father then 10 feet from him.
He chatted with the crowd, we sang along, it was great.
Tempted. Black Coffee In Bed, Up The Junction…
Just like in Squeeze, though, Difford didn’t go at it alone. He had two stage-mates with him.
Melvin Duffy played pedal steel and made it sing. He also looked like he was having a blast.
And then there was Dorie Jackson.
Holy Moly… I have such a crush!
I wish I could say I’d heard her sing before. For the last two days I’ve been trying to think of the best words to describe her voice.
You know how you feel when you’re chilly and you get that mouthful of sweet, hot cocoa at the perfect temperature? First your mouth feels great, then your body is filled with warmth and happiness. Well, that’s what her voice did (except for my ears not my mouth…)
She was also the perfect complement to Difford and his Squeeze songs. Depth, emotion… blah blah blah… it was all there in her voice.
After the set, they mingled with the crowd. I got to shake Difford’s hand, yet it was more exciting to tap Dorie on the shoulder and tell her how beautiful her voice is. She must hear it all the time, yet she was charming and gave me the delightful British response of “Cheers.”
Like I said, total schoolboy crush…
She has a solo CD coming out sometime this year. I don’t know what her solo style is, but with her voice it doesn’t matter.
I ended up buying Squeeze's 45s and Under, their greatest hits disk, and for the next few weeks I played it over and over and over again. If it had been a cassette or an LP, it would have worn out.
Tempted. Black Coffee In Bed. Up The Junction.
I loved every song on the disk.
I never got a chance to see the band live though, until this weekend, when I got to see a close alternative.
Chris Difford was half of the duo that essentially led the band, the other half being Glenn Tilbrook. Once in the 80s I read that they had the potential to be the greatest writing team since Lennon and McCartney. Their relationship was also strained, like Lennon and McCartney’s. And while it sounds like they are on much better terms these days, Difford is still out on a solo tour.
The place where he played was one of those intimate venues not even big enough to be called a hall or a club. And it’s one of the best places to hear music in this city.
Instead of paying $150 and sitting a football field away, I bought the tickets with the cash in my pocket, and sat no father then 10 feet from him.
He chatted with the crowd, we sang along, it was great.
Tempted. Black Coffee In Bed, Up The Junction…
Just like in Squeeze, though, Difford didn’t go at it alone. He had two stage-mates with him.
Melvin Duffy played pedal steel and made it sing. He also looked like he was having a blast.
And then there was Dorie Jackson.
Holy Moly… I have such a crush!
I wish I could say I’d heard her sing before. For the last two days I’ve been trying to think of the best words to describe her voice.
You know how you feel when you’re chilly and you get that mouthful of sweet, hot cocoa at the perfect temperature? First your mouth feels great, then your body is filled with warmth and happiness. Well, that’s what her voice did (except for my ears not my mouth…)
She was also the perfect complement to Difford and his Squeeze songs. Depth, emotion… blah blah blah… it was all there in her voice.
After the set, they mingled with the crowd. I got to shake Difford’s hand, yet it was more exciting to tap Dorie on the shoulder and tell her how beautiful her voice is. She must hear it all the time, yet she was charming and gave me the delightful British response of “Cheers.”
Like I said, total schoolboy crush…
She has a solo CD coming out sometime this year. I don’t know what her solo style is, but with her voice it doesn’t matter.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
Was This Weird?
Throughout my high school and college years, I worked at a summer camp. It was just the way working at a summer camp was supposed to be. There were girls, we had parties, swam in the pool after hours, and, oh, I guess we were supposed to take care of little kids too, but that was secondary.
I was never as cool as I was when I worked at summer camp.
1987 was particularly fun. For the first few weeks, one of the older women who worked there was hosting her sister and her sister's kids. The kids also came to camp, one as a young camper, the other as worker-bee, like me.
The worker-bee was a she... and she was beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen at that point in my life. I'm not exaggerating. She was tall, blond, from California, a competitive swimmer, and she was so pretty I couldn't think straight when she was around.
She was only going to be in my city for two weeks.
I had to work fast.
I'll spare you the details and fast forward to her departure... She cried, told me she loved me and said she wished she never had to leave.
But leave she did, and as summer high school love goes... out of sight out of mind. We wrote for a bit, talked on the phone from time to time, but she soon forgot me and that was that.
I have recently started a project. All of my life I have loved taking pictures... and I have watched as my poorly protected snapshots from the pre-digital days have deteriorated. So I recently bought a scanner and am going box to box, picking out the pictures I want to save forever, and digitizing them.
Today I got to the summer of 1987 stack. In the pile were a single picture of my summer love and one of her little brother.
I had to "google" her, but there were a gazillion hits. Her name is kind of common. So I "googled" her brother and up came his myspace page.
He doesn't look anything like he did when he was a 4 year old, but he did have a picture of himself with his sister, and she looked exactly the same.
So I sent him an email saying he wouldn't remember me, but I just found old old pictures of him and his sister... that I'd be happy to email them to him if he thought he'd like to see them... and to say hi to her for me. That was it, nothing more.
But here's the thing, and this will lead to another post eventually. When I was in college I had a stalker. It was horrible, and she worms her way into my life from time to time, which is super-creepy.
As a result I'm sensitive to super-creepy, and as soon as I sent the little brother the email I worried that maybe I was super-creepy for taking the 5 minutes to google the little brother of a girl I knew 20 years ago.
So was it weird?
I was never as cool as I was when I worked at summer camp.
1987 was particularly fun. For the first few weeks, one of the older women who worked there was hosting her sister and her sister's kids. The kids also came to camp, one as a young camper, the other as worker-bee, like me.
The worker-bee was a she... and she was beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen at that point in my life. I'm not exaggerating. She was tall, blond, from California, a competitive swimmer, and she was so pretty I couldn't think straight when she was around.
She was only going to be in my city for two weeks.
I had to work fast.
I'll spare you the details and fast forward to her departure... She cried, told me she loved me and said she wished she never had to leave.
But leave she did, and as summer high school love goes... out of sight out of mind. We wrote for a bit, talked on the phone from time to time, but she soon forgot me and that was that.
I have recently started a project. All of my life I have loved taking pictures... and I have watched as my poorly protected snapshots from the pre-digital days have deteriorated. So I recently bought a scanner and am going box to box, picking out the pictures I want to save forever, and digitizing them.
Today I got to the summer of 1987 stack. In the pile were a single picture of my summer love and one of her little brother.
I had to "google" her, but there were a gazillion hits. Her name is kind of common. So I "googled" her brother and up came his myspace page.
He doesn't look anything like he did when he was a 4 year old, but he did have a picture of himself with his sister, and she looked exactly the same.
So I sent him an email saying he wouldn't remember me, but I just found old old pictures of him and his sister... that I'd be happy to email them to him if he thought he'd like to see them... and to say hi to her for me. That was it, nothing more.
But here's the thing, and this will lead to another post eventually. When I was in college I had a stalker. It was horrible, and she worms her way into my life from time to time, which is super-creepy.
As a result I'm sensitive to super-creepy, and as soon as I sent the little brother the email I worried that maybe I was super-creepy for taking the 5 minutes to google the little brother of a girl I knew 20 years ago.
So was it weird?
Friday, March 02, 2007
Fact & Fiction
Nice job Melissavina. Lisa, you disappoint me.
1) I have visited 44 states. Many of them were part of a great idea that my mom and her friend devised. It was about seeing the cheesy tourist traps, true cultural sites and eating regional food. Yes we were camping, but we didn’t roast weenies over a fire. Among my favorite meals: fresh shrimp just pulled out of the Gulf of Mexico, an amazing fish with a fluorescent green color caught off of northern California, and lobster in Maine. There was one disaster, the clam chowder from a roadside stand. We were sick in a way you don’t want to be when you’re sleeping in a tent in the middle of the woods.
2) I am a direct descendant of Samuel Adams, a signer of the Declaration of Independence, perhaps known best for the beer that now bears his name. In 1975, People did an article on descendants and included a picture of my mother and me taken in front of Independence Hall. The caption was wrong though. It said I was 10, I was four. Peter Sellers is on the cover.
3) I do have a gun.
4) Jazz… I have tried to like it, I really have. I don’t. Music snobs have said it’s because I don’t understand it. Whatever. Maybe I am a moron, but I don’t like it, and I’m never ever going to try to play it on my guitar. What a waste of time, effort, and of the little ability I have.
5) We were at her grandparents after her prom. Both of our bedrooms were in the basement… that’s just an invitation for 16 year olds. But her grandfather walked down to check on us. By the time he made it down the stars, she had disappeared from the bed in record time. He looked at me and said “Oh John, you’re up.” Mmm hmmm.
6) We were trying to find an American air base in the middle of the Kuwaiti desert, right after the war began. Somehow, we thought it was a good idea to leave the road and drive through the desert, on the sand. It was like a scene out of a Bob Hope/Bing Crosby “Road to Kuwait” movie. After a half hour of seeing nothing in any direction, we finally spotted a building off in the distance. By the time we got there, the building was surrounded by Kuwaiti soldiers, bearing machine guns, wondering how we found the place and why we were there. They declined my request for photos.
7) I really am a very good cook!
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
I Can Help... Even If I Don't Have A Clue About The Problem
One of the things I thought about including in my "Tagged" posting was how my friends have always counted on me for advice, how I'm a good listener, offer good suggestions and tend to make them feel much better about themselves.
It has been this way for most of my life.
When I was in 5th grade, my best friend T was the class stud, and he had a girlfriend. This wasn't a cute little kid crush. They actually would go into a dark hallway in our school's basement and make out in the afternoon after class.
I could only imagine what was going on down there. Sometimes they talked about "necking."
What the hell was that?
Did that mean they rubbed necks? If so, that didn't sound like much fun.
I was clueless and jealous.
Even though I didn't know what it all was, I liked girls. I wanted in. Or sort of. Once a cute girl C, asked me if I wanted to go into the dark hall with her. I came up with excuses not to. I was sure I would screw it all up. Better not to even go down that road.
But I digress.
After a couple weeks of making out, T pulled me aside one day. He needed help.
His girlfriend, D, wanted more than he was willing to give.
I put a serious look on my face, my arm around his shoulder, took him into the classroom's book nook.
"Talk to me." I didn't say that, because I was 10, but if I'd been older, that's what I would have said.
He looked scared.
"It's okay," I said. "You can tell me."
He took a deep breath. "She wants me to french kiss her."
My God, I thought. "Go on..."
T continued. "I just don't think I'm ready for that."
I nodded. I looked him straight in the eye, the way friends do when there's a lot on the line. "I understand."
"What should I do?" T was distrought.
I smiled, a comforting grin. He knew I had the answer. He knew I would help him see the solution. All of my mother's lessons about sex and being grown up were about to pay off.
"T (actually I used his real name)... She needs to respect you and your body. If you aren't ready to french, then you shouldn't do it. No one can make you do things like that if you don't want to. Tell her the truth. That's all you can do."
It was solid advice. I had done my work. Well, most of it. There was still one thing left for me to do.
I spent more than two years trying to figure out what the f@#* french kissing was. I was too embarassed to ask... but my imagination... oh boy did I have ideas. None of them made any sense to me then, or now, looking back at my 10 year old mind. The french were sexy people, this french kissing must have been a doozy.
I went to libraries, bookstores, watched movies, eavesdropped on older kids. Whatever it was it had to be big, if T was sweating bullets over it.
It was quite a letdown when I discovered it was tongue kissing. Turned out I'd done it before I knew what it was called.
But from that spring day in 5th grade, I knew I had a talent. I could talk people off the ledge, lead them to the light, help them in their times of need... all while talking out of my ass.
It has been this way for most of my life.
When I was in 5th grade, my best friend T was the class stud, and he had a girlfriend. This wasn't a cute little kid crush. They actually would go into a dark hallway in our school's basement and make out in the afternoon after class.
I could only imagine what was going on down there. Sometimes they talked about "necking."
What the hell was that?
Did that mean they rubbed necks? If so, that didn't sound like much fun.
I was clueless and jealous.
Even though I didn't know what it all was, I liked girls. I wanted in. Or sort of. Once a cute girl C, asked me if I wanted to go into the dark hall with her. I came up with excuses not to. I was sure I would screw it all up. Better not to even go down that road.
But I digress.
After a couple weeks of making out, T pulled me aside one day. He needed help.
His girlfriend, D, wanted more than he was willing to give.
I put a serious look on my face, my arm around his shoulder, took him into the classroom's book nook.
"Talk to me." I didn't say that, because I was 10, but if I'd been older, that's what I would have said.
He looked scared.
"It's okay," I said. "You can tell me."
He took a deep breath. "She wants me to french kiss her."
My God, I thought. "Go on..."
T continued. "I just don't think I'm ready for that."
I nodded. I looked him straight in the eye, the way friends do when there's a lot on the line. "I understand."
"What should I do?" T was distrought.
I smiled, a comforting grin. He knew I had the answer. He knew I would help him see the solution. All of my mother's lessons about sex and being grown up were about to pay off.
"T (actually I used his real name)... She needs to respect you and your body. If you aren't ready to french, then you shouldn't do it. No one can make you do things like that if you don't want to. Tell her the truth. That's all you can do."
It was solid advice. I had done my work. Well, most of it. There was still one thing left for me to do.
I spent more than two years trying to figure out what the f@#* french kissing was. I was too embarassed to ask... but my imagination... oh boy did I have ideas. None of them made any sense to me then, or now, looking back at my 10 year old mind. The french were sexy people, this french kissing must have been a doozy.
I went to libraries, bookstores, watched movies, eavesdropped on older kids. Whatever it was it had to be big, if T was sweating bullets over it.
It was quite a letdown when I discovered it was tongue kissing. Turned out I'd done it before I knew what it was called.
But from that spring day in 5th grade, I knew I had a talent. I could talk people off the ledge, lead them to the light, help them in their times of need... all while talking out of my ass.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
I'm It
My friend Lemon Gloria "tagged" me this weekend. It came after she was tagged and had to write six truths and one untruth about herself. In addition to having the honor of being tagged, I also had the brains to pick out her lie.
She can't hold a tune. I could tell just by looking at her. I'm guessing that she is the really fun woman who can't wait to take the stage at karaoke, knowing that her version of "Living On A Prayer" will send people running through the streets for ear protection.
So now about me. Six truths one untruth:
So now, I'm supposed to "tag" someone else. But since I'm new to this and don't really know anyone else, other than the woman who tagged me, I'm going to wait a bit before passing on the honor.
Can I do that?
Defer the tag?
She can't hold a tune. I could tell just by looking at her. I'm guessing that she is the really fun woman who can't wait to take the stage at karaoke, knowing that her version of "Living On A Prayer" will send people running through the streets for ear protection.
So now about me. Six truths one untruth:
1) I have visited 44 American states. As I child, my mother and I would go camping with her best friend and children. We visited a different region of the country each summer. The only states I haven't been in are Alaska, Hawaii, North Dakota, Minnesota, Nebraska and Kansas.
2) I was once in People Magazine. I was 6 at the time, and one of the subjects of an article that included a photo of me.
3) While I am a liberal pretty much across the board, I do own a gun and enjoy shooting as a hobby. Perhaps it's the boy part of me, or maybe it's from living in Ohio for 5 years, but even though it goes against my general politics, it's a passtime I like.
4) I like all genres of music, but jazz may be my favorite. I love listening to it and I'm trying to learn some jazz riffs on my guitar.
5) The first time I ever "went all the way," we were interupted when her grandfather walked in the room. She moved so fast, he never knew what was going on.
6) I once got lost while driving in a middle eastern desert. When we finally found people, they were carrying machine guns and not at all happy to see us.
7) I am a very good cook.
So now, I'm supposed to "tag" someone else. But since I'm new to this and don't really know anyone else, other than the woman who tagged me, I'm going to wait a bit before passing on the honor.
Can I do that?
Defer the tag?
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Award Night
I am not the first person to say this, so I’m not breaking any ground here. I just want to get on record.
To me the Oscars amount to this: over paid pretty people, who don’t work as hard as the rest of us, and have no sense of what the real world is like, patting each other on the back and congratulating themselves. They cheer and cry and make statements and look serious, as if they are as important as their paychecks are bloated.
I love movies.
I don’t think an actor who has worked 8 weeks on a film has any clue what he’s talking about when he says it was an exhausting project.
When an actress puts on 40 pounds for a role, a role that earns her more many than the average American earns in a lifetime, she is not courageous.
And then when I hear a star take the stage and make a political statement, I wonder, has he ever actually had to work an entire year with two weeks or less of vacation?
And let’s talk for a moment about the jewelry and the fashions.
Here are some of the people who can actually afford to buy obscenely priced clothes and necklaces.
But they don’t have to. No, they get them for free. They get so much for free that many stars have come to expect freebees wherever they go.
Recap: They make too much, they don’t have to spend it. Nice!
It’s all ok though, because they realize that part of the price they pay for their lives of glamour is treating fans well, knowing that they’ve given up their privacy, showing with their real-life actions that they’re good people.
Ha ha ha ha ha ha.
Sorry, I had to throw some humor into this post. That’s a good one.
Back to reality.
I know, I’m painting in broad strokes here and there are exceptions. There are good people in Hollywood, smart people, caring and even real/realistic people.
But when I look at the Oscars, my first reaction is that I’m watching people who think they are worth the hype.
I just disagree.
And giving them more television time than the President does when announcing major world policy is just silly.
To me the Oscars amount to this: over paid pretty people, who don’t work as hard as the rest of us, and have no sense of what the real world is like, patting each other on the back and congratulating themselves. They cheer and cry and make statements and look serious, as if they are as important as their paychecks are bloated.
I love movies.
I don’t think an actor who has worked 8 weeks on a film has any clue what he’s talking about when he says it was an exhausting project.
When an actress puts on 40 pounds for a role, a role that earns her more many than the average American earns in a lifetime, she is not courageous.
And then when I hear a star take the stage and make a political statement, I wonder, has he ever actually had to work an entire year with two weeks or less of vacation?
And let’s talk for a moment about the jewelry and the fashions.
Here are some of the people who can actually afford to buy obscenely priced clothes and necklaces.
But they don’t have to. No, they get them for free. They get so much for free that many stars have come to expect freebees wherever they go.
Recap: They make too much, they don’t have to spend it. Nice!
It’s all ok though, because they realize that part of the price they pay for their lives of glamour is treating fans well, knowing that they’ve given up their privacy, showing with their real-life actions that they’re good people.
Ha ha ha ha ha ha.
Sorry, I had to throw some humor into this post. That’s a good one.
Back to reality.
I know, I’m painting in broad strokes here and there are exceptions. There are good people in Hollywood, smart people, caring and even real/realistic people.
But when I look at the Oscars, my first reaction is that I’m watching people who think they are worth the hype.
I just disagree.
And giving them more television time than the President does when announcing major world policy is just silly.
Friday, February 23, 2007
My name is John...
There’s good news and there's bad news.
The good news is that my workouts are going very well. Only on the very first day did I see the specter of death looking over my shoulder. He was pointing his bony finger at me as I did squat thrusts while holding these torturous weights called kettle bells. I managed to avoid the scythe that day, and he hasn’t returned.
I am very pleased with the project.
On the other hand, I just can’t stop eating.
My stomach is a bottomless pit. There is no end to my gluttony.
Tonight, there is a box of Girl Scout Thin Mints here at work. I am the only person who knows where it is and it really isn’t mine to share, but it is mine to dip into. I could eat the entire box. I won’t because someone else ate one sleeve already, so that only leaves 720 calories for me.
I could do it.
Now, I had a delightful salad for dinner, so that’s not going to kill me. But the rest of those cookies just might.
And then there’s the risk of something else sweet coming into the newsroom.
I’ll eat it! Nothing can stop me. If it’s sweet, I want it and I will have it!
Forget heroin, crack, crystal-meth. I’m an addict. An addict of sweet chocolaty goodness.
I need help.
The good news is that my workouts are going very well. Only on the very first day did I see the specter of death looking over my shoulder. He was pointing his bony finger at me as I did squat thrusts while holding these torturous weights called kettle bells. I managed to avoid the scythe that day, and he hasn’t returned.
I am very pleased with the project.
On the other hand, I just can’t stop eating.
My stomach is a bottomless pit. There is no end to my gluttony.
Tonight, there is a box of Girl Scout Thin Mints here at work. I am the only person who knows where it is and it really isn’t mine to share, but it is mine to dip into. I could eat the entire box. I won’t because someone else ate one sleeve already, so that only leaves 720 calories for me.
I could do it.
Now, I had a delightful salad for dinner, so that’s not going to kill me. But the rest of those cookies just might.
And then there’s the risk of something else sweet coming into the newsroom.
I’ll eat it! Nothing can stop me. If it’s sweet, I want it and I will have it!
Forget heroin, crack, crystal-meth. I’m an addict. An addict of sweet chocolaty goodness.
I need help.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Son, Do You Like Rubbers?
When I was a little boy, my mother was very active with Planned Parenthood. For a while she was on the board of directors.
That's where my book called Did The Sun Shine Before You Were Born came from. It ran down what sex was, how it made babies. It was pretty straight forward explaining that sex was what happened in bed when mommy and daddy loved each other. It didn't go into how much fun it is, how it can happen in all sorts of places without beds and how there are plenty of times when love has nothing to do with it.
My mother also taught a sex-ed class at a local private school. She'd come home at night with a box filled with replicas of the male and female anatomies, replicas that you could take apart to see all of the pieces that made up the larger contraptions.
In the another box she had samples of every form of birth control available at the time. As a 6-year-old I could not only name what each device or pill was, I could explain how it worked.
Condoms and diaphragms were simple to understand, I didn't quite get how pills and hormones worked, and I thought the idea of an IUD irritating the lining of the uterus was creepy.
Now, there are those who will tell you a 6-year-old is too young to know all of those things. I'm not sure why. I had no more urge to have sex than any other boys.
What I did have, though, was a great feeling of responsibilty. Once I did start having sex, I knew what I was doing (birth control-wise), I knew why to do it, I didn't have any problems asking and using, and I knew I had no excuse for ever coming home with scary news for my parents.
The frankness did lend itself to odd or awkward conversations, some unintentional.
Once in high school, my mother and I were driving somewhere on a rainy day. She asked me "What do you think about rubbers?"
"I'm sorry?"
"You know, rubbers, do you ever use them?"
"Uhhh."
"I guess not, I've never seen you putting them on."
"Uhhm."
Awkward silence.
"I'm talking about galoshes."
Of course, mom, of course.
That's where my book called Did The Sun Shine Before You Were Born came from. It ran down what sex was, how it made babies. It was pretty straight forward explaining that sex was what happened in bed when mommy and daddy loved each other. It didn't go into how much fun it is, how it can happen in all sorts of places without beds and how there are plenty of times when love has nothing to do with it.
My mother also taught a sex-ed class at a local private school. She'd come home at night with a box filled with replicas of the male and female anatomies, replicas that you could take apart to see all of the pieces that made up the larger contraptions.
In the another box she had samples of every form of birth control available at the time. As a 6-year-old I could not only name what each device or pill was, I could explain how it worked.
Condoms and diaphragms were simple to understand, I didn't quite get how pills and hormones worked, and I thought the idea of an IUD irritating the lining of the uterus was creepy.
Now, there are those who will tell you a 6-year-old is too young to know all of those things. I'm not sure why. I had no more urge to have sex than any other boys.
What I did have, though, was a great feeling of responsibilty. Once I did start having sex, I knew what I was doing (birth control-wise), I knew why to do it, I didn't have any problems asking and using, and I knew I had no excuse for ever coming home with scary news for my parents.
The frankness did lend itself to odd or awkward conversations, some unintentional.
Once in high school, my mother and I were driving somewhere on a rainy day. She asked me "What do you think about rubbers?"
"I'm sorry?"
"You know, rubbers, do you ever use them?"
"Uhhh."
"I guess not, I've never seen you putting them on."
"Uhhm."
Awkward silence.
"I'm talking about galoshes."
Of course, mom, of course.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
A Late Breaking Rant!
I never really wanted this to become a place for my political rants. Generally I find other people's political rants quite dull and unpersuasive.
Of course, mine aren't dull and are always right, but I still don't want to burden what few readers I have with politics or religion.
BUT... (you knew that was coming)
Today came word that drug maker Merck is suspending its campaign to make its HPV vaccine mandatory for American kids. Among the reasons is a backlash from parents who say requiring the vaccine takes away their right to teach their children about sex.
Here's how the flow chart works:
Vaccine stops forms of HPV... HPV can cause cervical cancer... HPV can be transmitted by unprotected sex.
Here's how the puritans see the flow chart:
Vaccine = unprotected sex.
I don't know where to begin here.
Once anything is in anyway linked to sex, the conservative, head-in-the-sanders are against it.
Their logic? Well, there is no logic.
Maybe it's their belief that giving preteens this vaccine sends the message that unprotected sex is ok.
It doesn't, that argument is stupid.
If you teach your kids that they're too young for sex or that they must always use protection, getting this anti-cancer vaccine isn't going to ruin your lessons.
Perhaps they think their daughters aren't going to have sex until they're married, and then only with a husband who has never had sex.
Dream on.
Parents will be lucky if their kids don't have sex. You have to double that luck in order to have an abstinent daughter marry and abstinent son.
But what about those abstinence covenants? Great idea, but there are two problems with them. The first is that they don't always work. The second is that the kids who make virginity promises are less likely to use condoms (or any birth control) when they break the promises and have sex. These are the kids who need the vaccines the most.
Maybe some parents think their daughters should be older. Maybe, but the vaccine is more effective if given before the girls are sexually active.
I fear that with this thinking, there's no point in coming up with an AIDS vaccine. No one will let their kids have it. (Oh, by the way, the HPV vaccine has shown that it may prevent anal cancer among gay men, but there's no way anyone is going to give it to a 12-year-old boy)
There is a segment of our country that hears "blah blah blah sex blah blah blah" and immediately starts yelling "NO NO NO," without thinking through the consequences, without looking at the big picture.
They scare me.
Of course, mine aren't dull and are always right, but I still don't want to burden what few readers I have with politics or religion.
BUT... (you knew that was coming)
Today came word that drug maker Merck is suspending its campaign to make its HPV vaccine mandatory for American kids. Among the reasons is a backlash from parents who say requiring the vaccine takes away their right to teach their children about sex.
Here's how the flow chart works:
Vaccine stops forms of HPV... HPV can cause cervical cancer... HPV can be transmitted by unprotected sex.
Here's how the puritans see the flow chart:
Vaccine = unprotected sex.
I don't know where to begin here.
Once anything is in anyway linked to sex, the conservative, head-in-the-sanders are against it.
Their logic? Well, there is no logic.
Maybe it's their belief that giving preteens this vaccine sends the message that unprotected sex is ok.
It doesn't, that argument is stupid.
If you teach your kids that they're too young for sex or that they must always use protection, getting this anti-cancer vaccine isn't going to ruin your lessons.
Perhaps they think their daughters aren't going to have sex until they're married, and then only with a husband who has never had sex.
Dream on.
Parents will be lucky if their kids don't have sex. You have to double that luck in order to have an abstinent daughter marry and abstinent son.
But what about those abstinence covenants? Great idea, but there are two problems with them. The first is that they don't always work. The second is that the kids who make virginity promises are less likely to use condoms (or any birth control) when they break the promises and have sex. These are the kids who need the vaccines the most.
Maybe some parents think their daughters should be older. Maybe, but the vaccine is more effective if given before the girls are sexually active.
I fear that with this thinking, there's no point in coming up with an AIDS vaccine. No one will let their kids have it. (Oh, by the way, the HPV vaccine has shown that it may prevent anal cancer among gay men, but there's no way anyone is going to give it to a 12-year-old boy)
There is a segment of our country that hears "blah blah blah sex blah blah blah" and immediately starts yelling "NO NO NO," without thinking through the consequences, without looking at the big picture.
They scare me.
New Discoveries
There is a newly discovered film of President Kennedy, taken less than two minutes before his assassination. The man who took the film has known about it for more than 40 years, but apparently never thought it was very noteworthy. Only after casually mentioning it to his grandson did the man donate the film to the museum dedicated to Kennedy’s assassination.
There are, no doubt, historians and conspiracy buffs alike looking at the film frame by frame, to see if there are any shots of Lee Harvey Oswald carrying a violin case into the Book Depository.
Apparently there have been a few other similar discoveries of items originally thought to be unimportant.
In New Guinea, air traffic controllers are taking a new look at a file that’s been lying around for the last 80 years, labeled A. Earhart/Change In My Flight Plan.
FBI agents now think it might be worth checking out a map that’s been hanging on the wall at the headquarters for the International Brotherhood of Teamsters. They’re curious about an X over the Meadowlands and a scribbled note that says “We buried Jimmy here.”
And, several residents of Qandahar, Afghanistan have decided to contact U.S. Forces about the tall bearded man who has been working the register at Osama’s Coffee House.
That’s all for now, I’m catching up on past emails, like the one from my friend Anna Nicole that says Paternity Results in the subject line.
Oh, it can wait.
There are, no doubt, historians and conspiracy buffs alike looking at the film frame by frame, to see if there are any shots of Lee Harvey Oswald carrying a violin case into the Book Depository.
Apparently there have been a few other similar discoveries of items originally thought to be unimportant.
In New Guinea, air traffic controllers are taking a new look at a file that’s been lying around for the last 80 years, labeled A. Earhart/Change In My Flight Plan.
FBI agents now think it might be worth checking out a map that’s been hanging on the wall at the headquarters for the International Brotherhood of Teamsters. They’re curious about an X over the Meadowlands and a scribbled note that says “We buried Jimmy here.”
And, several residents of Qandahar, Afghanistan have decided to contact U.S. Forces about the tall bearded man who has been working the register at Osama’s Coffee House.
That’s all for now, I’m catching up on past emails, like the one from my friend Anna Nicole that says Paternity Results in the subject line.
Oh, it can wait.
Monday, February 19, 2007
Tim Hardaway Would Hate My Club
Damn computers…
I’d written the funniest, wittiest post ever. You all would have died laughing.
But I never saved it and it’s gone forever. No point in trying to rewrite it, I’ll never be able to recapture the moment.
You’ll just have to imagine the most perfectly written essay ever… and give me credit for it.
Instead, let me tell you about my first trips back to the gym.
It really isn’t a gym, it’s one of those classic old fashioned men’s clubs. The locker room is mahogany; the lounge is filled with beautiful leather furniture, which is as much about practicality as it is aesthetics. It’s not at all uncommon to see a 65-year-old man, reading the Wall Street Journal, smoking a cigar, lounging on the couch, naked. Imagine bare asses on cloth. It wouldn't work.
Naked was the way everything there was for decades. It only went coed about 15 years ago. Before then, no clothes.
I’d seen the bare asses of some of this city’s movers and shakers poking out of the surface of the swimming pool, much like the tops of humpback whales in the ocean. I looked away before seeing the blow holes.
Heat room, naked; steam room, naked; sitting around reading the paper area, naked; no need for a towel during massages.
Go up a floor to the courts, and all of that changes. One flight of stares takes you from the least formal to the most formal. Don’t get on the squash court wearing anything but white. It’s offensive to the members.
Fat lawyers standing face to face naked, not offensive.
Blue shirts for a game, offensive.
A few weeks ago I saw a friend of my father’s in the locker room. He was, of course, naked. As he walked toward me to say hi, he gave himself a nice vigorous scratch. Then extended the same hand for a shake.
Thank goodness I was headed to the showers.
I’d written the funniest, wittiest post ever. You all would have died laughing.
But I never saved it and it’s gone forever. No point in trying to rewrite it, I’ll never be able to recapture the moment.
You’ll just have to imagine the most perfectly written essay ever… and give me credit for it.
Instead, let me tell you about my first trips back to the gym.
It really isn’t a gym, it’s one of those classic old fashioned men’s clubs. The locker room is mahogany; the lounge is filled with beautiful leather furniture, which is as much about practicality as it is aesthetics. It’s not at all uncommon to see a 65-year-old man, reading the Wall Street Journal, smoking a cigar, lounging on the couch, naked. Imagine bare asses on cloth. It wouldn't work.
Naked was the way everything there was for decades. It only went coed about 15 years ago. Before then, no clothes.
I’d seen the bare asses of some of this city’s movers and shakers poking out of the surface of the swimming pool, much like the tops of humpback whales in the ocean. I looked away before seeing the blow holes.
Heat room, naked; steam room, naked; sitting around reading the paper area, naked; no need for a towel during massages.
Go up a floor to the courts, and all of that changes. One flight of stares takes you from the least formal to the most formal. Don’t get on the squash court wearing anything but white. It’s offensive to the members.
Fat lawyers standing face to face naked, not offensive.
Blue shirts for a game, offensive.
A few weeks ago I saw a friend of my father’s in the locker room. He was, of course, naked. As he walked toward me to say hi, he gave himself a nice vigorous scratch. Then extended the same hand for a shake.
Thank goodness I was headed to the showers.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
You Gotta Be Kidding (I am)
I had a couple of topics I wanted to touch on today, but then that great man Tim Hardaway opened his mouth.
As a fellow heterosexual, I will offer my opinions.
If you missed it, here’s some of what the former NBA player said on a Florida radio station.
He added that he would try to have a gay player removed from the team.
Word!
I can’t tell you how many times I have been in a locker room when a gay man has lost control and grabbed my dick. All of us straight men are so good looking that we are always at risk of being jumped by gay guys.
Certainly, if I were in the shower, and one of “them” saw me naked, I’m sure I’d somehow end up in an all-man threesome.
And then there’s the risk of being hit-on by a gay man. That’s how you can catch gay, you know.
There is a gay couple in my building. Believe me, it’s just a matter of time before they kick in my door and do gay things to me. Forget keeping them out of the locker room. Let’s get them out of my building too.
Of course, I am surprised that there are any gay men in a professional locker room. Pro-sports are so manly I didn’t think a gay man could actually keep up with the real men. They throw like girls.
It’s probably a gay conspiracy, just so they can see and talk about how amazing the big muscular athletes look when they’re all sweaty after a big game.
Thanks Tim, thanks for giving me the courage to speak out as intelligently as you…
Asshole.
As a fellow heterosexual, I will offer my opinions.
If you missed it, here’s some of what the former NBA player said on a Florida radio station.
“You know, I hate gay people, so I let it be known. I don't like gay people and I don't like to be around gay people… First of all, I wouldn't want him on my team. And second of all, if he was on my team, I would, you know, really distance myself from him because, uh, I don't think that is right. I don't think he should be in the locker room while we are in the locker room."
He added that he would try to have a gay player removed from the team.
Word!
I can’t tell you how many times I have been in a locker room when a gay man has lost control and grabbed my dick. All of us straight men are so good looking that we are always at risk of being jumped by gay guys.
Certainly, if I were in the shower, and one of “them” saw me naked, I’m sure I’d somehow end up in an all-man threesome.
And then there’s the risk of being hit-on by a gay man. That’s how you can catch gay, you know.
There is a gay couple in my building. Believe me, it’s just a matter of time before they kick in my door and do gay things to me. Forget keeping them out of the locker room. Let’s get them out of my building too.
Of course, I am surprised that there are any gay men in a professional locker room. Pro-sports are so manly I didn’t think a gay man could actually keep up with the real men. They throw like girls.
It’s probably a gay conspiracy, just so they can see and talk about how amazing the big muscular athletes look when they’re all sweaty after a big game.
Thanks Tim, thanks for giving me the courage to speak out as intelligently as you…
Asshole.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Getting Back At It
Tomorrow I return to the gym and to the trainer who has proven he can make me throw up.
I spent some of the fall making a half-assed effort at working out and trying to get my 36-year-old body back to its 17-year-old glory (they say you should set realistic goals). Then I traveled out of the country for a couple of weeks, and had one excuse after another for falling off the workout wagon.
Back in my glory days, I was a slim 6’1”, played three varsity sports, and had legs that were so skinny even the football coach was afraid they might snap off.
I was also 50, yes 50 pounds lighter. I slipped so easily into 32 inch wastebands, I think I had cheekbones, my butt stopped the ladies in their tracks (ok, that part I always imagined)
Now, well, it’s a different story. I don’t have a stomach that hangs out. I’m just big. All around big.
And part of my unhappiness is that my mental image of myself is still that of a strapping young teen, so mirrors and photos of 36-year-old John make me very unhappy.
In the past I have tried and failed at operation slimdown.
Perhaps, because I’m going a little more public with it now, I might have more motivation to stick with it.
As if an ass that stops the ladies dead in their track isn’t enough.
Wish me luck.
I spent some of the fall making a half-assed effort at working out and trying to get my 36-year-old body back to its 17-year-old glory (they say you should set realistic goals). Then I traveled out of the country for a couple of weeks, and had one excuse after another for falling off the workout wagon.
Back in my glory days, I was a slim 6’1”, played three varsity sports, and had legs that were so skinny even the football coach was afraid they might snap off.
I was also 50, yes 50 pounds lighter. I slipped so easily into 32 inch wastebands, I think I had cheekbones, my butt stopped the ladies in their tracks (ok, that part I always imagined)
Now, well, it’s a different story. I don’t have a stomach that hangs out. I’m just big. All around big.
And part of my unhappiness is that my mental image of myself is still that of a strapping young teen, so mirrors and photos of 36-year-old John make me very unhappy.
In the past I have tried and failed at operation slimdown.
Perhaps, because I’m going a little more public with it now, I might have more motivation to stick with it.
As if an ass that stops the ladies dead in their track isn’t enough.
Wish me luck.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
It's All About The Comma or It's All About, The Comma
Today my friends, I present my favorite news story of the week. As I stared at it, I realized it also holds an important lesson for all of you kids who don’t think punctuation matters.
It comes from California, in the form of a 911 transcript.
I’m sure many of you have been following the story of Walter the Wandering Wallaby. He escaped from his wallaby sitter's home last week and has been surviving the mean streets of Fontana ever since.
Caller: "Yes there is a big kangaroo here on the street."
911: "I'm sorry, I need you to… what's going on there?"
Caller: "A large kangaroo, lady. We are looking at it. He's right here in our street."
911: "What do you mean a kangaroo lady? That doesn't make sense."
Caller: "It's large kangaroo in our street, right there."
Saddly, part of what makes the 911 call so special are the tones of both the caller and the operator. The caller is pissed that she has to keep repeating that it's a kangaroo (perhaps if she'd recognized it as a wallaby it would have been a smoother conversation.) The operator can't figure out what the caller is talking about and, because you can't see a spoken comma floating out there, can't figure out what a kangaroo lady is.
It reminds me of a written example of why commas are so important. As I recall, this came from one of the strong female teachers in my life:
A woman without her man is nothing. (that's the wrong, comma free version)
A woman, without her, man is nothing.
See the difference?
It is important, because I’m sure police respond much differently when the call is for a wild kangaroo lady.
Monday, February 12, 2007
Loose Ends
Cosmo is more like himself today. The doctor prescribed a heavy duty NSAID and maybe it’s working. Tomorrow he goes to his regular vet for a more detailed examination, and then he’s going to stay with MB for a bit. He’s happy and not at all uncomfortable.
Who takes a 5-year-old to the animal ER? Actually, that’s not a fair question because I know that sometimes you have no choice in child care. But, to take the little boy into the consult with the vet seems cruel. Everyone in the waiting room heard him scream and yell that he didn’t want Lucky to die. I’m not a fan of glossing over life for kids, but is it so bad to tell the little boy that Lucky has to go to a farm?
MB and her partner are having, or getting a baby. They’re adopting from overseas and are far along in the process. I had been expecting them to ask me for a sample. All of that practice for nothing.
Some college students around here are in hot water for hiring a hooker, a hooker who is HIV positive. Lots of things to touch on here, but my first question is why college kids need to hire a hooker. Is there any period of life when sex is more available than in college?
And this gets me to my final topic which came up over the weekend. When I’m President of the World, one of my first decrees will be that every school have barrels of condoms by every door. The students will learn sex-ed, and be told that they probably aren’t ready to have sex, and they really should wait. But we all know better, and on their way out the door they should be able to fill their pockets with rubbers, with no embarrassment. Teens have sex, and that will never stop. Teen pregnancy and STD’s can be prevented though. And while we’re at it, get the girls to line up for the HPV vaccine. It’s not going to make them have sex, it’s not going to tell them it’s ok to have sex, but it’s going to protect the ones who were going to have sex anyway from a tough price to pay, cancer. I have many female friends who have a little extra angst when they get their annual pap's, all because of an easily transmitted virus they got in their younger days. Imagine how much easier they might sleep if they'd had a vaccine.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Poor Doggie
Cosmo is sick… and we don’t know why. It started yesterday with an odd limp. This morning when he woke up, he had trouble walking. It was like he was drunk.
I called my ex-wife, MB, and we took him to the doggie emergency room.
MB and I were married for 5 years, we've been divorced for the same amount of time. For the first year or so after we split up, we didn't speak, There was a lot of hurt and anger. Our joint custody of Cosmo is one of the reasons we reestablished our friendship. Then we remembered that we do actually like each other.
It’s sort of like a brotherly/sisterly affection now. I have zero romantic feelings towards her and I have no doubt that she lacks that same feeling towards me, but it is still a lot of fun hanging out .
Back when we were married, we had just finished a phone conversation while I was at work. A coworker walked up to me and said she knew I’d been talking to my wife. She knew, because she said she never saw me smile or laugh as much as I did when I was talking to MB.
That remains true today. As we sat in the ER, waiting for a couple of hours, we cracked each other up.
We talked about the hard issue too, of what to do with a 9-year-old bullmastiff who might have a serious problem. That wasn’t fun, but it wasn’t terrible. It was comforting dealing with it together.
At the end of it all, there was no official diagnosis on Cosmo. It could be something simple like a neck injury or something not so simple like a brain tumor. Or it could be anything in between.
Quite a range.
Right now he’s sleeping on his bed and he seems comfortable.
I called my ex-wife, MB, and we took him to the doggie emergency room.
MB and I were married for 5 years, we've been divorced for the same amount of time. For the first year or so after we split up, we didn't speak, There was a lot of hurt and anger. Our joint custody of Cosmo is one of the reasons we reestablished our friendship. Then we remembered that we do actually like each other.
It’s sort of like a brotherly/sisterly affection now. I have zero romantic feelings towards her and I have no doubt that she lacks that same feeling towards me, but it is still a lot of fun hanging out .
Back when we were married, we had just finished a phone conversation while I was at work. A coworker walked up to me and said she knew I’d been talking to my wife. She knew, because she said she never saw me smile or laugh as much as I did when I was talking to MB.
That remains true today. As we sat in the ER, waiting for a couple of hours, we cracked each other up.
We talked about the hard issue too, of what to do with a 9-year-old bullmastiff who might have a serious problem. That wasn’t fun, but it wasn’t terrible. It was comforting dealing with it together.
At the end of it all, there was no official diagnosis on Cosmo. It could be something simple like a neck injury or something not so simple like a brain tumor. Or it could be anything in between.
Quite a range.
Right now he’s sleeping on his bed and he seems comfortable.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Today, I'll Pass
I was going to write a witty, albeit mean little something about Anna Nicole. Not because I have any reason to care strongly about her either way. No, I was going to do it because being mean is so easy.
Taking pot shots at a celebrity like her would have required no thought, no crafting, really no clever ability, certainly no creativity.
And that is the reason I think so many people like to be mean.
Mean and offensive comments always grab attention, they get a big laugh, and they require no real brain power to create.
It's the like making the choice to walk through this word a happy person or a grumpy person. It is a piece of cake to be grumpy. And complaining, oh it's so much fun when you're with a group of people, and so easy.
Sucking it up though, and trying to have a bright outlook, even in the face of a bad day takes a lot of effort. It can even be exhausting.
But, having lived my share of grumpy days, I now think the effort of trying to be in a good mood is worth it.
And I think I will feel better about this post by skipping the softballs that Anna Nicole has tossed up there through her life.
Taking pot shots at a celebrity like her would have required no thought, no crafting, really no clever ability, certainly no creativity.
And that is the reason I think so many people like to be mean.
Mean and offensive comments always grab attention, they get a big laugh, and they require no real brain power to create.
It's the like making the choice to walk through this word a happy person or a grumpy person. It is a piece of cake to be grumpy. And complaining, oh it's so much fun when you're with a group of people, and so easy.
Sucking it up though, and trying to have a bright outlook, even in the face of a bad day takes a lot of effort. It can even be exhausting.
But, having lived my share of grumpy days, I now think the effort of trying to be in a good mood is worth it.
And I think I will feel better about this post by skipping the softballs that Anna Nicole has tossed up there through her life.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
That's Crazy!
I'd really like to work for NASA.
It seems like the organization really treats its employees well.
My boss has always been there for me when I needed a helping hand. She let me have time off when my divorce wore me out. When she has beaten me down for a mistake, she has always picked me up and sent me out on a positive note.
Still, if I were to drive 900 miles, wearing a diaper, with a BB gun, a wig and a plan to abduct and perhaps kill another television producer, I'm not so sure she'd fly to pick me up from my court hearing and then hold a news conference expressing such deep concern, not for whomever it was I was going to whack with my new steel mallet, but for me.
We cover stories of men and women going bonkers all the time. True, they don't all slip into a pair of Depends to carry out their attacks, but they go from being people who hung out with neighbors, attended PTA meetings, and led church groups, to killers or attempted killers. And when they try to kill their husbands, wives, rivals, they don't get a ton of sympathy.
So what makes our astronaut so special?
Yes, it's clear that something went terribly wrong with her, but can't you say that about a lot of people who do bad things?
What about the California woman who was arrested this week for plotting to kill her husband... using wasps! Police say she was going to fill his car with them, and he's allergic. Her coworkers aren't rallying on her behalf, talking about how sad they are for her. No one has held a news conference to talk about how they want to figure out how things went wrong in her life. But something must have made her dig into the wasp nest.
Face it, no one ever cared why O.J. snapped, except, I guess, for the guy who drove the Bronco, and maybe Ron the waiter who was probably yelling, "O.J., why the hell are you doing this?"
The astronaut plot is a great story, with all of the key elements, sex, violence, rubber tubing and space travel.
I just don't get why she's getting so much sympathy.
It seems like the organization really treats its employees well.
My boss has always been there for me when I needed a helping hand. She let me have time off when my divorce wore me out. When she has beaten me down for a mistake, she has always picked me up and sent me out on a positive note.
Still, if I were to drive 900 miles, wearing a diaper, with a BB gun, a wig and a plan to abduct and perhaps kill another television producer, I'm not so sure she'd fly to pick me up from my court hearing and then hold a news conference expressing such deep concern, not for whomever it was I was going to whack with my new steel mallet, but for me.
We cover stories of men and women going bonkers all the time. True, they don't all slip into a pair of Depends to carry out their attacks, but they go from being people who hung out with neighbors, attended PTA meetings, and led church groups, to killers or attempted killers. And when they try to kill their husbands, wives, rivals, they don't get a ton of sympathy.
So what makes our astronaut so special?
Yes, it's clear that something went terribly wrong with her, but can't you say that about a lot of people who do bad things?
What about the California woman who was arrested this week for plotting to kill her husband... using wasps! Police say she was going to fill his car with them, and he's allergic. Her coworkers aren't rallying on her behalf, talking about how sad they are for her. No one has held a news conference to talk about how they want to figure out how things went wrong in her life. But something must have made her dig into the wasp nest.
Face it, no one ever cared why O.J. snapped, except, I guess, for the guy who drove the Bronco, and maybe Ron the waiter who was probably yelling, "O.J., why the hell are you doing this?"
The astronaut plot is a great story, with all of the key elements, sex, violence, rubber tubing and space travel.
I just don't get why she's getting so much sympathy.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
A Broken Contract
My animals and I have a very basic living agreement. They each take care of certain responsibilities and in return get eternal love, food, shelter, Cosmo gets a couch and Juliet gets her Egyptian cotton sheets.
Juliet’s sole job is to keep the apartment critter free. She does it well. Other apartments in my little building have reported mice. One once made a wrong turn and came into my kitchen. Juliet got him, chopped his head off and put it on a spike as a warning to all other mice. That was 4 years ago and no other mouse has ever ventured into apartment 1F.
She keeps her skills sharp with the occasional bug on the wall. Her most impressive talent is how she can catch a fly midair between her paws. She likes to stun the insect and play with it for a while, before calling me into the room to show me her handiwork.
Cosmo’s job is to defend the homestead. He’s 150 pounds and his bark rattles the windows. When he hears an odd noise in the hall his ears perk up and he makes enough noise to send any would-be intruders on their way. After a walk, he will stand at the top of my building’s front steps and assess the situation on the street. If there are strangers or shady looking people, he will hold his ground with a ferocious look on his face until the threat has passed.
A few weeks ago he barked at a biker who was cruising down the sidewalk at 2am. The guy was so startled he crashed into a parked car. I pretended to scold Cosmo, but he knew there were extra biscuits for him once the guy was out of sight.
Last night, I got home from work shortly after midnight.
It was 13 degrees out and windy.
The lock on my building’s front door had broken last week, and they replaced it yesterday, apparently with a new lock that would accept the old key.
My old key didn’t work.
My first attempt to get into the building was to ring the bells of some of the neighbors I know. I was disappointed, but I also understood, when not a single one of them trudged downstairs to the front door to see who was a-knocking at 12:10am.
Plan two was a break-in. And one note here, I could be a burglar. I have always been good at forcing entry into locked places.
The problem with the break-in was the fear of being mauled by Cosmo. Like I said, it was cold, I had a hat and a scarf on. I looked like a burglar.
But it was either that or sleep in my car.
So, like Spiderman, I scaled across the front of my building to a window I know I could jimmy. Like Magnum, I forced the screen out of its track and picked the window lock open. It was a very loud process.
Then, like T.J. Hooker, I hurled my body through the window, did a somersault and sprung up behind a couch, ready to defend myself from my massive watchdog.
The only sound was a long, annoyed sigh. Then a weary pair of eyes popped over the top of the couch.
Cosmo took one look at me, snorted, and went back to sleep.
Juliet’s sole job is to keep the apartment critter free. She does it well. Other apartments in my little building have reported mice. One once made a wrong turn and came into my kitchen. Juliet got him, chopped his head off and put it on a spike as a warning to all other mice. That was 4 years ago and no other mouse has ever ventured into apartment 1F.
She keeps her skills sharp with the occasional bug on the wall. Her most impressive talent is how she can catch a fly midair between her paws. She likes to stun the insect and play with it for a while, before calling me into the room to show me her handiwork.
Cosmo’s job is to defend the homestead. He’s 150 pounds and his bark rattles the windows. When he hears an odd noise in the hall his ears perk up and he makes enough noise to send any would-be intruders on their way. After a walk, he will stand at the top of my building’s front steps and assess the situation on the street. If there are strangers or shady looking people, he will hold his ground with a ferocious look on his face until the threat has passed.
A few weeks ago he barked at a biker who was cruising down the sidewalk at 2am. The guy was so startled he crashed into a parked car. I pretended to scold Cosmo, but he knew there were extra biscuits for him once the guy was out of sight.
Last night, I got home from work shortly after midnight.
It was 13 degrees out and windy.
The lock on my building’s front door had broken last week, and they replaced it yesterday, apparently with a new lock that would accept the old key.
My old key didn’t work.
My first attempt to get into the building was to ring the bells of some of the neighbors I know. I was disappointed, but I also understood, when not a single one of them trudged downstairs to the front door to see who was a-knocking at 12:10am.
Plan two was a break-in. And one note here, I could be a burglar. I have always been good at forcing entry into locked places.
The problem with the break-in was the fear of being mauled by Cosmo. Like I said, it was cold, I had a hat and a scarf on. I looked like a burglar.
But it was either that or sleep in my car.
So, like Spiderman, I scaled across the front of my building to a window I know I could jimmy. Like Magnum, I forced the screen out of its track and picked the window lock open. It was a very loud process.
Then, like T.J. Hooker, I hurled my body through the window, did a somersault and sprung up behind a couch, ready to defend myself from my massive watchdog.
The only sound was a long, annoyed sigh. Then a weary pair of eyes popped over the top of the couch.
Cosmo took one look at me, snorted, and went back to sleep.
Monday, February 05, 2007
Super Confessions
I was invited to three different Superbowl parties and one “hang out with a couple of friends” event. I was pleased to have been on that many guest lists, partly because I was able to use one event as a reason not to go to another, when in fact, I stayed at home.
My dad thinks I went out with my friend Mike. Mike thinks I was at the Kauffman party, the Kauffmans think I was with my dad.
It worked out well, because I had chores to catch up on, and my own new HDTV.
It also led to one of the great discoveries of our time.
Sick of waiting in lines at the supermarket? Do your shopping during the Superbowl!
During the middle of the second quarter I dashed off to the Super Fresh. I needed to do one of those semi-annual massive shopping trips, and I was willing to miss Prince. I figured, even if his breast popped out, I’d be able to see it on youtube.
Timing is everything, and I nailed it. My car has Sirius radio, so I listened to the game as I drove and got to the store just as halftime was beginning.
My first fear was that Super Fresh was closed.
No, it wasn’t, there just weren’t any customers, except for me.
Not one little old lady trying to reach soup from the top shelf, no one pretending to know whether a mellon was ripe, no clean-ups on aisle 5, no children crying because they couldn't have Cocoa Puffs.
I could leave my cart blocking the dairy section and feel no guilt, I could even throw long passes from the bread department into my cart, with more accuracy than Rex Grossman.
When I was finished gathering, my cart was overflowing.
So I did what everyone has always wanted to do with a full cart... I went through the express lane. It was likely the first time that register has had a $192.00 purchase.
All four of the store employees came to help. One ran my items over the scanner, one pushed them down the lane, two others bagged for me.
I was out just as Chicago kicked off to begin the second half.
It was just Super!
My dad thinks I went out with my friend Mike. Mike thinks I was at the Kauffman party, the Kauffmans think I was with my dad.
It worked out well, because I had chores to catch up on, and my own new HDTV.
It also led to one of the great discoveries of our time.
Sick of waiting in lines at the supermarket? Do your shopping during the Superbowl!
During the middle of the second quarter I dashed off to the Super Fresh. I needed to do one of those semi-annual massive shopping trips, and I was willing to miss Prince. I figured, even if his breast popped out, I’d be able to see it on youtube.
Timing is everything, and I nailed it. My car has Sirius radio, so I listened to the game as I drove and got to the store just as halftime was beginning.
My first fear was that Super Fresh was closed.
No, it wasn’t, there just weren’t any customers, except for me.
Not one little old lady trying to reach soup from the top shelf, no one pretending to know whether a mellon was ripe, no clean-ups on aisle 5, no children crying because they couldn't have Cocoa Puffs.
I could leave my cart blocking the dairy section and feel no guilt, I could even throw long passes from the bread department into my cart, with more accuracy than Rex Grossman.
When I was finished gathering, my cart was overflowing.
So I did what everyone has always wanted to do with a full cart... I went through the express lane. It was likely the first time that register has had a $192.00 purchase.
All four of the store employees came to help. One ran my items over the scanner, one pushed them down the lane, two others bagged for me.
I was out just as Chicago kicked off to begin the second half.
It was just Super!
No Wonder She Smiles
There is apparently much more to Lily Allen than I realized.
A co-worker of mine just forwarded me this link to a recent article on how the singer likes to spend her time while she's on the road.
I guess it's one way of learning local culture.
A co-worker of mine just forwarded me this link to a recent article on how the singer likes to spend her time while she's on the road.
I guess it's one way of learning local culture.
Sunday, February 04, 2007
It's Making My Head Hurt
A few days ago I wrote that there is no bad music.
I may have overstated it.
Several months ago, on a flight from Egypt to the U.S. I had a layover in Frankfurt. The plane sat on the runway for about an hour and a half, for whatever reason that planes just sit there. It was hot and we were tired and sitting on coach on Lufthansa isn’t all that comfortable.
While we waited, the airline pumped the same song through the speakers, over and over again. It wasn’t very loud, just enough volume to hear what sounded like an off key European singer repeating the same annoying melody over and over again. We couldn’t hear the words, just the tune. Just the annoying tune.
Again.
And again.
For the entire time we sat on the runway.
That was back in October.
The song has made its way stateside.
Last night’s musical guest on SNL was a woman named Lily Allen. I’d never heard of her so I turned down the volume, I couldn’t hear the words, just the tune.
All of a sudden this sense of tension built up inside of me. I couldn’t help but wonder when we were going to takeoff, why the air was so stagnant, why I was so uncomfortable! Odd thoughts for someone sitting on a comfy couch in his own living room.
I slowly turned to the screen and turned up the volume.
It was the song. It’s called Smile, and just thinking about it is filling me with a sense of rage.
Maybe it’s not the song itself, (although I think it is) maybe it’s the environment in which I first heard it. But it’s stuck in my head again and I’m not at all happy about it.
I may have overstated it.
Several months ago, on a flight from Egypt to the U.S. I had a layover in Frankfurt. The plane sat on the runway for about an hour and a half, for whatever reason that planes just sit there. It was hot and we were tired and sitting on coach on Lufthansa isn’t all that comfortable.
While we waited, the airline pumped the same song through the speakers, over and over again. It wasn’t very loud, just enough volume to hear what sounded like an off key European singer repeating the same annoying melody over and over again. We couldn’t hear the words, just the tune. Just the annoying tune.
Again.
And again.
For the entire time we sat on the runway.
That was back in October.
The song has made its way stateside.
Last night’s musical guest on SNL was a woman named Lily Allen. I’d never heard of her so I turned down the volume, I couldn’t hear the words, just the tune.
All of a sudden this sense of tension built up inside of me. I couldn’t help but wonder when we were going to takeoff, why the air was so stagnant, why I was so uncomfortable! Odd thoughts for someone sitting on a comfy couch in his own living room.
I slowly turned to the screen and turned up the volume.
It was the song. It’s called Smile, and just thinking about it is filling me with a sense of rage.
Maybe it’s not the song itself, (although I think it is) maybe it’s the environment in which I first heard it. But it’s stuck in my head again and I’m not at all happy about it.
Friday, February 02, 2007
Stickin' It To Me
This was cholesterol day.
Apparently, I have inherited my father’s and his father’s cholesterol problems.
In fact, I’m not sure that we have blood in our arteries any more. My numbers make it sound like I have something more akin to the sludge that lines the drain of a utility room sink.
The last time I got it checked my doctor was so freaked out he called me instantly. I think he was surprised that I was alive to answer the phone.
Three months and one big bottle of Lipitor later I was back at the lab for another test.
If the cholesterol doesn’t kill me, the blood tests probably will, and that is also my father’s fault.
When I was about 6 years old, I was visiting my pediatrician for my annual check-up. His name was Doctor Hertz (yes, sounds like hurts). It came time for the old TB Tine test. That involved the thing that looked like a corncob holder that they jabbed in the arms of young children. When the children screamed, the TB spores would fly out of their lungs.
I think that’s how it worked.
Anyway, I wanted no part of it.
“It’s no big deal,” Dr. Hertz declared. “Look, I’ll give one to your father first.”
My dad did that wide-eyed, clenched-jaw subtle head shake that he thought the doctor would see but I’d miss. It was the other way around.
Dr. Hertz rolled up my father’s sleeve, and my old man lost all of the color in his face. Once the probe hit his arm, he made a groaning noise that sounded like a snoring hippo. His eyes rolled back and he went face down on the floor.
I was immediately whisked out of the room as the doctor called a code yellow-belly.
The next part I didn’t see, but heard. As my father began to come to, he had a flashback to a college boxing match and thought he was getting up from the mat to go another round with his opponent. Only in this case his opponents were young nursing students.
I think he hit a couple of them.
Like every 6-year-old, I thought my dad was indestructible. Whatever was in these needles dropped him faster than a tranquilizer dart brings a black bear out of a suburban tree.
For all anyone knows, I may have tuberculosis now. No one will ever be able to confirm it, because they’re never going to jab me with that thing.
The needle for the cholesterol blood test is no better, but I haven’t found a way to get around it.
Instead, I sit there with my free hand over my eyes, in a cold sweat, and I’ve been told I talk gibberish.
When it’s over, and I’ve taken a nap to recover, I strut around, pointing at my band-aid, showing off like the hero I am.
I survived another one.
I’ll get the test results Monday.
Apparently, I have inherited my father’s and his father’s cholesterol problems.
In fact, I’m not sure that we have blood in our arteries any more. My numbers make it sound like I have something more akin to the sludge that lines the drain of a utility room sink.
The last time I got it checked my doctor was so freaked out he called me instantly. I think he was surprised that I was alive to answer the phone.
Three months and one big bottle of Lipitor later I was back at the lab for another test.
If the cholesterol doesn’t kill me, the blood tests probably will, and that is also my father’s fault.
When I was about 6 years old, I was visiting my pediatrician for my annual check-up. His name was Doctor Hertz (yes, sounds like hurts). It came time for the old TB Tine test. That involved the thing that looked like a corncob holder that they jabbed in the arms of young children. When the children screamed, the TB spores would fly out of their lungs.
I think that’s how it worked.
Anyway, I wanted no part of it.
“It’s no big deal,” Dr. Hertz declared. “Look, I’ll give one to your father first.”
My dad did that wide-eyed, clenched-jaw subtle head shake that he thought the doctor would see but I’d miss. It was the other way around.
Dr. Hertz rolled up my father’s sleeve, and my old man lost all of the color in his face. Once the probe hit his arm, he made a groaning noise that sounded like a snoring hippo. His eyes rolled back and he went face down on the floor.
I was immediately whisked out of the room as the doctor called a code yellow-belly.
The next part I didn’t see, but heard. As my father began to come to, he had a flashback to a college boxing match and thought he was getting up from the mat to go another round with his opponent. Only in this case his opponents were young nursing students.
I think he hit a couple of them.
Like every 6-year-old, I thought my dad was indestructible. Whatever was in these needles dropped him faster than a tranquilizer dart brings a black bear out of a suburban tree.
For all anyone knows, I may have tuberculosis now. No one will ever be able to confirm it, because they’re never going to jab me with that thing.
The needle for the cholesterol blood test is no better, but I haven’t found a way to get around it.
Instead, I sit there with my free hand over my eyes, in a cold sweat, and I’ve been told I talk gibberish.
When it’s over, and I’ve taken a nap to recover, I strut around, pointing at my band-aid, showing off like the hero I am.
I survived another one.
I’ll get the test results Monday.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Not Guilty!
The more I think about it, the less guilty I feel about any of the music on my IPod.
That’s because one of my lifelong credos has been “There Is No Bad Music.”
There is rock and roll that makes your body shake. There is blues that makes you feel pain. There is classical music that creates vivid visual images. There is pop that makes you giddy.
I have been to rock concerts that were religious experiences.
I have been to orchestral performances that brought tears to my eyes.
I have been to churches where the choirs had stronger messages than the ministers.
I have danced to polka.
I have sung along to barbershop quartets.
I have belted out show tunes in my shower.
Music reminds me of the best times in my life. It also reminds me of the worst times in my life. There are songs I won’t listen to ever again, because of how I’m afraid they’ll make me feel. There are songs I listen to often because I know how they’ll make me feel.
There are few things that can bring thousands of people together as one.
I have heard 100,000 people sing along to one song. I have sung at the top of my lungs with 99,999 people I didn’t know.
My high school class of 90 people never was closer than when we all sang hymn 576 in the Episcopal Hymnal.
If REO Speedwagon reminds me of one of the most favorite summers of my life, if Duran Duran conjures up an image of a girl I saw but never met, if Salt ‘n’ Pepa take me back to the prom... well... I accept it.
I hold my head high... and the volume too.
That’s because one of my lifelong credos has been “There Is No Bad Music.”
There is rock and roll that makes your body shake. There is blues that makes you feel pain. There is classical music that creates vivid visual images. There is pop that makes you giddy.
I have been to rock concerts that were religious experiences.
I have been to orchestral performances that brought tears to my eyes.
I have been to churches where the choirs had stronger messages than the ministers.
I have danced to polka.
I have sung along to barbershop quartets.
I have belted out show tunes in my shower.
Music reminds me of the best times in my life. It also reminds me of the worst times in my life. There are songs I won’t listen to ever again, because of how I’m afraid they’ll make me feel. There are songs I listen to often because I know how they’ll make me feel.
There are few things that can bring thousands of people together as one.
I have heard 100,000 people sing along to one song. I have sung at the top of my lungs with 99,999 people I didn’t know.
My high school class of 90 people never was closer than when we all sang hymn 576 in the Episcopal Hymnal.
If REO Speedwagon reminds me of one of the most favorite summers of my life, if Duran Duran conjures up an image of a girl I saw but never met, if Salt ‘n’ Pepa take me back to the prom... well... I accept it.
I hold my head high... and the volume too.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
EZer Times
When I was a kid, I used to spend part of my summers up at my grandparent’s cottage on a lake in Ontario. It was an 8 hour drive to get there… 8 hours in the big green American sedan, just my grandparents and me. 8 hours of listening to my grandfather’s radio stations.
If nothing else, he was very consistent with his musical tastes.
For the first hour, we would listen to this city’s easy listening station, EZ101. For those of you too young to remember, EZ listening was elevator music. Popular tunes, played Lawrence Welk style. For a teenager, EZ listening was similar to having a bug gnawing through your brain.
After an hour in the car, the station’s signal would begin to fade. That was not a problem for my well organized grandfather. He would just hit the next button on his radio and we’d be tuned into the next region’s EZ station.
So it continued for 8 hours. Once one station was out of range, he’d tune in the next.
Then, when we got to the lake, he would tune, no, lock the house radio to CFMO Radio "The Songs of Our Times."
Most kids were rockin’ out during the summer. I was listening to Ray Conniff, The Hollyridge Strings, Sergio Mendes… and of course, Mantovani.
My first Walkman was the greatest gift of my life. For the first time, I could listen to what I wanted.
Of course, the Walkman is gone. Instead I have my 60 gig Ipod, with 5000 songs on it.
When my friend Lemon Gloria asked today whether readers have embarrassing selections on their MP3 players, I had a confession.
I have an EZ Listening playlist.
Paul Mauriat’s Love Is Blue; Frank Mills’ Music Box Dancer; Hot Butter’s Popcorn; and a sitar version of The Who’s I Can See For Miles.
Individually, each song is, well, perhaps wretched. As a group, the music reminds me of the smell of the cabin, the sound of the wind, and summers where my biggest stress was what kind of music to listen to.
If nothing else, he was very consistent with his musical tastes.
For the first hour, we would listen to this city’s easy listening station, EZ101. For those of you too young to remember, EZ listening was elevator music. Popular tunes, played Lawrence Welk style. For a teenager, EZ listening was similar to having a bug gnawing through your brain.
After an hour in the car, the station’s signal would begin to fade. That was not a problem for my well organized grandfather. He would just hit the next button on his radio and we’d be tuned into the next region’s EZ station.
So it continued for 8 hours. Once one station was out of range, he’d tune in the next.
Then, when we got to the lake, he would tune, no, lock the house radio to CFMO Radio "The Songs of Our Times."
Most kids were rockin’ out during the summer. I was listening to Ray Conniff, The Hollyridge Strings, Sergio Mendes… and of course, Mantovani.
My first Walkman was the greatest gift of my life. For the first time, I could listen to what I wanted.
Of course, the Walkman is gone. Instead I have my 60 gig Ipod, with 5000 songs on it.
When my friend Lemon Gloria asked today whether readers have embarrassing selections on their MP3 players, I had a confession.
I have an EZ Listening playlist.
Paul Mauriat’s Love Is Blue; Frank Mills’ Music Box Dancer; Hot Butter’s Popcorn; and a sitar version of The Who’s I Can See For Miles.
Individually, each song is, well, perhaps wretched. As a group, the music reminds me of the smell of the cabin, the sound of the wind, and summers where my biggest stress was what kind of music to listen to.
Not Healthy, Wealthy or Wise
I had one of those days today, where I just couldn’t get out of bed. It wasn’t a depressed, hide under the covers, stay in the darkness kind of thing. I was just really tired.
So tired that I gathered up what little strength I had and called out sick.
Sleeping sickness is a disease. I needed to rule it out as the cause of my lethargy.
I made the most of my day. I took a load of whites down to the washing machine. Then I got back into bed. That’s where I stayed until late afternoon.
Again, I wasn’t down or blue, just really tired.
Once I hauled my lazy ass out of bed around 5:00, I made a long list of chores to do. I always feel great guilt when I call out of work, so to alleviate the feeling I like to try to be productive.
Somehow, my apartment is more of a mess now than when I started Operation Clean The Pit.
I threw out bags of stuff, have a box of clothes ready for the Salvation Army, but somehow it still looks like a bomb went off.
That’s all for now. It’s late. I have to go to bed.
So tired that I gathered up what little strength I had and called out sick.
Sleeping sickness is a disease. I needed to rule it out as the cause of my lethargy.
I made the most of my day. I took a load of whites down to the washing machine. Then I got back into bed. That’s where I stayed until late afternoon.
Again, I wasn’t down or blue, just really tired.
Once I hauled my lazy ass out of bed around 5:00, I made a long list of chores to do. I always feel great guilt when I call out of work, so to alleviate the feeling I like to try to be productive.
Somehow, my apartment is more of a mess now than when I started Operation Clean The Pit.
I threw out bags of stuff, have a box of clothes ready for the Salvation Army, but somehow it still looks like a bomb went off.
That’s all for now. It’s late. I have to go to bed.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Spotted
Cosmo and I were out for an evening walk last night. While he stopped for a sniff at a tree, my eyes wandered to a window that looked into a basement apartment.
I was only gazing for a second or two when a young naked woman walked into my field of vision. She immediately looked out the window, where she could see me, not my dog, peeking in like a pervert.
This whole event took no more than 4 seconds from sniff to peek to busted.
She lives half a block away from me, at least I assume she does. Maybe she was visiting her big boyfriend who is now going to be on the lookout for a guy in a big red winter coat who likes to stare into strangers’ windows.
Look, I like naked women as much as the next guy. They’re great.
But how much fun can a guy have catching 4 seconds of a naked woman while standing on a cold street in the middle of the city?
Well, it appears that the answer is not what you might think.
Several years ago my station started to look into a gang of peepers in this city. They knew all of the places to go, all of the prime real estate, to see people (men and women) getting dressed, in and out of the shower, all the stuff we do in our homes, when we don’t think anyone is looking.
Apparently, people might be.
Members of this gang, according to unconfirmed reports, would even climb up fire escapes and walk along rooftops in order to get the best views.
EEEwwww.
Again, I ask: How much fun can a guy have catching 4 seconds of a naked woman while standing on a cold street in the middle of the city?
All I can say is that I’m taking Cosmo on a different route for a while. I don’t want to run into the angry boyfriend… or a t.v. station doing a story on peepers and have them get the wrong idea.
I was only gazing for a second or two when a young naked woman walked into my field of vision. She immediately looked out the window, where she could see me, not my dog, peeking in like a pervert.
This whole event took no more than 4 seconds from sniff to peek to busted.
She lives half a block away from me, at least I assume she does. Maybe she was visiting her big boyfriend who is now going to be on the lookout for a guy in a big red winter coat who likes to stare into strangers’ windows.
Look, I like naked women as much as the next guy. They’re great.
But how much fun can a guy have catching 4 seconds of a naked woman while standing on a cold street in the middle of the city?
Well, it appears that the answer is not what you might think.
Several years ago my station started to look into a gang of peepers in this city. They knew all of the places to go, all of the prime real estate, to see people (men and women) getting dressed, in and out of the shower, all the stuff we do in our homes, when we don’t think anyone is looking.
Apparently, people might be.
Members of this gang, according to unconfirmed reports, would even climb up fire escapes and walk along rooftops in order to get the best views.
EEEwwww.
Again, I ask: How much fun can a guy have catching 4 seconds of a naked woman while standing on a cold street in the middle of the city?
All I can say is that I’m taking Cosmo on a different route for a while. I don’t want to run into the angry boyfriend… or a t.v. station doing a story on peepers and have them get the wrong idea.
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