Friday, November 21, 2008
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Divine Comedy
Lately I'm beginning to feel that, if there is a god, and if he does have a sense of humor, I'm his punchline.
There's a co-worker of mine — sort of not a co-worker, and sort of in the executive echelon, with boobs bigger than her brain — who handles a few of our clients' smaller meetings. Despite doing the job for somewhere in the neighborhood of ten years, she still hasn't grasped the concept that cutting the crew in half just to meet the laughably low budget she created will seriously affect the amount of time and energy those remaining must put into the project in order for it to come together as she promised.
One of these meetings, held in a ridiculously archaic building downtown, I always seem to get roped into. This year the new show manager was put in charge of the technical details of the meeting, and he was finally putting the proper number of bodies on it, unlike the three bodies Big Boob Barbie always requested. And he required that I, the camera operator, need not be there until later in the afternoon. HALLELUJIAH! That is, until BBB got wind of it. So my day changed from a leisurely call time of 3:00pm — after a 9:00am appointment with my chiropractor, followed by a mid-day hack at getting some much-needed filing done — to a freakin' 8:00am call time after a 27-mile commute from the northwest suburbs, helping to unload a couple of tons of equipment from a truck and move the cases almost literally one-by-one up to the fifth floor on The World's Tiniest Freight Elevator — which is also the only service elevator in the building, and so is used by all of the kitchen staff to get to all seven floors.
So I had to call my chiropractor's office and cancel the appointment I had made only 12-hours earlier, and I had to gird my loins for an extra-early wake-up and commute down into the city.
Fortunately Tuesday Night I fell asleep quickly. I was with someone…I don't know who it was…just someone. We were near an airport and we saw in the distance a jet plane taking off and heading toward us. Excited that it was likely to fly over our heads at low altitude, we stood and waited for it. I was distracted by something, and just a few moments later the plane was passing us, not overhead, but a couple hundred yards away from us. I looked over to see a huge American Airlines jet, possibly a 757, flying about 300 feet off the ground.
Upside-down.
As it passed us by I watched it, and I said, "That's not good…."
Then the plane angled upward toward the sky, as though in an effort to right itself. But the pilot angled up too sharply and the plane stalled, its tail whipping up amid the fierce scream of the engines until, at the top of its arcing swing, the tail section began to disintegrate.
I remember thinking, as I saw the plane trying to climb, "This is not a dream! This is really happening!!" Large pieces of the tail of the plane began falling to the ground, and I and the people I was with turned and began running away. I heard the horrendous crash and explosion of the plane's body hitting the ground behind me as I thought in horror of all the people who must have been on that plane.
And then I woke up.
I don't remember many dreams, but of the ones that do stick with me, very few are nightmares. And rarely are they so vivid. Had this one been any clearer, I would have been able to recite the plane's FAA tail number! Needless to say, I, a frequent air traveler (on United Air Lines, thankyouverymuch!), lay awake for quite a while trying to catch my breath!
The alarm came too soon, and I showered, shaved and dressed myself out the door. At such an early hour (I padded my time a little, too) the traffic wasn't bad, and I pulled into the parking garage directly across the street from the venue. I asked the garage attendant if there was a restaurant nearby that served breakfast. He looked at me with mild shock on his face, and then he pointed to the north and said, "Right next door! They serve a real good breakfast!"
The big, flashing neon sign read "Plymouth Restaurant & Bar," which I had seen, but, misled by "Bar," I assumed it was only open in the afternoon and evening. I went in and was served by a cute, young waitress with black hair, pretty eyes and crooked teeth. Corned beef hash and eggs. They were good, but they didn't make the list. I tried flirting with the cute waitress, but she was distracted by conversation with some regulars and didn't stick around. Or maybe it was too early to be flirted with. Stupid regulars.
The truck was nearly 15 minutes late. I helped move a couple of cases, and the new show manager, aware of my back issue and afraid I'd really screw it up, told me to just "drive the liftgate." When all our stuff was on the sidewalk, he sent me up to the fifth floor, where we "bucket teamed" the cases: one guy pushed a case to the elevator, one guy on the elevator rode up with the case and pushed it out into the dark, narrow, possibly rat-infested service hallway where I grabbed it and pushed it into our venue room.
No need to bore with the details of setup. It is pure tedium. We broke for lunch around 1:30 and wound up back at the Plymouth Restaurant & Bar, for I had unintentionally whetted the other guys' libidos at mention of the cute waitress. We didn't see her at first, but she was there. However, we did see an even cuter hostess. I, being the only single or unattached male at the table, failed miserably in my duty as The Single Man. I barely managed a "Hello."
After lunch we went back to the venue, finished setting up, waited around for a while and then the program commenced…and finished…all 65 minutes of it. Welcome to my world. Tons of gear, pounds of sweat and swearing, ridiculously unaccommodating locales (sometimes), all for an hour of program. By the time we had struck all the gear, moved it down to the street — during which the elevator broke down…right after we moved the last case off of it! — and loaded it all onto the truck, it was 9:30 pm. That's a sixteen-hour day, people! I managed to get through it all with only a minor irritation of my back issue, right at the end of the load-out as I helped push the heaviest (by volume) case onto the liftgate. I thought for a second I would be doubled over for the rest of my life, but that proved not to be the case. The truck driver dude bid his farewell (he had to be back downtown at 7:30 the next morning), one other dude took off, and the remaining three of us decided on a late-night bite at… you guessed it …the Plymouth Restaurant & Bar. But they were fresh out of cute waitresses.
I crawled into my apartment at 11:15pm.
During the day the topic of flavored condoms came up in our many conversations. (It was a bunch of guys. What can I say?) Grape. Apple. Cherry. We're all adults here (You kids! Go to bed!). We all know why they’re flavored. I can only imagine that the unflavored ones taste awful…a lot like rubber. But, as I observed, if it's something someone would do anyway but for the concern about health, wouldn't it make sense to make them penis-flavored?
It never occurred to me to ask the cute waitress.
We always tend to feel that whichever line we step into anywhere is always the slowest line. With me it's the real truth. My co-workers have witnessed it. Producer has witnessed it at the airport. He and I will go past the TSA ID-checker-person at roughly the same time, then we'll go to separate lines. His line ALWAYS moves faster, even if he starts farther back in his than I did in mine, he will emerge from the metal detector a good several minutes before I do. Today three of us went to a local restaurant with a food-stand type service. There were two lines of equal length (about six people deep) formed at the registers, I stepped up to the end of the one on the right, and my co-workers stepped in right behind me. Almost immediately the line to our left moved forward, and ours stagnated. Producer looked at Editor and said, "We goofed; we got into [Farrago]'s line."
Editor said, "Yup."
There's at least one intersection I go through on my way home every evening, after I stop at the post office to get my mail, where I always hit the red light. It's a small street that intersects at a six-lane divided highway and the entrance road to a high school parking lot. The light is controlled by sensors in the pavement that react to the metal in cars that stop over them. It doesn't matter from which direction I approach this stupid intersection, I almost always get the red light. Every evening, as I back out of my stall at the post office, I can see that the light at the intersection is green, but no matter what I do — drive maniacally to the intersection, or give up hope that it will still be green when I get there — it turns red before I can get through it. Even when I'm on the six-lane highway, eight times out of ten I get caught at that light.
So chuck your bibles into the trash. Right up there's all the proof you need that god exists.
And he's picking on me.
There's a co-worker of mine — sort of not a co-worker, and sort of in the executive echelon, with boobs bigger than her brain — who handles a few of our clients' smaller meetings. Despite doing the job for somewhere in the neighborhood of ten years, she still hasn't grasped the concept that cutting the crew in half just to meet the laughably low budget she created will seriously affect the amount of time and energy those remaining must put into the project in order for it to come together as she promised.
One of these meetings, held in a ridiculously archaic building downtown, I always seem to get roped into. This year the new show manager was put in charge of the technical details of the meeting, and he was finally putting the proper number of bodies on it, unlike the three bodies Big Boob Barbie always requested. And he required that I, the camera operator, need not be there until later in the afternoon. HALLELUJIAH! That is, until BBB got wind of it. So my day changed from a leisurely call time of 3:00pm — after a 9:00am appointment with my chiropractor, followed by a mid-day hack at getting some much-needed filing done — to a freakin' 8:00am call time after a 27-mile commute from the northwest suburbs, helping to unload a couple of tons of equipment from a truck and move the cases almost literally one-by-one up to the fifth floor on The World's Tiniest Freight Elevator — which is also the only service elevator in the building, and so is used by all of the kitchen staff to get to all seven floors.
So I had to call my chiropractor's office and cancel the appointment I had made only 12-hours earlier, and I had to gird my loins for an extra-early wake-up and commute down into the city.
Fortunately Tuesday Night I fell asleep quickly. I was with someone…I don't know who it was…just someone. We were near an airport and we saw in the distance a jet plane taking off and heading toward us. Excited that it was likely to fly over our heads at low altitude, we stood and waited for it. I was distracted by something, and just a few moments later the plane was passing us, not overhead, but a couple hundred yards away from us. I looked over to see a huge American Airlines jet, possibly a 757, flying about 300 feet off the ground.
Upside-down.
As it passed us by I watched it, and I said, "That's not good…."
Then the plane angled upward toward the sky, as though in an effort to right itself. But the pilot angled up too sharply and the plane stalled, its tail whipping up amid the fierce scream of the engines until, at the top of its arcing swing, the tail section began to disintegrate.
I remember thinking, as I saw the plane trying to climb, "This is not a dream! This is really happening!!" Large pieces of the tail of the plane began falling to the ground, and I and the people I was with turned and began running away. I heard the horrendous crash and explosion of the plane's body hitting the ground behind me as I thought in horror of all the people who must have been on that plane.
And then I woke up.
I don't remember many dreams, but of the ones that do stick with me, very few are nightmares. And rarely are they so vivid. Had this one been any clearer, I would have been able to recite the plane's FAA tail number! Needless to say, I, a frequent air traveler (on United Air Lines, thankyouverymuch!), lay awake for quite a while trying to catch my breath!
The alarm came too soon, and I showered, shaved and dressed myself out the door. At such an early hour (I padded my time a little, too) the traffic wasn't bad, and I pulled into the parking garage directly across the street from the venue. I asked the garage attendant if there was a restaurant nearby that served breakfast. He looked at me with mild shock on his face, and then he pointed to the north and said, "Right next door! They serve a real good breakfast!"
The big, flashing neon sign read "Plymouth Restaurant & Bar," which I had seen, but, misled by "Bar," I assumed it was only open in the afternoon and evening. I went in and was served by a cute, young waitress with black hair, pretty eyes and crooked teeth. Corned beef hash and eggs. They were good, but they didn't make the list. I tried flirting with the cute waitress, but she was distracted by conversation with some regulars and didn't stick around. Or maybe it was too early to be flirted with. Stupid regulars.
The truck was nearly 15 minutes late. I helped move a couple of cases, and the new show manager, aware of my back issue and afraid I'd really screw it up, told me to just "drive the liftgate." When all our stuff was on the sidewalk, he sent me up to the fifth floor, where we "bucket teamed" the cases: one guy pushed a case to the elevator, one guy on the elevator rode up with the case and pushed it out into the dark, narrow, possibly rat-infested service hallway where I grabbed it and pushed it into our venue room.
No need to bore with the details of setup. It is pure tedium. We broke for lunch around 1:30 and wound up back at the Plymouth Restaurant & Bar, for I had unintentionally whetted the other guys' libidos at mention of the cute waitress. We didn't see her at first, but she was there. However, we did see an even cuter hostess. I, being the only single or unattached male at the table, failed miserably in my duty as The Single Man. I barely managed a "Hello."
After lunch we went back to the venue, finished setting up, waited around for a while and then the program commenced…and finished…all 65 minutes of it. Welcome to my world. Tons of gear, pounds of sweat and swearing, ridiculously unaccommodating locales (sometimes), all for an hour of program. By the time we had struck all the gear, moved it down to the street — during which the elevator broke down…right after we moved the last case off of it! — and loaded it all onto the truck, it was 9:30 pm. That's a sixteen-hour day, people! I managed to get through it all with only a minor irritation of my back issue, right at the end of the load-out as I helped push the heaviest (by volume) case onto the liftgate. I thought for a second I would be doubled over for the rest of my life, but that proved not to be the case. The truck driver dude bid his farewell (he had to be back downtown at 7:30 the next morning), one other dude took off, and the remaining three of us decided on a late-night bite at… you guessed it …the Plymouth Restaurant & Bar. But they were fresh out of cute waitresses.
I crawled into my apartment at 11:15pm.
During the day the topic of flavored condoms came up in our many conversations. (It was a bunch of guys. What can I say?) Grape. Apple. Cherry. We're all adults here (You kids! Go to bed!). We all know why they’re flavored. I can only imagine that the unflavored ones taste awful…a lot like rubber. But, as I observed, if it's something someone would do anyway but for the concern about health, wouldn't it make sense to make them penis-flavored?
It never occurred to me to ask the cute waitress.
We always tend to feel that whichever line we step into anywhere is always the slowest line. With me it's the real truth. My co-workers have witnessed it. Producer has witnessed it at the airport. He and I will go past the TSA ID-checker-person at roughly the same time, then we'll go to separate lines. His line ALWAYS moves faster, even if he starts farther back in his than I did in mine, he will emerge from the metal detector a good several minutes before I do. Today three of us went to a local restaurant with a food-stand type service. There were two lines of equal length (about six people deep) formed at the registers, I stepped up to the end of the one on the right, and my co-workers stepped in right behind me. Almost immediately the line to our left moved forward, and ours stagnated. Producer looked at Editor and said, "We goofed; we got into [Farrago]'s line."
Editor said, "Yup."
There's at least one intersection I go through on my way home every evening, after I stop at the post office to get my mail, where I always hit the red light. It's a small street that intersects at a six-lane divided highway and the entrance road to a high school parking lot. The light is controlled by sensors in the pavement that react to the metal in cars that stop over them. It doesn't matter from which direction I approach this stupid intersection, I almost always get the red light. Every evening, as I back out of my stall at the post office, I can see that the light at the intersection is green, but no matter what I do — drive maniacally to the intersection, or give up hope that it will still be green when I get there — it turns red before I can get through it. Even when I'm on the six-lane highway, eight times out of ten I get caught at that light.
So chuck your bibles into the trash. Right up there's all the proof you need that god exists.
And he's picking on me.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Thematic Photographic #24: Rows
Trying something new, here. Took a glance at Mojo's blog, and he's playing, so I took his advice and followed his link over to Carmi Levy's blog, Written, Inc. for this week's assignment.
I may not keep up with it every week, but I'll give it a shot (pun intended).
Keys To the Future
I may not keep up with it every week, but I'll give it a shot (pun intended).
Keys To the Future
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
A Yuk and Some Yuck
Q. What do you get when you drop your frozen toaster waffle on the beach?
A. Sandy Eggo.
I made that one up all by myself. Perhaps you figured that out on your own.
Hence my current trip.
••• +++ ••• +++ ••• +++ ••• +++ •••
Frustration is being given a task to do at the office and then, suddenly, everyone else needs me to do something for them, and all of it is an emergency.
Frustration is having one person working on another task tell me how she needs me to prepare my contribution to her task, and then the other person working on that same task tells me she needs me to prepare my contribution in the exact opposite way.
Frustration is feeling like what I’m doing for everyone else should be everyone else’s responsibility but my own.
Frustration is going on the road to a nice place like San Diego where I know I’m not going to have any free time to play, and I don’t really want to go in the first place.
Frustration is having my coworker seated next to me on the plane with no one in the seat between us after he boarded the plane and approached my row, looked at his boarding pass, looked at the gorgeous, blond, single woman seated beside me with no one in the seat between us, and said, “16 F?” which caused the gorgeous woman beside me to look at her own boarding pass and realize she had sat on the wrong side of the plane, and now I’m seated next to my stupid coworker for three and a half hours.
Frustration is wanting to write, but being lured by the in-flight movie Mamma Mia, only to lose interest in it halfway through, and then resent the fact that now I don’t have enough time to write.
Frustration is not knowing if that’s really Meryl Streep singing (and believing that it really — unfortunately — is Pierce Brosnan singing), and — if it really is her voice — wishing that she had done more singing for public consumption over the last 20 years.
A. Sandy Eggo.
I made that one up all by myself. Perhaps you figured that out on your own.
Hence my current trip.
••• +++ ••• +++ ••• +++ ••• +++ •••
Frustration is being given a task to do at the office and then, suddenly, everyone else needs me to do something for them, and all of it is an emergency.
Frustration is having one person working on another task tell me how she needs me to prepare my contribution to her task, and then the other person working on that same task tells me she needs me to prepare my contribution in the exact opposite way.
Frustration is feeling like what I’m doing for everyone else should be everyone else’s responsibility but my own.
Frustration is going on the road to a nice place like San Diego where I know I’m not going to have any free time to play, and I don’t really want to go in the first place.
Frustration is having my coworker seated next to me on the plane with no one in the seat between us after he boarded the plane and approached my row, looked at his boarding pass, looked at the gorgeous, blond, single woman seated beside me with no one in the seat between us, and said, “16 F?” which caused the gorgeous woman beside me to look at her own boarding pass and realize she had sat on the wrong side of the plane, and now I’m seated next to my stupid coworker for three and a half hours.
Frustration is wanting to write, but being lured by the in-flight movie Mamma Mia, only to lose interest in it halfway through, and then resent the fact that now I don’t have enough time to write.
Frustration is not knowing if that’s really Meryl Streep singing (and believing that it really — unfortunately — is Pierce Brosnan singing), and — if it really is her voice — wishing that she had done more singing for public consumption over the last 20 years.
How Did I Get Into This?
Perhaps the question I am most often asked, after “Would you please leave?” is “How did you get into that?” Of course they’re referring to my career.
Certainly not the leopard-print bustier and chain mail.
In high school I was deeply immersed in the theatre arts and had dreams of being an actor on Broadway, in Hollywood, or in Akron…whoever would take me! But, during sophomore year I sat next to Sam in English class. One could say Sam changed the course of my life. Others might say that my life wasn’t really going anywhere yet, and Sam was just colorful wallpaper. Whatever.
I didn’t know Sam. His was a name my best friend, Lu, had mentioned several times throughout junior high, and during freshman year as a “really, really funny kid.” Well, as I prided myself on being a really, really funny kid, I immediately resented Sam. I had never met him, and I had somehow ascribed his name to some other kid who I didn’t like, whose real name I didn’t know. So I didn’t like Sam.
Come sophomore year I wound up seated in whose would soon become my favorite teacher’s class, next to this strawberry-blond headed kid who, much to my surprise, turned out to be Sam. The teacher was the coolest woman-in-authority — not to mention the youngest — I had ever had throughout my education, and she was fairly tolerant of class clowns, provided they participated and performed up to her expectations in her classroom. So, being a really, really funny kid, I endeavored to crack up the class whenever I could. Not long after the school year started, however, I noticed that whenever the teacher said something and opened a hole wide enough for me to insert a witty wisecrack, Sam jumped on it, too. The odd thing was that, as he and I blurted out our wisecracks at the same time, most often we said the exact same thing! A friendship began to form.
Then, one day deep in the Chicago winter of our sophomore year, Sam leaned over to me in class and asked me if I wanted to make a movie that weekend. It seemed an odd request, but I accepted.
Fearing that Sam was one of those weird kids who would want to play Africa Explorer, and then tie me up and lock me in his bedroom closet and do disgusting things with me for a year until he tired of me and sliced me into little pieces and threw me in a creek, I went to his house with several excuses prepared to explain my hasty departure back home, despite the walk of several miles and a most assured case of frostbite by the time I got there.
Sam did turn out to be weird, but he’s my kind of weird. We shot his movie, “Battle On Planet 9,” on silent, Super8 color film, starring a cast of clay figures amid a world constructed solely of his mother’s sewing room wall, the top of a dresser and several pounds of Legos™, all assembled by Sam into space fighter craft, troop transports and battleships. In ensuing weeks we made more, slightly more sophisticated, stop-motion animated movies, and we applied goofy, comics style speech- and thought-balloons to his baseball, football and Star-Trek trading cards, and we played hours and hours of Risk and Monopoly, two games I have always hated, and playing them with Sam and our other friends only raised that hatred to a passion.
Along with my love for theatre came my newfound interest in filmmaking, thanks to Sam. As I looked ahead to graduation and my future, those were what I wanted to do.
Sam now lives in the Kentucky-side suburbs of Cincinnati, and we remain great friends. Whenever we're able to get together these days, and given enough time, we still fall into the groove where we can complete each other's jokes or immediately sense the set-up to tag-team an unsuspecting victim. Before I leave Sam behind, I want to point out a feature of our friendship that I’m not sure many other people experience in their lifetimes. Throughout our sophomore year our English teacher always ended her lengthier explanations of English topics and assignments by asking the class, “Are there any questions?”
The first time Sam had a question, he raised his hand and waited patiently for her to call on him. She did, and Sam asked, “What’s the capital of North Dakota?” It’s a question.
She laughed along with the rest of the class.
But she fell for it the next time. And the time after that. It was the same question every time, and she fell for it every time! This was Sam’s brainchild, and I never interfered with it. I simply marveled at how our teacher could fall for it time and again. Then, as we neared the end of the school year, my favorite teacher one day explained an assignment and again asked, “Are there any questions?”
Sam raised his hand, and she pointed at him with a playful look of scorn on her face. “I am not calling on you, Sam!”
If ever there was a perfect opening for the other shoe to drop, this was it. I, the other class clown, seated right next to Sam, innocently raised my hand.
“Yes, [Farrago]?”
I couldn’t keep a straight face as my own cleverness made itself known.
“What’s the capital of North Dakota?”
The class was in uproar and our teacher practically slapped her forehead and shouted “D’OH!” for setting herself up for it. Sam raised his hand for a high-five from me.
But time marched on. Junior year came and went. Sam and Lu and I, as well as a handful of other theatre friends, made good, frequent use of Sam’s old Bell & Howell Super8 camera, making wacky, Benny Hill-esque movies we called “Stuff” films (because they were just a bunch of stuff).
My oldest sister took her kids and left her husband, moving back home with my parents…and me. I had just finally gained my first-ever own room and true privacy upon the departure of my brother as he started his career, and mere months later I was forced to share a bedroom with two little kids.
Throughout senior year I had a serious case of cabin fever, peppered with sleep deprivation, as my three-year-old nephew always seemed to be able to time coming to me to complain about his sister being mean to him (their mother worked nights at a factory, so she wasn’t there to referee) with the very moment I drifted off to sleep. That always worked to postpone my falling asleep again for at least another hour.
Senior year ended. My girlfriend dumped me at the end of the summer for the boyfriend she had dumped for me in the prior spring. I went to enroll in classes at the local junior college. I loved my father. When he asked me what I wanted to study in college, and I told him “Theatre. I want to be an actor,” he wasn’t comfortable. He didn’t act as too many fathers do, who forbid their children to pursue their dreams, but rather force them to choose among “practical” careers. My dad simply said, “Well, make sure you have something to fall back on.” Imagine the groan he must have had to suppress when I told him my fallback was filmmaking!
I spoke to the advisor of the Theatre Department and told him of my aspirations to be an actor. He listened to my voice as I spoke, and he told me that he had serious concerns that I would be able to achieve anything in my chosen field. He recommended that I talk to the advisor of the Speech Department and enroll in some classes in that curriculum in an effort to strengthen my voice and give me a better shot at a career in the Theatre.
I did as he suggested, and when I looked at the class syllabus and saw “Introduction to Radio Broadcasting,” and “Introduction to Television Broadcasting,” I thought those seemed pretty interesting. I signed up for them.
On the first day of classes I went to the Intro to Radio Broadcasting class. The instructor showed us the radio studio, which looked interesting, and he told us about the assignments and the projects we would have to work on. Interesting. The next night was the Intro to Television Broadcasting. Same thing: he told us of the assignments and the projects, and then he took us to the TV production studio. As things were, even then it was not much of a studio. The cameras were likely from the late 1960s, the videotape recorders probably weighed a quarter-ton each, and the editing console was probably from the first generation of electronic editing after cut-and-paste went by the wayside. But the projects were visual. They employed the use of cameras. We recorded SOUND as well as video!
I was hooked. It was everything I wanted of filmmaking, but it was more immediate and timely. We could roll tape, record whatever we needed to record, and then, as soon as we were done recording, we could rewind it and watch it immediately!
Time was running out. Rather, money was running out. My parents were too poor to send any of their kids through college. My oldest brother did two years of junior college and then joined the Air Force, where he eventually completed his degree. None of my sisters went to college. My other brother received financial aid and attended DeVry Institute of Technology (back before it was a university, and when it was only one campus anywhere). I, having not been such a great student in high school, and achieving the stunning score of 19 on my ACT (don’t remember my SAT, but it was less than stellar…way less!), wasn’t getting calls from university recruiters begging me to come to their schools. I was too proud to ask for financial aid, and I was attending junior college on my meager savings. I figured a four-year degree was not in the cards for me. My quick out — escape from the growing claustrophobia at home, and avoiding the dead end of my savings account and, thus, my post-secondary education — and what I believed was my only shot at a college education was the military. Upon entry there I figured one of two things would happen: I would find the career for me in the military and do that the rest of my life, or for the ensuing four years I would pine for a career in TV production.
The latter held true. It was all I could think about the entire time I was in. At three years in, I became eligible for cross-training from my current career field into another. I tried to cross-train into the Radio and TV Broadcasting Specialty, but I had to submit a voice audition. Again with the voice! And, with my raspy, Mel Torme voice (minus the crooning ability), I was rejected. Stupid voice!
Luckily for me, the State of Illinois, at the time of my separation from the Air Force, offered what was called the Illinois Veterans’ Grant, which allowed anyone who was an Illinois resident at the time of their enlistment, and who maintained their Illinois residency throughout their military service, who received an honorable discharge, and who remained an Illinois resident when they separated from their service, to attend any Illinois state run school with tuition and fees waived.
WAIVED!
When I got out of the Air Force I enrolled at Southern Illinois University at Carbondale. I gave my parents a heart attack in my first semester there by pulling a 4.0. They weren’t sure I was still their son! I couldn’t maintain that pace, but I earned my BA in Radio-TV, Emphasis: Production with a 3.4 GPA overall, and a 3.64 GPA in my major field of study. My parents were quite pleased.
After graduation I tried to break into the Chicago corporate/industrial video market just as the market was falling out, and corporations who had for years operated huge video production departments were shedding them. I wound up working nights at a nuclear power plant for about a year and a half. Right after workforce reductions resulted in my being laid off, I received a call from the production manager at a TV station in southern Illinois where I had sent a résumé, expressing interest in interviewing me for a position there. I interviewed and got the job.
I worked there for two years, creating, writing, producing, shooting and editing TV commercials and on-air promotions, and then jumped at an opportunity doing the same thing at a TV station in south Georgia, which proved to be a nightmare on several levels. From there I jumped to TCI cable, following a coworker who had taken the production manager position there and who became my boss when he hired me on.
I left that place 2 years and 3 months later to move in with my future ex-wife. After eight months of floundering in the Chicago freelance market, I landed a job with AT&T Media Services, which had only months earlier acquired the entire cable operations of TCI. Another year-and-three-month nightmare ensued, and I jumped that ship for this current one, where I’ve been slaving and traveling for what will be eight years come January.
There. Now aren’t you sorry you asked?
Certainly not the leopard-print bustier and chain mail.
In high school I was deeply immersed in the theatre arts and had dreams of being an actor on Broadway, in Hollywood, or in Akron…whoever would take me! But, during sophomore year I sat next to Sam in English class. One could say Sam changed the course of my life. Others might say that my life wasn’t really going anywhere yet, and Sam was just colorful wallpaper. Whatever.
I didn’t know Sam. His was a name my best friend, Lu, had mentioned several times throughout junior high, and during freshman year as a “really, really funny kid.” Well, as I prided myself on being a really, really funny kid, I immediately resented Sam. I had never met him, and I had somehow ascribed his name to some other kid who I didn’t like, whose real name I didn’t know. So I didn’t like Sam.
Come sophomore year I wound up seated in whose would soon become my favorite teacher’s class, next to this strawberry-blond headed kid who, much to my surprise, turned out to be Sam. The teacher was the coolest woman-in-authority — not to mention the youngest — I had ever had throughout my education, and she was fairly tolerant of class clowns, provided they participated and performed up to her expectations in her classroom. So, being a really, really funny kid, I endeavored to crack up the class whenever I could. Not long after the school year started, however, I noticed that whenever the teacher said something and opened a hole wide enough for me to insert a witty wisecrack, Sam jumped on it, too. The odd thing was that, as he and I blurted out our wisecracks at the same time, most often we said the exact same thing! A friendship began to form.
Then, one day deep in the Chicago winter of our sophomore year, Sam leaned over to me in class and asked me if I wanted to make a movie that weekend. It seemed an odd request, but I accepted.
Fearing that Sam was one of those weird kids who would want to play Africa Explorer, and then tie me up and lock me in his bedroom closet and do disgusting things with me for a year until he tired of me and sliced me into little pieces and threw me in a creek, I went to his house with several excuses prepared to explain my hasty departure back home, despite the walk of several miles and a most assured case of frostbite by the time I got there.
Sam did turn out to be weird, but he’s my kind of weird. We shot his movie, “Battle On Planet 9,” on silent, Super8 color film, starring a cast of clay figures amid a world constructed solely of his mother’s sewing room wall, the top of a dresser and several pounds of Legos™, all assembled by Sam into space fighter craft, troop transports and battleships. In ensuing weeks we made more, slightly more sophisticated, stop-motion animated movies, and we applied goofy, comics style speech- and thought-balloons to his baseball, football and Star-Trek trading cards, and we played hours and hours of Risk and Monopoly, two games I have always hated, and playing them with Sam and our other friends only raised that hatred to a passion.
Along with my love for theatre came my newfound interest in filmmaking, thanks to Sam. As I looked ahead to graduation and my future, those were what I wanted to do.
Sam now lives in the Kentucky-side suburbs of Cincinnati, and we remain great friends. Whenever we're able to get together these days, and given enough time, we still fall into the groove where we can complete each other's jokes or immediately sense the set-up to tag-team an unsuspecting victim. Before I leave Sam behind, I want to point out a feature of our friendship that I’m not sure many other people experience in their lifetimes. Throughout our sophomore year our English teacher always ended her lengthier explanations of English topics and assignments by asking the class, “Are there any questions?”
The first time Sam had a question, he raised his hand and waited patiently for her to call on him. She did, and Sam asked, “What’s the capital of North Dakota?” It’s a question.
She laughed along with the rest of the class.
But she fell for it the next time. And the time after that. It was the same question every time, and she fell for it every time! This was Sam’s brainchild, and I never interfered with it. I simply marveled at how our teacher could fall for it time and again. Then, as we neared the end of the school year, my favorite teacher one day explained an assignment and again asked, “Are there any questions?”
Sam raised his hand, and she pointed at him with a playful look of scorn on her face. “I am not calling on you, Sam!”
If ever there was a perfect opening for the other shoe to drop, this was it. I, the other class clown, seated right next to Sam, innocently raised my hand.
“Yes, [Farrago]?”
I couldn’t keep a straight face as my own cleverness made itself known.
“What’s the capital of North Dakota?”
The class was in uproar and our teacher practically slapped her forehead and shouted “D’OH!” for setting herself up for it. Sam raised his hand for a high-five from me.
But time marched on. Junior year came and went. Sam and Lu and I, as well as a handful of other theatre friends, made good, frequent use of Sam’s old Bell & Howell Super8 camera, making wacky, Benny Hill-esque movies we called “Stuff” films (because they were just a bunch of stuff).
My oldest sister took her kids and left her husband, moving back home with my parents…and me. I had just finally gained my first-ever own room and true privacy upon the departure of my brother as he started his career, and mere months later I was forced to share a bedroom with two little kids.
Throughout senior year I had a serious case of cabin fever, peppered with sleep deprivation, as my three-year-old nephew always seemed to be able to time coming to me to complain about his sister being mean to him (their mother worked nights at a factory, so she wasn’t there to referee) with the very moment I drifted off to sleep. That always worked to postpone my falling asleep again for at least another hour.
Senior year ended. My girlfriend dumped me at the end of the summer for the boyfriend she had dumped for me in the prior spring. I went to enroll in classes at the local junior college. I loved my father. When he asked me what I wanted to study in college, and I told him “Theatre. I want to be an actor,” he wasn’t comfortable. He didn’t act as too many fathers do, who forbid their children to pursue their dreams, but rather force them to choose among “practical” careers. My dad simply said, “Well, make sure you have something to fall back on.” Imagine the groan he must have had to suppress when I told him my fallback was filmmaking!
I spoke to the advisor of the Theatre Department and told him of my aspirations to be an actor. He listened to my voice as I spoke, and he told me that he had serious concerns that I would be able to achieve anything in my chosen field. He recommended that I talk to the advisor of the Speech Department and enroll in some classes in that curriculum in an effort to strengthen my voice and give me a better shot at a career in the Theatre.
I did as he suggested, and when I looked at the class syllabus and saw “Introduction to Radio Broadcasting,” and “Introduction to Television Broadcasting,” I thought those seemed pretty interesting. I signed up for them.
On the first day of classes I went to the Intro to Radio Broadcasting class. The instructor showed us the radio studio, which looked interesting, and he told us about the assignments and the projects we would have to work on. Interesting. The next night was the Intro to Television Broadcasting. Same thing: he told us of the assignments and the projects, and then he took us to the TV production studio. As things were, even then it was not much of a studio. The cameras were likely from the late 1960s, the videotape recorders probably weighed a quarter-ton each, and the editing console was probably from the first generation of electronic editing after cut-and-paste went by the wayside. But the projects were visual. They employed the use of cameras. We recorded SOUND as well as video!
I was hooked. It was everything I wanted of filmmaking, but it was more immediate and timely. We could roll tape, record whatever we needed to record, and then, as soon as we were done recording, we could rewind it and watch it immediately!
Time was running out. Rather, money was running out. My parents were too poor to send any of their kids through college. My oldest brother did two years of junior college and then joined the Air Force, where he eventually completed his degree. None of my sisters went to college. My other brother received financial aid and attended DeVry Institute of Technology (back before it was a university, and when it was only one campus anywhere). I, having not been such a great student in high school, and achieving the stunning score of 19 on my ACT (don’t remember my SAT, but it was less than stellar…way less!), wasn’t getting calls from university recruiters begging me to come to their schools. I was too proud to ask for financial aid, and I was attending junior college on my meager savings. I figured a four-year degree was not in the cards for me. My quick out — escape from the growing claustrophobia at home, and avoiding the dead end of my savings account and, thus, my post-secondary education — and what I believed was my only shot at a college education was the military. Upon entry there I figured one of two things would happen: I would find the career for me in the military and do that the rest of my life, or for the ensuing four years I would pine for a career in TV production.
The latter held true. It was all I could think about the entire time I was in. At three years in, I became eligible for cross-training from my current career field into another. I tried to cross-train into the Radio and TV Broadcasting Specialty, but I had to submit a voice audition. Again with the voice! And, with my raspy, Mel Torme voice (minus the crooning ability), I was rejected. Stupid voice!
Luckily for me, the State of Illinois, at the time of my separation from the Air Force, offered what was called the Illinois Veterans’ Grant, which allowed anyone who was an Illinois resident at the time of their enlistment, and who maintained their Illinois residency throughout their military service, who received an honorable discharge, and who remained an Illinois resident when they separated from their service, to attend any Illinois state run school with tuition and fees waived.
WAIVED!
When I got out of the Air Force I enrolled at Southern Illinois University at Carbondale. I gave my parents a heart attack in my first semester there by pulling a 4.0. They weren’t sure I was still their son! I couldn’t maintain that pace, but I earned my BA in Radio-TV, Emphasis: Production with a 3.4 GPA overall, and a 3.64 GPA in my major field of study. My parents were quite pleased.
After graduation I tried to break into the Chicago corporate/industrial video market just as the market was falling out, and corporations who had for years operated huge video production departments were shedding them. I wound up working nights at a nuclear power plant for about a year and a half. Right after workforce reductions resulted in my being laid off, I received a call from the production manager at a TV station in southern Illinois where I had sent a résumé, expressing interest in interviewing me for a position there. I interviewed and got the job.
I worked there for two years, creating, writing, producing, shooting and editing TV commercials and on-air promotions, and then jumped at an opportunity doing the same thing at a TV station in south Georgia, which proved to be a nightmare on several levels. From there I jumped to TCI cable, following a coworker who had taken the production manager position there and who became my boss when he hired me on.
I left that place 2 years and 3 months later to move in with my future ex-wife. After eight months of floundering in the Chicago freelance market, I landed a job with AT&T Media Services, which had only months earlier acquired the entire cable operations of TCI. Another year-and-three-month nightmare ensued, and I jumped that ship for this current one, where I’ve been slaving and traveling for what will be eight years come January.
There. Now aren’t you sorry you asked?
Monday, November 10, 2008
Chiropracticalligraphic XPL-adocious
I'm typically a whiner, but I don't whine too much on my blog so as not to blow that aura of cool around me that so many of you have come to know.
>crickets<
But lately — say, for about the last year or so — I've been dealing with a steadily intensifying lower back problem. It may or may not be related to an issue I had when I was a wee lad in my freshman year of high school, when, somehow, my pelvis got "out of place." All I know is it hurts when I stand for more than, oh, say, seven seconds…and I used to be able to stand for hours and hours.
I've been trying to stretch it out, but I have notoriously tight back muscles, and they've been in spasm for pretty much all that time. No matter how much or how long I stretch, the pain comes back pretty quickly. Fortunately for me, sitting usually eases the pain, as well as just about any amount of forward bow in the back.
Last week, when I was in constant pain and almost no position save for sitting down and leaning forward brought any relief, my co-workers suggested ibuprofen. I'm reluctant to turning to medication for every last ailment, so I had all but forgotten it could help. I ate about four tablets and within an hour the pain had eased up some. But it was time to get in to see a chiropractor. The last one I visited about two years ago is in the city, just a few blocks from where I used to live, but I sure as hell wasn't about to make that commute for an hour's visit! I perused the health insurance company's provider list and found a guy close to both home and office, and made the call.
On Friday afternoon I went in and, after filling out the paperwork…again (the woman who answered the phone asked me all the same questions. Wasn't she writing this all down?!)… I was ushered into the chiropractor's office. He's fairly young…probably younger than I am…and good-looking, and seems very enthusiastic about his work.
He had me lie on the table face-down, and he grabbed my ankles, lifting my feet up together and bending my knees. He said, "Uh huh. One leg's shorter than the other. See?"
I craned my head around — difficult to do with my back screaming at me — and, sure enough, one leg appeared to be shorter by a few millimeters. He said he had to determine if it was structural or muscular. I thought, How could it be muscular if it's from the knee down?
He sent me up to the x-ray room where they zapped a few of my cells and and then zipped the files back to his computer, and he showed me that my hips are cocked a few degrees off of the horizontal, and my spine curves slightly with the hips. It looks like my pelvis is once again out of place. There's also a distinct misalignment between my L-5 and S-1 vertebrae, and possibly a distressed, or maybe even herniated disc between them.
Then the weird shit started happening. With me standing before him, he asked me to hold my arms out at my sides. He told me to resist him, and then he pushed down first on my right arm at the wrist. He managed to push it down about 10 degrees or so. Same with the left arm. Then he looked at my side and said, "Oh. I see why. You have a cell phone on your belt. Go ahead and take it off."
He then repeated the test, and "couldn't" get either of my arms down past 5 degrees of travel. He contorted his face and grunted and grimaced, but it felt like he was pulling way back on his effort compared to the earlier test. He then told me that a mobile phone emits a constant electromagnetic pulse, and my wearing my phone on my belt allows that electromagnetic pulse to interfere with the nervous system's transmissions of impulses, causing the body difficulty with motor and strength tasks.
I felt he was doing an elaborate amount of playacting, but I bit my tongue just in case he was going somewhere with it.
He wasn't.
He then put me on the table, did a few strength tests — all of them seemingly legitimate, this time — and then had me roll onto my stomach. Instead of doing the usual spine cracking — which I was ever so hoping for — he instead felt around on my neck until he found a tender spot, and then felt around on the left side of my back, where the pain is concentrated. Then he had me regulate my breathing while he pressed little circles on each point, his finger on my neck lightly thumping somehow with each rotation. He switched sides and did it again Then he lifted my feet again to compare leg lengths, and he said, "See? Same length."
He never did any cracking, telling me he would do that on my next visit. Giving him the benefit of the doubt, I made an appointment for Monday — today. I decided that if he didn't do any cracking, and instead did more touchy-feely mumbo-jumbo, then I was going to find a big, burly, bone-cracking chiropractor who would do it the way I knew.
I kept the weekend low-key: I did some house cleaning on Saturday, and never left the apartment. On Sunday I went out for breakfast and then to Target and a grocery store for some necessities. While walking around those places I kept leaning heavily on the grocery cart (buggy, y'all), trying to ease the pain caused by the walking.
This morning I awoke to a somewhat reduced intensity of pain. I still took some ibuprofen, and it further eased the pain while I was at work. I still had to stand and do some things, and the pain let me know it was still there. I took no more pain relievers after the two I took at home before I left for work.
The pain truly seemed to be much less by 5:00, when I left for my appointment. The chiropractor did some more of the funky finger-poke circle massage, which he said is acupressure, and then he did a for-real, honest-to-goodness, traditional back cracking! Of course, my lower back is so tight, all he managed to do was make me practically roll right off the table without anything popping, but that's beside the point. I left the office with even less pain than when I went in.
Say what you will about the weird, homeopathic voodoo witch-doctor bullshit he's doing. (Did I mention his whacking me in the forehead with sprigs of hemlock? No? Well, never mind, then.)
It's working.
>crickets<
But lately — say, for about the last year or so — I've been dealing with a steadily intensifying lower back problem. It may or may not be related to an issue I had when I was a wee lad in my freshman year of high school, when, somehow, my pelvis got "out of place." All I know is it hurts when I stand for more than, oh, say, seven seconds…and I used to be able to stand for hours and hours.
I've been trying to stretch it out, but I have notoriously tight back muscles, and they've been in spasm for pretty much all that time. No matter how much or how long I stretch, the pain comes back pretty quickly. Fortunately for me, sitting usually eases the pain, as well as just about any amount of forward bow in the back.
Last week, when I was in constant pain and almost no position save for sitting down and leaning forward brought any relief, my co-workers suggested ibuprofen. I'm reluctant to turning to medication for every last ailment, so I had all but forgotten it could help. I ate about four tablets and within an hour the pain had eased up some. But it was time to get in to see a chiropractor. The last one I visited about two years ago is in the city, just a few blocks from where I used to live, but I sure as hell wasn't about to make that commute for an hour's visit! I perused the health insurance company's provider list and found a guy close to both home and office, and made the call.
On Friday afternoon I went in and, after filling out the paperwork…again (the woman who answered the phone asked me all the same questions. Wasn't she writing this all down?!)… I was ushered into the chiropractor's office. He's fairly young…probably younger than I am…and good-looking, and seems very enthusiastic about his work.
He had me lie on the table face-down, and he grabbed my ankles, lifting my feet up together and bending my knees. He said, "Uh huh. One leg's shorter than the other. See?"
I craned my head around — difficult to do with my back screaming at me — and, sure enough, one leg appeared to be shorter by a few millimeters. He said he had to determine if it was structural or muscular. I thought, How could it be muscular if it's from the knee down?
He sent me up to the x-ray room where they zapped a few of my cells and and then zipped the files back to his computer, and he showed me that my hips are cocked a few degrees off of the horizontal, and my spine curves slightly with the hips. It looks like my pelvis is once again out of place. There's also a distinct misalignment between my L-5 and S-1 vertebrae, and possibly a distressed, or maybe even herniated disc between them.
Then the weird shit started happening. With me standing before him, he asked me to hold my arms out at my sides. He told me to resist him, and then he pushed down first on my right arm at the wrist. He managed to push it down about 10 degrees or so. Same with the left arm. Then he looked at my side and said, "Oh. I see why. You have a cell phone on your belt. Go ahead and take it off."
He then repeated the test, and "couldn't" get either of my arms down past 5 degrees of travel. He contorted his face and grunted and grimaced, but it felt like he was pulling way back on his effort compared to the earlier test. He then told me that a mobile phone emits a constant electromagnetic pulse, and my wearing my phone on my belt allows that electromagnetic pulse to interfere with the nervous system's transmissions of impulses, causing the body difficulty with motor and strength tasks.
I felt he was doing an elaborate amount of playacting, but I bit my tongue just in case he was going somewhere with it.
He wasn't.
He then put me on the table, did a few strength tests — all of them seemingly legitimate, this time — and then had me roll onto my stomach. Instead of doing the usual spine cracking — which I was ever so hoping for — he instead felt around on my neck until he found a tender spot, and then felt around on the left side of my back, where the pain is concentrated. Then he had me regulate my breathing while he pressed little circles on each point, his finger on my neck lightly thumping somehow with each rotation. He switched sides and did it again Then he lifted my feet again to compare leg lengths, and he said, "See? Same length."
He never did any cracking, telling me he would do that on my next visit. Giving him the benefit of the doubt, I made an appointment for Monday — today. I decided that if he didn't do any cracking, and instead did more touchy-feely mumbo-jumbo, then I was going to find a big, burly, bone-cracking chiropractor who would do it the way I knew.
I kept the weekend low-key: I did some house cleaning on Saturday, and never left the apartment. On Sunday I went out for breakfast and then to Target and a grocery store for some necessities. While walking around those places I kept leaning heavily on the grocery cart (buggy, y'all), trying to ease the pain caused by the walking.
This morning I awoke to a somewhat reduced intensity of pain. I still took some ibuprofen, and it further eased the pain while I was at work. I still had to stand and do some things, and the pain let me know it was still there. I took no more pain relievers after the two I took at home before I left for work.
The pain truly seemed to be much less by 5:00, when I left for my appointment. The chiropractor did some more of the funky finger-poke circle massage, which he said is acupressure, and then he did a for-real, honest-to-goodness, traditional back cracking! Of course, my lower back is so tight, all he managed to do was make me practically roll right off the table without anything popping, but that's beside the point. I left the office with even less pain than when I went in.
Say what you will about the weird, homeopathic voodoo witch-doctor bullshit he's doing. (Did I mention his whacking me in the forehead with sprigs of hemlock? No? Well, never mind, then.)
It's working.
Sunday, November 09, 2008
This Made Me Laugh 'Til I Cried
The embed tag was broken, and I don't know enough HTML to fix it, so go here to see one of the funniest things I've seen in a while (don't worry, it's clean)...
Thursday, November 06, 2008
Able Linkin'
WOW! Let's hear it for the power of popular wimmens!
I just simply forgot restraint when writing of my Halloween weekend in Raleigh, leaving a steaming puddle of verbal barf on this here spark of interwebs wire, and kenju decided to leave well enough alone with the weekend, opting to just mention on her blog that I wrote too much about it.
Tiff did just about the same thing.
Tuesday I had a record 27 hits in one day. On Wednesday I broke that record with 39 hits! WOO HOO! I know that's a rain drop in a rainstorm for most of you, but it's a lot for me! And just about every hit was a referral link from the blogs of either kenju or Tiff.
Thanks, ladies, for lending me your leftovers! Much appreeshimated!
I just simply forgot restraint when writing of my Halloween weekend in Raleigh, leaving a steaming puddle of verbal barf on this here spark of interwebs wire, and kenju decided to leave well enough alone with the weekend, opting to just mention on her blog that I wrote too much about it.
Tiff did just about the same thing.
Tuesday I had a record 27 hits in one day. On Wednesday I broke that record with 39 hits! WOO HOO! I know that's a rain drop in a rainstorm for most of you, but it's a lot for me! And just about every hit was a referral link from the blogs of either kenju or Tiff.
Thanks, ladies, for lending me your leftovers! Much appreeshimated!
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
Amazing Oratory
I chose not to watch the election returns Tuesday night. Rather, I checked the late results before I went to bed. AndI went to bed happy.
Unfortunately, I missed perhaps one of the greatest speeches ever to be given in my lifetime by an American political figure. However, Professor did an awesome thing and posted the transcript of the speech, highlighting her favorite parts.
I read the words aloud, as though it were I giving the speech. I choked up and broke down into tears several times throughout the words as pride for Barack Obama and pride for what our country achieved last night welled up in me, and as sorrow for Ann Nixon Cooper and the awful times she has seen in her century of life transformed to joy for her, a woman who voted for Obama, but will likely not live to see his first term through.
I recommend that you go to Professor's blog to see the speech as she posted it, and to read it aloud as I did. It was her idea, so she deserves the traffic. But just in case you don't feel like clicking over, or if your clicking finger just broke, it's posted below, lifted from her site.
Hello, Chicago.
If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible, who still wonders if the dream of our founders is alive in our time, who still questions the power of our democracy, tonight is your answer.
It's the answer told by lines that stretched around schools and churches in numbers this nation has never seen, by people who waited three hours and four hours, many for the first time in their lives, because they believed that this time must be different, that their voices could be that difference.
It's the answer spoken by young and old, rich and poor, Democrat and Republican, black, white, Hispanic, Asian, Native American, gay, straight, disabled and not disabled. Americans who sent a message to the world that we have never been just a collection of individuals or a collection of red states and blue states.
We are, and always will be, the United States of America.
It's the answer that led those who've been told for so long by so many to be cynical and fearful and doubtful about what we can achieve to put their hands on the arc of history and bend it once more toward the hope of a better day.
It's been a long time coming, but tonight, because of what we did on this date in this election at this defining moment change has come to America.
A little bit earlier this evening, I received an extraordinarily gracious call from Sen. McCain. Sen. McCain fought long and hard in this campaign. And he's fought even longer and harder for the country that he loves. He has endured sacrifices for America that most of us cannot begin to imagine. We are better off for the service rendered by this brave and selfless leader. I congratulate him; I congratulate Gov. Palin for all that they've achieved. And I look forward to working with them to renew this nation's promise in the months ahead.
I want to thank my partner in this journey, a man who campaigned from his heart, and spoke for the men and women he grew up with on the streets of Scranton and rode with on the train home to Delaware, the vice president-elect of the United States, Joe Biden.
And I would not be standing here tonight without the unyielding support of my best friend for the last 16 years the rock of our family, the love of my life, the nation's next first lady Michelle Obama. Sasha and Malia I love you both more than you can imagine. And you have earned the new puppy that's coming with us to the new White House.
And while she's no longer with us, I know my grandmother's watching, along with the family that made me who I am. I miss them tonight. I know that my debt to them is beyond measure.
To my sister Maya, my sister Alma, all my other brothers and sisters, thank you so much for all the support that you've given me. I am grateful to them.
And to my campaign manager, David Plouffe, the unsung hero of this campaign, who built the best -- the best political campaign, I think, in the history of the United States of America.
To my chief strategist David Axelrod who's been a partner with me every step of the way.
To the best campaign team ever assembled in the history of politics you made this happen, and I am forever grateful for what you've sacrificed to get it done.
But above all, I will never forget who this victory truly belongs to. It belongs to you. It belongs to you.
I was never the likeliest candidate for this office. We didn't start with much money or many endorsements. Our campaign was not hatched in the halls of Washington. It began in the backyards of Des Moines and the living rooms of Concord and the front porches of Charleston. It was built by working men and women who dug into what little savings they had to give $5 and $10 and $20 to the cause.
It grew strength from the young people who rejected the myth of their generation's apathy who left their homes and their families for jobs that offered little pay and less sleep.
It drew strength from the not-so-young people who braved the bitter cold and scorching heat to knock on doors of perfect strangers, and from the millions of Americans who volunteered and organized and proved that more than two centuries later a government of the people, by the people, and for the people has not perished from the Earth.
This is your victory.
And I know you didn't do this just to win an election. And I know you didn't do it for me.
You did it because you understand the enormity of the task that lies ahead. For even as we celebrate tonight, we know the challenges that tomorrow will bring are the greatest of our lifetime -- two wars, a planet in peril, the worst financial crisis in a century.
Even as we stand here tonight, we know there are brave Americans waking up in the deserts of Iraq and the mountains of Afghanistan to risk their lives for us.
There are mothers and fathers who will lie awake after the children fall asleep and wonder how they'll make the mortgage or pay their doctors' bills or save enough for their child's college education.
There's new energy to harness, new jobs to be created, new schools to build, and threats to meet, alliances to repair.
The road ahead will be long. Our climb will be steep. We may not get there in one year or even in one term. But, America, I have never been more hopeful than I am tonight that we will get there.
I promise you, we as a people will get there.
There will be setbacks and false starts. There are many who won't agree with every decision or policy I make as president. And we know the government can't solve every problem.
But I will always be honest with you about the challenges we face. I will listen to you, especially when we disagree. And, above all, I will ask you to join in the work of remaking this nation, the only way it's been done in America for 221 years -- block by block, brick by brick, calloused hand by calloused hand.
What began 21 months ago in the depths of winter cannot end on this autumn night.
This victory alone is not the change we seek. It is only the chance for us to make that change. And that cannot happen if we go back to the way things were.
It can't happen without you, without a new spirit of service, a new spirit of sacrifice.
So let us summon a new spirit of patriotism, of responsibility, where each of us resolves to pitch in and work harder and look after not only ourselves but each other.
Let us remember that, if this financial crisis taught us anything, it's that we cannot have a thriving Wall Street while Main Street suffers.
In this country, we rise or fall as one nation, as one people. Let's resist the temptation to fall back on the same partisanship and pettiness and immaturity that has poisoned our politics for so long.
Let's remember that it was a man from this state who first carried the banner of the Republican Party to the White House, a party founded on the values of self-reliance and individual liberty and national unity.
Those are values that we all share. And while the Democratic Party has won a great victory tonight, we do so with a measure of humility and determination to heal the divides that have held back our progress.
As Lincoln said to a nation far more divided than ours, we are not enemies but friends. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection.
And to those Americans whose support I have yet to earn, I may not have won your vote tonight, but I hear your voices. I need your help. And I will be your president, too.
And to all those watching tonight from beyond our shores, from parliaments and palaces, to those who are huddled around radios in the forgotten corners of the world, our stories are singular, but our destiny is shared, and a new dawn of American leadership is at hand.
To those -- to those who would tear the world down: We will defeat you. To those who seek peace and security: We support you. And to all those who have wondered if America's beacon still burns as bright: Tonight we proved once more that the true strength of our nation comes not from the might of our arms or the scale of our wealth, but from the enduring power of our ideals: democracy, liberty, opportunity and unyielding hope.
That's the true genius of America: that America can change. Our union can be perfected. What we've already achieved gives us hope for what we can and must achieve tomorrow.
This election had many firsts and many stories that will be told for generations. But one that's on my mind tonight's about a woman who cast her ballot in Atlanta. She's a lot like the millions of others who stood in line to make their voice heard in this election except for one thing: Ann Nixon Cooper is 106 years old.
She was born just a generation past slavery; a time when there were no cars on the road or planes in the sky; when someone like her couldn't vote for two reasons -- because she was a woman and because of the color of her skin.
And tonight, I think about all that she's seen throughout her century in America -- the heartache and the hope; the struggle and the progress; the times we were told that we can't, and the people who pressed on with that American creed: Yes we can.
At a time when women's voices were silenced and their hopes dismissed, she lived to see them stand up and speak out and reach for the ballot. Yes we can.
When there was despair in the dust bowl and depression across the land, she saw a nation conquer fear itself with a New Deal, new jobs, a new sense of common purpose. Yes we can.
When the bombs fell on our harbor and tyranny threatened the world, she was there to witness a generation rise to greatness and a democracy was saved. Yes we can.
She was there for the buses in Montgomery, the hoses in Birmingham, a bridge in Selma, and a preacher from Atlanta who told a people that "We Shall Overcome." Yes we can.
A man touched down on the moon, a wall came down in Berlin, a world was connected by our own science and imagination.
And this year, in this election, she touched her finger to a screen, and cast her vote, because after 106 years in America, through the best of times and the darkest of hours, she knows how America can change.
Yes we can.
America, we have come so far. We have seen so much. But there is so much more to do. So tonight, let us ask ourselves -- if our children should live to see the next century; if my daughters should be so lucky to live as long as Ann Nixon Cooper, what change will they see? What progress will we have made?
This is our chance to answer that call. This is our moment.
This is our time, to put our people back to work and open doors of opportunity for our kids; to restore prosperity and promote the cause of peace; to reclaim the American dream and reaffirm that fundamental truth, that, out of many, we are one; that while we breathe, we hope. And where we are met with cynicism and doubts and those who tell us that we can't, we will respond with that timeless creed that sums up the spirit of a people: Yes, we can.
Unfortunately, I missed perhaps one of the greatest speeches ever to be given in my lifetime by an American political figure. However, Professor did an awesome thing and posted the transcript of the speech, highlighting her favorite parts.
I read the words aloud, as though it were I giving the speech. I choked up and broke down into tears several times throughout the words as pride for Barack Obama and pride for what our country achieved last night welled up in me, and as sorrow for Ann Nixon Cooper and the awful times she has seen in her century of life transformed to joy for her, a woman who voted for Obama, but will likely not live to see his first term through.
I recommend that you go to Professor's blog to see the speech as she posted it, and to read it aloud as I did. It was her idea, so she deserves the traffic. But just in case you don't feel like clicking over, or if your clicking finger just broke, it's posted below, lifted from her site.
Hello, Chicago.
If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible, who still wonders if the dream of our founders is alive in our time, who still questions the power of our democracy, tonight is your answer.
It's the answer told by lines that stretched around schools and churches in numbers this nation has never seen, by people who waited three hours and four hours, many for the first time in their lives, because they believed that this time must be different, that their voices could be that difference.
It's the answer spoken by young and old, rich and poor, Democrat and Republican, black, white, Hispanic, Asian, Native American, gay, straight, disabled and not disabled. Americans who sent a message to the world that we have never been just a collection of individuals or a collection of red states and blue states.
We are, and always will be, the United States of America.
It's the answer that led those who've been told for so long by so many to be cynical and fearful and doubtful about what we can achieve to put their hands on the arc of history and bend it once more toward the hope of a better day.
It's been a long time coming, but tonight, because of what we did on this date in this election at this defining moment change has come to America.
A little bit earlier this evening, I received an extraordinarily gracious call from Sen. McCain. Sen. McCain fought long and hard in this campaign. And he's fought even longer and harder for the country that he loves. He has endured sacrifices for America that most of us cannot begin to imagine. We are better off for the service rendered by this brave and selfless leader. I congratulate him; I congratulate Gov. Palin for all that they've achieved. And I look forward to working with them to renew this nation's promise in the months ahead.
I want to thank my partner in this journey, a man who campaigned from his heart, and spoke for the men and women he grew up with on the streets of Scranton and rode with on the train home to Delaware, the vice president-elect of the United States, Joe Biden.
And I would not be standing here tonight without the unyielding support of my best friend for the last 16 years the rock of our family, the love of my life, the nation's next first lady Michelle Obama. Sasha and Malia I love you both more than you can imagine. And you have earned the new puppy that's coming with us to the new White House.
And while she's no longer with us, I know my grandmother's watching, along with the family that made me who I am. I miss them tonight. I know that my debt to them is beyond measure.
To my sister Maya, my sister Alma, all my other brothers and sisters, thank you so much for all the support that you've given me. I am grateful to them.
And to my campaign manager, David Plouffe, the unsung hero of this campaign, who built the best -- the best political campaign, I think, in the history of the United States of America.
To my chief strategist David Axelrod who's been a partner with me every step of the way.
To the best campaign team ever assembled in the history of politics you made this happen, and I am forever grateful for what you've sacrificed to get it done.
But above all, I will never forget who this victory truly belongs to. It belongs to you. It belongs to you.
I was never the likeliest candidate for this office. We didn't start with much money or many endorsements. Our campaign was not hatched in the halls of Washington. It began in the backyards of Des Moines and the living rooms of Concord and the front porches of Charleston. It was built by working men and women who dug into what little savings they had to give $5 and $10 and $20 to the cause.
It grew strength from the young people who rejected the myth of their generation's apathy who left their homes and their families for jobs that offered little pay and less sleep.
It drew strength from the not-so-young people who braved the bitter cold and scorching heat to knock on doors of perfect strangers, and from the millions of Americans who volunteered and organized and proved that more than two centuries later a government of the people, by the people, and for the people has not perished from the Earth.
This is your victory.
And I know you didn't do this just to win an election. And I know you didn't do it for me.
You did it because you understand the enormity of the task that lies ahead. For even as we celebrate tonight, we know the challenges that tomorrow will bring are the greatest of our lifetime -- two wars, a planet in peril, the worst financial crisis in a century.
Even as we stand here tonight, we know there are brave Americans waking up in the deserts of Iraq and the mountains of Afghanistan to risk their lives for us.
There are mothers and fathers who will lie awake after the children fall asleep and wonder how they'll make the mortgage or pay their doctors' bills or save enough for their child's college education.
There's new energy to harness, new jobs to be created, new schools to build, and threats to meet, alliances to repair.
The road ahead will be long. Our climb will be steep. We may not get there in one year or even in one term. But, America, I have never been more hopeful than I am tonight that we will get there.
I promise you, we as a people will get there.
There will be setbacks and false starts. There are many who won't agree with every decision or policy I make as president. And we know the government can't solve every problem.
But I will always be honest with you about the challenges we face. I will listen to you, especially when we disagree. And, above all, I will ask you to join in the work of remaking this nation, the only way it's been done in America for 221 years -- block by block, brick by brick, calloused hand by calloused hand.
What began 21 months ago in the depths of winter cannot end on this autumn night.
This victory alone is not the change we seek. It is only the chance for us to make that change. And that cannot happen if we go back to the way things were.
It can't happen without you, without a new spirit of service, a new spirit of sacrifice.
So let us summon a new spirit of patriotism, of responsibility, where each of us resolves to pitch in and work harder and look after not only ourselves but each other.
Let us remember that, if this financial crisis taught us anything, it's that we cannot have a thriving Wall Street while Main Street suffers.
In this country, we rise or fall as one nation, as one people. Let's resist the temptation to fall back on the same partisanship and pettiness and immaturity that has poisoned our politics for so long.
Let's remember that it was a man from this state who first carried the banner of the Republican Party to the White House, a party founded on the values of self-reliance and individual liberty and national unity.
Those are values that we all share. And while the Democratic Party has won a great victory tonight, we do so with a measure of humility and determination to heal the divides that have held back our progress.
As Lincoln said to a nation far more divided than ours, we are not enemies but friends. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection.
And to those Americans whose support I have yet to earn, I may not have won your vote tonight, but I hear your voices. I need your help. And I will be your president, too.
And to all those watching tonight from beyond our shores, from parliaments and palaces, to those who are huddled around radios in the forgotten corners of the world, our stories are singular, but our destiny is shared, and a new dawn of American leadership is at hand.
To those -- to those who would tear the world down: We will defeat you. To those who seek peace and security: We support you. And to all those who have wondered if America's beacon still burns as bright: Tonight we proved once more that the true strength of our nation comes not from the might of our arms or the scale of our wealth, but from the enduring power of our ideals: democracy, liberty, opportunity and unyielding hope.
That's the true genius of America: that America can change. Our union can be perfected. What we've already achieved gives us hope for what we can and must achieve tomorrow.
This election had many firsts and many stories that will be told for generations. But one that's on my mind tonight's about a woman who cast her ballot in Atlanta. She's a lot like the millions of others who stood in line to make their voice heard in this election except for one thing: Ann Nixon Cooper is 106 years old.
She was born just a generation past slavery; a time when there were no cars on the road or planes in the sky; when someone like her couldn't vote for two reasons -- because she was a woman and because of the color of her skin.
And tonight, I think about all that she's seen throughout her century in America -- the heartache and the hope; the struggle and the progress; the times we were told that we can't, and the people who pressed on with that American creed: Yes we can.
At a time when women's voices were silenced and their hopes dismissed, she lived to see them stand up and speak out and reach for the ballot. Yes we can.
When there was despair in the dust bowl and depression across the land, she saw a nation conquer fear itself with a New Deal, new jobs, a new sense of common purpose. Yes we can.
When the bombs fell on our harbor and tyranny threatened the world, she was there to witness a generation rise to greatness and a democracy was saved. Yes we can.
She was there for the buses in Montgomery, the hoses in Birmingham, a bridge in Selma, and a preacher from Atlanta who told a people that "We Shall Overcome." Yes we can.
A man touched down on the moon, a wall came down in Berlin, a world was connected by our own science and imagination.
And this year, in this election, she touched her finger to a screen, and cast her vote, because after 106 years in America, through the best of times and the darkest of hours, she knows how America can change.
Yes we can.
America, we have come so far. We have seen so much. But there is so much more to do. So tonight, let us ask ourselves -- if our children should live to see the next century; if my daughters should be so lucky to live as long as Ann Nixon Cooper, what change will they see? What progress will we have made?
This is our chance to answer that call. This is our moment.
This is our time, to put our people back to work and open doors of opportunity for our kids; to restore prosperity and promote the cause of peace; to reclaim the American dream and reaffirm that fundamental truth, that, out of many, we are one; that while we breathe, we hope. And where we are met with cynicism and doubts and those who tell us that we can't, we will respond with that timeless creed that sums up the spirit of a people: Yes, we can.
Monday, November 03, 2008
Halloweekend 2008
I returned from Puerto Rico late Thursday evening. The cab driver helped me unload the heavy cases and I put them away at the office. I stepped to the coat closet behind the receptionist’s desk and found the items hanging there, just as I had instructed my coworker to do in the favor I had asked of her.
I loaded my personal luggage into my car, along with the clothing items adorning the hanger and wrapped in clear plastic. Once home and after putting all my Puerto Rico clothes into the hamper, I tried on the garments I had brought from the office, just to make sure my plan would work. It seemed to have come together quite nicely.
Early Friday morning I headed to the airport, pleased to be flying for myself for a change. Connecting through Washington-Dulles airport, I was very soon on the arrival end of a very smooth and uneventful trip to Raleigh, North Carolina. My small and very full suitcase was the first one out on the belt, and I was quickly on my way out the door to catch the rental car shuttle. Outside I realized why the Raleigh-Durham airport didn’t look familiar to me despite having been there in April: It was a brand new terminal which had opened only recently. Of course. It looked brand new. I should have known….
Soon I was in my rental car and fiddling with my new Garmin™ nüvi® 260 GPS navigation system, trying to figure out how to tell it we were in North Carolina. Without too much confusion I located us, and then I called the phone number I had been given and told to call when I arrived.
“Hello?” came the voice on the other end.
“Judy?” I asked, not entirely certain I hadn’t misdialed or mis-written the number in the first place.
“Yes?” came her excited reply.
“It’s me. I’m here!”
“I was hoping it was you!”
And thus began my Halloween weekend in Raleigh. Kenju and her husband, Mr. Kenju, upon learning several weeks ago that I was planning on making the trip, had offered a spare bedroom in their home for me to call my own for the weekend, and I had accepted their offer. With their address entered into the GPS, and the satellites guiding me in, I confidently sped toward their home.
I pulled into the driveway and from that vantage point I could already tell that theirs was a truly lovely home. Kenju greeted me at the door with a hug, Mr. Kenju with a hearty handshake, and one of the cats — Stormy or Eclipse, which one I do not remember — greeted me by sharing her fleas with me.
We only had an hour or so to chat before we had to get ready, and I had to find a store where I could buy a belt, which I had forgotten to include, with which to complete the costume I had conceived to wear to Tiffoween, the Halloween costume bash thrown by Tiff and her man, Biff Spiffy. Kohl’s to the rescue! ...It was a ladies’ belt, but Kohl's saved the day, nonetheless!
I returned to the Kenju home and ducked into the bedroom to don my duds. Once the transformation was complete, I stepped out before the first pair of eyes to take in my creation, and their reaction was priceless…especially when made them aware of the “something a little extra” in my pants!
(Click on any photo to biggify.)
1970s porn star Rush Mountmore,
at your service! Note the
"package." (Photo by Kenju.)
Anticipating that we would be interested in leaving the party at different times, we agreed to drive separately to the Tiny House. The platform boots I wore were so cumbersome that I had to remove the right foot boot in order to be able to drive the car safely. Yes, I drove to Tiff’s in costume!
Upon my arrival The Things came out to greet me, and to try to guess who I was and what I was supposed to be. Their guess of “’70s guy” was two thirds correct, but I give them full credit because how are a 13-year-old and an 11-year-old supposed to know I was a “’70s porn-star guy?”
It wasn’t until I spoke and my distinctive voice gave away to Tiff my true identity. I was only the second guest to arrive, behind Tiff’s brother, whom I’ll call “Big D” in this blog, because I’m not sure he’s interested in having his real name used here. And because, if he isn’t, well, I don’t call him "Big D" for nothing. I don’t want to be squished like a bug for any reason.
It is here that I must point out that the party and its potential for great visual joy is the only reason I brought my camera to Raleigh. And it is here that I also must point out that I left the Kenju home without it. (aarrrghh) So, the photos you see here are borrowed.
Big D had probably the most craftworthy costume of anyone, as he had latex prostheses attached to his nose and chin, with black and white makeup covering his entire face and smoothly blending the prostheses to his own facial contours. Topping it all off was a black wig streaked with white, and an all black outfit, with his fingers tipped in black nail polish. Unfortunately for Big D, the prostheses were attached so well that his skin couldn’t breathe, and he was sweating profusely into them. He had already abandoned the chin by the time I got there, and the nose came off about two hours later.
Kenju came as a witch, and Mr. Kenju was a 21st century rendition of Sherlock Holmes. Fortunately for me, Kenju remembered to bring her camera.
On left, Kenju and me. (Photo by Tiff.) On right, Tiff and me as Mr. Kenju looks on. (Photo by Kenju.)
Shortly after our arrival Tiff’s friends — I’ll call them “Kitty” and “Cletus,” names inspired only by their costumes — and fellow Raleigh area blogger Mr. Mojo arrived. Mr. Kenju was quite tickled when Mr. Mojo, upon seeing me in my getup, pointed a finger at me and said, “Dude!”
To which I responded immediately, “Dude!” It’s interesting how anonymity rendered by a disguise can embolden strangers and make them more friendly and familiar than they would be in a normal social situation. And I’m talking solely about myself, as I don’t know how Mr. Mojo would react in a normal social situation.
On left, "Cletus" and "Kitty." On right, Mr. Mojo. (Photos by Kenju.)
Your hosts, Biff Spiffy and Tiff. (Photo by Kenju.)
Biff and Tiff — costumed as a highland lad and lass — had laid out quite a nice spread of hot dogs wrapped in bread dough; popcorn; tortilla chips with pimiento cheese spread and salsa, each in clever little “spider” bread bowls; and Wordnerd’s recipe onion sum-er-other casserole. Kenju brought an asparagus relish tray, which I didn’t try because I didn’t want my pee to smell.
Biff had a nice fire going in the fire-pit out in the back yard, and soon everyone was out there around it, sipping drinks and chatting. The pointy-legged chairs had a tendency to sink into the lawn under anyone’s weight, and Biff — whether a little too under the influence or not — sat in one of those chairs and tumbled ass-over-teakettle backwards onto the ground, taking another chair with him, and I learned in the most unpleasant way that he took the whole “Scots” thing very seriously. Two words: family jewels.
(Photo by Kenju.)
Around 10:00 the party was crashed by the neighborhood loon (apparently), who stopped by to “introduce” herself and then later asked to help herself to “one little drinkee-poo” and then regaled us with her quasi-incestuous family freak-show stories which included such topics as her mother’s Zen “meditations” fueled by pot smoking and Penthouse Forum letters, and her 15-year-old son’s amorous adventures with his girlfriend on his “porn couch.”
Don’t ask.
As a group, we largely did not care to hear such stories, but as no one could figure out how to get her to shut up, we were captive until she finally decided it was time to leave.
At 12:30.
The Kenjus had called it a night around 10:30. Everyone else clung to the fire until psycho-freak left (I think we were all afraid to turn our backs on her), and then I left around 1:15, with Tiff telling me that I was theirs to hang out with on Saturday.
Around 8:45 in the morning I called the Tiny House, and only Biff was awake. We made tentative plans to do breakfast, but I was to call again later in the morning to make sure the others weren’t actually in comas. I shared a cup of coffee and a chat with Mr. Kenju for an hour or so, and then I called Biff again. He said the others still were not awake, but to head on out anyway, as he was about to toot reveille to rouse the troops. Only… he never mentioned using a bugle….
I told Biff that my trusty new GPS navigator could find anything for me, so with the name of the restaurant safely absorbed into my brain folds, I boldly traipsed out to the car — camera firmly in my grasp, this time — and entered “The Border” into the search window.
Bupkis.
I reentered the address to the Tiny House, and hoped with all my energy that Biff’s description of the place being “just around the block, across the street from the Pilot gas station” was accurate.
It was, and I made it to the restaurant just under the wire, as they closed at 11:00, and had the residents of the Tiny House not mentioned that I would be there any minute, I would not have been allowed inside.
Breakfast was okay. The Border will not make it anywhere near the top ten for Best Corned-Beef Hash Breakfast In America, but it was okay. Good coffee, and a funny waitress, though. We six tossed about myriad things to do with the afternoon, from art museums, to seeing the Dead Sea Scrolls, to recreational tree species identification at the local park, but what we all settled happily upon was the great Saturday afternoon pastime of building a potato gun.
Since building a potato gun is a “man thing,” Big D, Biff and I hopped in Big D’s pickup truck and went to the local “Put-Mom-and-Pop-Out-Of-Business” chain hardware emporium and bought the necessary items required to construct our weap-… er, pastime: a length of 2” PVC pipe, a ‘Y’- junction 4” connector, a 4” end-cap, some sizing adapters and a replacement grill-starter switch. From there we went to the local “Kick-Mom-and-Pop-Out-On-The-Street-On-Their-Ass” chain department/grocery emporium to get hairspray and potatoes.
And I got a Snickers bar. Breakfast didn’t stick with me very long….
While we did that, Tiff went shopping for girly things, like chili-making ingredients, and probably feminine hygiene products.
I didn’t take any “the making of” photos. I forgot I had remembered to bring the camera. Biff had the vision, as well as the memory of a friend of his making one of these last year. With his constructorly prowess, he had the thing assembled to the specifications of his vision…and I had serious doubts this thing was going to work.
Off we went, in search of a place to blast potatoes to fiery deaths, and found one beside a lake and hidden away from the road by big, pesky trees.
Yours truly, holding the fud spucker. (Photo by Tiff.)
Since it was Biff’s creation, he had the honor of firing the first potato. He loaded the spud into the muzzle and rammed it down the “barrel” until it was just outside the ‘Y’ chamber. He unscrewed the 3” cap and sprayed a short burst of hairspray into the ‘Y’ chamber, quickly screwing the cap back on. He aimed the cannon out toward the quiet lake. He placed his finger on the red grill-starter button, the business end of which was dangling in the chamber amid hairspray vapors, waiting to emit a spark. Biff pushed the button.
“Click.”
Bummer. A whole afternoon wasted, I thought. Well, maybe there just wasn’t enough hairspray in the chamber. How is one supposed to know how much it takes to make it flame? So he sprayed in another quick burst.
“Click.” The Dead Sea Scrolls were starting to look interesting again.
“Give it a good, long spray,” said Big D. “Like four seconds.”
Biff opened the chamber and sprayed into the hole. I’m sure we all silently counted to ourselves “one-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand, four-one thousand!”
Charging the potato gun. (Photo by Farrago.)
Biff put the cap back over the chamber hole and aimed the tube back out over the water.
“ClicKA-BLAM!!” That potato disappeared over the trees on the other side of the lake! And the gun was LOUD! Honestly, I was expecting an amusing little “foomp!” and seeing the potato go about 30 yards, tops. The best, loudest shots sent a potato no less than half a kilometer out over the water! I was truly amazed, not at Biff’s clear engineering success, but at the sheer combustible power a 4-second shower of hairspray has when exposed to a spark!
OH. MY. GOD.
We all took our turns sending potatoes into oblivion until the twenty pounds we had bought were gone. It’s amazing how quickly and willingly six fairly city-fied folks can go ‘redneck’ for an afternoon!
Tiff stuffs a spud into the muzzle while her bro,
Big D, holds the gun steady. (Photo by Farrago.)
Tiff rams the potato down to the base of the barrel.
(Photo by Farrago.)
Tiff takes aim at the moon. ...or something. (Photo by Farrago.)
This shot cleared the trees on the other side of the lake. We never
saw where the potato came down. (Photo by Tiff.)
We returned to the Tiny House where Tiff set to making a pot of chili, and Biff set to building another fire. Before long, both were simmering nicely. As we boys — Big D, Biff, the Things and I — poked at the fire and got it roaring, Tiff called out that the chili was ready. Anything that has bacon in it, on it, under it or around it is automatically fantastic, if you ask me. All you Jews and Muslims, and vegetarians, for that matter, just don’t know what you’re missing. Bacon is the secret ingredient in this chili resipe which, I understand, is Biff’s. WOW. I had to have a second bowl just to make sure it was the best chili I’ve ever had…except for Mom’s. Sorry, Biff. In case I turn out to be wrong, I don’t want her to be pissed off at me when I get there….
In our post-gorging stupor, we marveled at the intense heat coming off of the glowing embers under the fire, and I said “Those embers are great for roasting marshmallows. Too bad we don’t have any.”
The Things piped up, “But we do!” There ensued a mad scramble, The Things for the bag of marshmallows in the kitchen, and I for the branches of the willow tree in the Tiny House back yard. I had forgotten the satisfying glow brought on by the flavor of a perfectly roasted golden-brown marshmallow toasted over blazing red embers on a crisp autumn evening. I don’t believe I’ve eaten that many marshmallows in one sitting since I was a teenager!
Soon after the after-marshmallow stupor set in on top of the after-chili stupor, I decided it was time to get back “home.” Hugs and handshakes were exchanged amid promises to return some day soon, and I was on my way.
Back at the Kenju home, Mr. Kenju was already tucked in for the night, and Kenju was watching some TV. We sat in the TV room and chatted about the stuff on TV and about other things until Saturday Night Live came on, during which we chatted and watched the show. As the Kenjus had so graciously offered me their home and their hospitality, I had promised them that I would spend Sunday with them until I had to leave for the airport.
A Kenju kitty. I know not which one. (Photo by Farrago.)
In the morning I awoke to breakfast on the table: a yummy omelet and English muffins, with coffee and orange juice. It was like I was in a freakin episode of Leave It To Beaver! Kenju joked that Mr. Kenju spent most of his time at breakfast planning for lunch. Little did we realize that, on this particular day, the joke bore truth for all of us!
After breakfast the Kenjus showed me the office upstairs where Kenju does her creative work, both with her floral business and her blogging. Yes, I saw Kenju’s throne! Mr. Kenju and I discussed genealogy for a little while, during which one of the cats insistently professed its love for Mr. Kenju, something which clearly drives Mr. Kenju insane.
Then we were off in the Kenju-mobile, ostensibly to see the sights of downtown Raleigh, but really for lunch. Kenju dove us past the restaurant we had decided upon, but it was crowded, so she thought we’d take in a few more sights and come back later to check and see if the lines had shrunk.
Kenju turned one corner and we were confronted by police directing traffic —which was moving at a snail’s pace for most of the time — and we realized that the foot race that had been held earlier in the morning was still going! Then, as Kenju tried to get us out of the congested, road-blocked areas, it seemed as though every street had police directing traffic, race stragglers walking and heaving, and a line of cars all trying to get out of there; it was as if we were in the movie Night of the Living Marathoners, for we could not escape the runners!
Finally we outdistanced the racers and wound up at a different place than we had planned, called Tripps, where the salmon in lobster cream was OUTSTANDING! Afterward we simply headed for the Kenju homestead where I packed my suitcase and readied to go, and where Kenju… made yummy Reuben sandwiches!
Very soon — all too soon — I had to say my good-byes. It was a wonderful weekend spent with wonderful friends, and with a wonderful roof over my head and a comfortable bed under my bones for sleeping.
To Tiff and Biff, and The Things, I say thanks for the great fun of the party (who cares if there were more “no-shows” than “shows!”), and of the spud-launcher. Good times!
To the Kenjus, I can’t say, “Thank you,” enough for their hospitality and kindness in putting me up for the weekend. And I didn’t break anything, either, for a change!
Happy Halloween!
I loaded my personal luggage into my car, along with the clothing items adorning the hanger and wrapped in clear plastic. Once home and after putting all my Puerto Rico clothes into the hamper, I tried on the garments I had brought from the office, just to make sure my plan would work. It seemed to have come together quite nicely.
Early Friday morning I headed to the airport, pleased to be flying for myself for a change. Connecting through Washington-Dulles airport, I was very soon on the arrival end of a very smooth and uneventful trip to Raleigh, North Carolina. My small and very full suitcase was the first one out on the belt, and I was quickly on my way out the door to catch the rental car shuttle. Outside I realized why the Raleigh-Durham airport didn’t look familiar to me despite having been there in April: It was a brand new terminal which had opened only recently. Of course. It looked brand new. I should have known….
Soon I was in my rental car and fiddling with my new Garmin™ nüvi® 260 GPS navigation system, trying to figure out how to tell it we were in North Carolina. Without too much confusion I located us, and then I called the phone number I had been given and told to call when I arrived.
“Hello?” came the voice on the other end.
“Judy?” I asked, not entirely certain I hadn’t misdialed or mis-written the number in the first place.
“Yes?” came her excited reply.
“It’s me. I’m here!”
“I was hoping it was you!”
And thus began my Halloween weekend in Raleigh. Kenju and her husband, Mr. Kenju, upon learning several weeks ago that I was planning on making the trip, had offered a spare bedroom in their home for me to call my own for the weekend, and I had accepted their offer. With their address entered into the GPS, and the satellites guiding me in, I confidently sped toward their home.
I pulled into the driveway and from that vantage point I could already tell that theirs was a truly lovely home. Kenju greeted me at the door with a hug, Mr. Kenju with a hearty handshake, and one of the cats — Stormy or Eclipse, which one I do not remember — greeted me by sharing her fleas with me.
We only had an hour or so to chat before we had to get ready, and I had to find a store where I could buy a belt, which I had forgotten to include, with which to complete the costume I had conceived to wear to Tiffoween, the Halloween costume bash thrown by Tiff and her man, Biff Spiffy. Kohl’s to the rescue! ...It was a ladies’ belt, but Kohl's saved the day, nonetheless!
I returned to the Kenju home and ducked into the bedroom to don my duds. Once the transformation was complete, I stepped out before the first pair of eyes to take in my creation, and their reaction was priceless…especially when made them aware of the “something a little extra” in my pants!
(Click on any photo to biggify.)
1970s porn star Rush Mountmore,
at your service! Note the
"package." (Photo by Kenju.)
Anticipating that we would be interested in leaving the party at different times, we agreed to drive separately to the Tiny House. The platform boots I wore were so cumbersome that I had to remove the right foot boot in order to be able to drive the car safely. Yes, I drove to Tiff’s in costume!
Upon my arrival The Things came out to greet me, and to try to guess who I was and what I was supposed to be. Their guess of “’70s guy” was two thirds correct, but I give them full credit because how are a 13-year-old and an 11-year-old supposed to know I was a “’70s porn-star guy?”
It wasn’t until I spoke and my distinctive voice gave away to Tiff my true identity. I was only the second guest to arrive, behind Tiff’s brother, whom I’ll call “Big D” in this blog, because I’m not sure he’s interested in having his real name used here. And because, if he isn’t, well, I don’t call him "Big D" for nothing. I don’t want to be squished like a bug for any reason.
It is here that I must point out that the party and its potential for great visual joy is the only reason I brought my camera to Raleigh. And it is here that I also must point out that I left the Kenju home without it. (aarrrghh) So, the photos you see here are borrowed.
Big D had probably the most craftworthy costume of anyone, as he had latex prostheses attached to his nose and chin, with black and white makeup covering his entire face and smoothly blending the prostheses to his own facial contours. Topping it all off was a black wig streaked with white, and an all black outfit, with his fingers tipped in black nail polish. Unfortunately for Big D, the prostheses were attached so well that his skin couldn’t breathe, and he was sweating profusely into them. He had already abandoned the chin by the time I got there, and the nose came off about two hours later.
Kenju came as a witch, and Mr. Kenju was a 21st century rendition of Sherlock Holmes. Fortunately for me, Kenju remembered to bring her camera.
On left, Kenju and me. (Photo by Tiff.) On right, Tiff and me as Mr. Kenju looks on. (Photo by Kenju.)
Shortly after our arrival Tiff’s friends — I’ll call them “Kitty” and “Cletus,” names inspired only by their costumes — and fellow Raleigh area blogger Mr. Mojo arrived. Mr. Kenju was quite tickled when Mr. Mojo, upon seeing me in my getup, pointed a finger at me and said, “Dude!”
To which I responded immediately, “Dude!” It’s interesting how anonymity rendered by a disguise can embolden strangers and make them more friendly and familiar than they would be in a normal social situation. And I’m talking solely about myself, as I don’t know how Mr. Mojo would react in a normal social situation.
On left, "Cletus" and "Kitty." On right, Mr. Mojo. (Photos by Kenju.)
Your hosts, Biff Spiffy and Tiff. (Photo by Kenju.)
Biff and Tiff — costumed as a highland lad and lass — had laid out quite a nice spread of hot dogs wrapped in bread dough; popcorn; tortilla chips with pimiento cheese spread and salsa, each in clever little “spider” bread bowls; and Wordnerd’s recipe onion sum-er-other casserole. Kenju brought an asparagus relish tray, which I didn’t try because I didn’t want my pee to smell.
Biff had a nice fire going in the fire-pit out in the back yard, and soon everyone was out there around it, sipping drinks and chatting. The pointy-legged chairs had a tendency to sink into the lawn under anyone’s weight, and Biff — whether a little too under the influence or not — sat in one of those chairs and tumbled ass-over-teakettle backwards onto the ground, taking another chair with him, and I learned in the most unpleasant way that he took the whole “Scots” thing very seriously. Two words: family jewels.
(Photo by Kenju.)
Around 10:00 the party was crashed by the neighborhood loon (apparently), who stopped by to “introduce” herself and then later asked to help herself to “one little drinkee-poo” and then regaled us with her quasi-incestuous family freak-show stories which included such topics as her mother’s Zen “meditations” fueled by pot smoking and Penthouse Forum letters, and her 15-year-old son’s amorous adventures with his girlfriend on his “porn couch.”
Don’t ask.
As a group, we largely did not care to hear such stories, but as no one could figure out how to get her to shut up, we were captive until she finally decided it was time to leave.
At 12:30.
The Kenjus had called it a night around 10:30. Everyone else clung to the fire until psycho-freak left (I think we were all afraid to turn our backs on her), and then I left around 1:15, with Tiff telling me that I was theirs to hang out with on Saturday.
Around 8:45 in the morning I called the Tiny House, and only Biff was awake. We made tentative plans to do breakfast, but I was to call again later in the morning to make sure the others weren’t actually in comas. I shared a cup of coffee and a chat with Mr. Kenju for an hour or so, and then I called Biff again. He said the others still were not awake, but to head on out anyway, as he was about to toot reveille to rouse the troops. Only… he never mentioned using a bugle….
I told Biff that my trusty new GPS navigator could find anything for me, so with the name of the restaurant safely absorbed into my brain folds, I boldly traipsed out to the car — camera firmly in my grasp, this time — and entered “The Border” into the search window.
Bupkis.
I reentered the address to the Tiny House, and hoped with all my energy that Biff’s description of the place being “just around the block, across the street from the Pilot gas station” was accurate.
It was, and I made it to the restaurant just under the wire, as they closed at 11:00, and had the residents of the Tiny House not mentioned that I would be there any minute, I would not have been allowed inside.
Breakfast was okay. The Border will not make it anywhere near the top ten for Best Corned-Beef Hash Breakfast In America, but it was okay. Good coffee, and a funny waitress, though. We six tossed about myriad things to do with the afternoon, from art museums, to seeing the Dead Sea Scrolls, to recreational tree species identification at the local park, but what we all settled happily upon was the great Saturday afternoon pastime of building a potato gun.
Since building a potato gun is a “man thing,” Big D, Biff and I hopped in Big D’s pickup truck and went to the local “Put-Mom-and-Pop-Out-Of-Business” chain hardware emporium and bought the necessary items required to construct our weap-… er, pastime: a length of 2” PVC pipe, a ‘Y’- junction 4” connector, a 4” end-cap, some sizing adapters and a replacement grill-starter switch. From there we went to the local “Kick-Mom-and-Pop-Out-On-The-Street-On-Their-Ass” chain department/grocery emporium to get hairspray and potatoes.
And I got a Snickers bar. Breakfast didn’t stick with me very long….
While we did that, Tiff went shopping for girly things, like chili-making ingredients, and probably feminine hygiene products.
I didn’t take any “the making of” photos. I forgot I had remembered to bring the camera. Biff had the vision, as well as the memory of a friend of his making one of these last year. With his constructorly prowess, he had the thing assembled to the specifications of his vision…and I had serious doubts this thing was going to work.
Off we went, in search of a place to blast potatoes to fiery deaths, and found one beside a lake and hidden away from the road by big, pesky trees.
Yours truly, holding the fud spucker. (Photo by Tiff.)
Since it was Biff’s creation, he had the honor of firing the first potato. He loaded the spud into the muzzle and rammed it down the “barrel” until it was just outside the ‘Y’ chamber. He unscrewed the 3” cap and sprayed a short burst of hairspray into the ‘Y’ chamber, quickly screwing the cap back on. He aimed the cannon out toward the quiet lake. He placed his finger on the red grill-starter button, the business end of which was dangling in the chamber amid hairspray vapors, waiting to emit a spark. Biff pushed the button.
“Click.”
Bummer. A whole afternoon wasted, I thought. Well, maybe there just wasn’t enough hairspray in the chamber. How is one supposed to know how much it takes to make it flame? So he sprayed in another quick burst.
“Click.” The Dead Sea Scrolls were starting to look interesting again.
“Give it a good, long spray,” said Big D. “Like four seconds.”
Biff opened the chamber and sprayed into the hole. I’m sure we all silently counted to ourselves “one-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand, four-one thousand!”
Charging the potato gun. (Photo by Farrago.)
Biff put the cap back over the chamber hole and aimed the tube back out over the water.
“ClicKA-BLAM!!” That potato disappeared over the trees on the other side of the lake! And the gun was LOUD! Honestly, I was expecting an amusing little “foomp!” and seeing the potato go about 30 yards, tops. The best, loudest shots sent a potato no less than half a kilometer out over the water! I was truly amazed, not at Biff’s clear engineering success, but at the sheer combustible power a 4-second shower of hairspray has when exposed to a spark!
OH. MY. GOD.
We all took our turns sending potatoes into oblivion until the twenty pounds we had bought were gone. It’s amazing how quickly and willingly six fairly city-fied folks can go ‘redneck’ for an afternoon!
Tiff stuffs a spud into the muzzle while her bro,
Big D, holds the gun steady. (Photo by Farrago.)
Tiff rams the potato down to the base of the barrel.
(Photo by Farrago.)
Tiff takes aim at the moon. ...or something. (Photo by Farrago.)
This shot cleared the trees on the other side of the lake. We never
saw where the potato came down. (Photo by Tiff.)
We returned to the Tiny House where Tiff set to making a pot of chili, and Biff set to building another fire. Before long, both were simmering nicely. As we boys — Big D, Biff, the Things and I — poked at the fire and got it roaring, Tiff called out that the chili was ready. Anything that has bacon in it, on it, under it or around it is automatically fantastic, if you ask me. All you Jews and Muslims, and vegetarians, for that matter, just don’t know what you’re missing. Bacon is the secret ingredient in this chili resipe which, I understand, is Biff’s. WOW. I had to have a second bowl just to make sure it was the best chili I’ve ever had…except for Mom’s. Sorry, Biff. In case I turn out to be wrong, I don’t want her to be pissed off at me when I get there….
In our post-gorging stupor, we marveled at the intense heat coming off of the glowing embers under the fire, and I said “Those embers are great for roasting marshmallows. Too bad we don’t have any.”
The Things piped up, “But we do!” There ensued a mad scramble, The Things for the bag of marshmallows in the kitchen, and I for the branches of the willow tree in the Tiny House back yard. I had forgotten the satisfying glow brought on by the flavor of a perfectly roasted golden-brown marshmallow toasted over blazing red embers on a crisp autumn evening. I don’t believe I’ve eaten that many marshmallows in one sitting since I was a teenager!
Soon after the after-marshmallow stupor set in on top of the after-chili stupor, I decided it was time to get back “home.” Hugs and handshakes were exchanged amid promises to return some day soon, and I was on my way.
Back at the Kenju home, Mr. Kenju was already tucked in for the night, and Kenju was watching some TV. We sat in the TV room and chatted about the stuff on TV and about other things until Saturday Night Live came on, during which we chatted and watched the show. As the Kenjus had so graciously offered me their home and their hospitality, I had promised them that I would spend Sunday with them until I had to leave for the airport.
A Kenju kitty. I know not which one. (Photo by Farrago.)
In the morning I awoke to breakfast on the table: a yummy omelet and English muffins, with coffee and orange juice. It was like I was in a freakin episode of Leave It To Beaver! Kenju joked that Mr. Kenju spent most of his time at breakfast planning for lunch. Little did we realize that, on this particular day, the joke bore truth for all of us!
After breakfast the Kenjus showed me the office upstairs where Kenju does her creative work, both with her floral business and her blogging. Yes, I saw Kenju’s throne! Mr. Kenju and I discussed genealogy for a little while, during which one of the cats insistently professed its love for Mr. Kenju, something which clearly drives Mr. Kenju insane.
Then we were off in the Kenju-mobile, ostensibly to see the sights of downtown Raleigh, but really for lunch. Kenju dove us past the restaurant we had decided upon, but it was crowded, so she thought we’d take in a few more sights and come back later to check and see if the lines had shrunk.
Kenju turned one corner and we were confronted by police directing traffic —which was moving at a snail’s pace for most of the time — and we realized that the foot race that had been held earlier in the morning was still going! Then, as Kenju tried to get us out of the congested, road-blocked areas, it seemed as though every street had police directing traffic, race stragglers walking and heaving, and a line of cars all trying to get out of there; it was as if we were in the movie Night of the Living Marathoners, for we could not escape the runners!
Finally we outdistanced the racers and wound up at a different place than we had planned, called Tripps, where the salmon in lobster cream was OUTSTANDING! Afterward we simply headed for the Kenju homestead where I packed my suitcase and readied to go, and where Kenju… made yummy Reuben sandwiches!
Very soon — all too soon — I had to say my good-byes. It was a wonderful weekend spent with wonderful friends, and with a wonderful roof over my head and a comfortable bed under my bones for sleeping.
To Tiff and Biff, and The Things, I say thanks for the great fun of the party (who cares if there were more “no-shows” than “shows!”), and of the spud-launcher. Good times!
To the Kenjus, I can’t say, “Thank you,” enough for their hospitality and kindness in putting me up for the weekend. And I didn’t break anything, either, for a change!
Happy Halloween!
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