It has been a longer time between posts than I had anticipated or desired, but I have been dealing with a personal problem that has snuck up on me and taken me quite by surprise.
I feel it best to go public with this right away in hopes that getting it out into the light will help me to more quickly tackle this problem with therapy, support groups and — hopefully — some good... ehrm... effective drugs.
What I have developed, dear readers, is an insidious psychological dependence upon an artificial crutch, something which I find I must take in ever increasing doses to help me get through my day with a sense of sanity, yet I know the more I rely upon this crutch the more truly insane I become.
I have an addiction, dear readers. I am addicted to Facebook.
As an alcoholic unwittingly starts down his path of madness with the first sip of the nectar of his undoing, it all started innocently enough about a year ago. I signed up just to see what the Facebook hubbub was all about. A couple of my friends from the internet radio station Flashback Alternatives were on it, and I “friended” some of them, and was inundated with silly apps, which I mostly ignored. And then it was all I could do to remember that I had an account, and about once every month or so I would log in and see that nobody had really tried to reach me, but rather I had accumulated dozens of movie quiz requests, snowball fights, pillow fights and pokes.
Then one day I checked online and ran across a woman whose husband had been a casual friend of mine about whom I had not heard a peep in the 29 years since I last saw him, right before he was graduated from high school, two years before I reached my senior year. I received a friend request from her, which I accepted, and from then on names of other people I had not seen in more than 20 years began popping up on her friends list and in my friends request box!
I quickly became fairly adept at creating clever status updates. I played along with the memes. I actively looked up people with whom I wanted to reconnect. I furtively logged on at work, making sure to keep the office e-mail page ready — or, even better, some photographic work — easily accessed with the click of a tab in case a supervisor or the company owner happened to walk past my very public cubicle, and I clicked over many times in an hour just to see if anyone commented on my latest status update or on my comment to theirs.
And, once an obsession now managed with balance and care, Farrago suffered. Many times did I sit at the computer, thinking of the post I wanted to write while my fingers danced out my Facebook login and password across the keyboard, and I would be once again sucked into the network vortex of status updates and comments, random memes and Super Pokes.
And now Farrago looks like a forlorn, neglected child, both the object of my pity as an abandoned waif, and of my derision as an unwanted responsibility, as I repeatedly turn my back on it in favor of logging in to Facebook and feeling the warmth of all those fingers reaching out to me, and I lie in the corner tucked into the fetal position, drooling on the floor.
But I must fight this unnatural draw to the nefarious Facebook. Yes, she has her claws in me now, but I know her grip will loosen when she believes I am hers alone. I must remain aware, within my electronically assisted nostalgic stupor, of that grip, and of when it loosens, so that I can wrest my mind free and run to the light of day-to-day responsibility, of balanced and diverse free-time activities, and when I can resist the lesser memes and concentrate on only the really cool ones, like the “Your Album” meme, where you go to Wikipedia and click on “Random Article,” and the title of that articled becomes the name of your band, and then you click on “Random Quotes, and you go to the bottom of that page and take the last four or five words of the last quote on the page, and that becomes your first album’s title, and then you go to Flickr, click on “Explore the last 7 days,” choose the third photo on the page, and that becomes your album cover art, and then you create the album cover with Photoshop or another graphics program, and...
Oh, dear god.... This is going to take a while....
Monday, February 23, 2009
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Lifestyle All Fluxed Up
In July of 2007, my employer bought a new building and we moved into it immediately afterward. We increased our square footage by at least double, which afforded the owner — and his employees — some opportunities impossible at the other place. Among them was enough space to create a workout room, where he has installed a gym-quality elliptical trainer and a recumbent cycle trainer. He also had a large shower room built in at the rear of the building. Since sometime in the summer the owner and my former boss have been making good use of the workout room.
Since I began working out with a personal trainer, I've had to alter my morning routine. At first it was just Mondays and Wednesdays, as I have early workout times (6:00am and 6:30am, respectively), and since the office is approximately mid-way between the workout office and my home, I've just been driving to work from my workouts and showering and dressing there.
George, the Personal Trainer, has recommended that I get in some cardio in the days between workouts. There's a small gym here at my apartment complex (it turns out I picked a really nice apartment complex!), but it doesn't open until 8:00, it seems, so working out here and getting to work at a decent time are not possible. So now I've started going to the office early on my non-George, the Personal Trainer, days!
I'm not showering at home, any more, except on the weekends! Not only that, but I'm unable to eat breakfast at home, either. Oh, by George's suggestion, I nibble on some cottage cheese and sip some fruit juice in the morning before I head to my workout, but I don't want too much on my stomach for that. This morning (Tuesday) I brought a bag of Kashi Heart To Heart cereal and a half gallon of my milk (which does not bode well...see below) to the office, where I had a proper breakfast after my 30-minute cardio session on the elliptical trainer.
I feel like I'm living at the office, these days. I don't like that feeling.
LD Hell
I got some sorta bad news Monday morning. The doctor with fingers the size of elbows, who insisted on giving me a prostate exam Saturday (for the entire 42 minutes he was probing around in there, I kept saying to myself, "Some people actually ENJOY this?!"), called me to tell me that my lab results from my physical and blood work had come in.
My cholesterol is high. My good cholesterol level (HDL) is below the point it's supposed to be above, and my bad cholesterol level (LDL) (Why don't they just change them to GCL and BCL?) is above the point it should be below. For the first time in my life, I'm not average!! My total cholesterol is 984 or something.
Maybe more like 238.
Crap.
So it would seem that I've chosen the right time — perhaps a little behind the curve — to start working out.
And once I get this tingling sensation all up and down the left side of my body to stop, then I'll really hit it!
°
Since I began working out with a personal trainer, I've had to alter my morning routine. At first it was just Mondays and Wednesdays, as I have early workout times (6:00am and 6:30am, respectively), and since the office is approximately mid-way between the workout office and my home, I've just been driving to work from my workouts and showering and dressing there.
George, the Personal Trainer, has recommended that I get in some cardio in the days between workouts. There's a small gym here at my apartment complex (it turns out I picked a really nice apartment complex!), but it doesn't open until 8:00, it seems, so working out here and getting to work at a decent time are not possible. So now I've started going to the office early on my non-George, the Personal Trainer, days!
I'm not showering at home, any more, except on the weekends! Not only that, but I'm unable to eat breakfast at home, either. Oh, by George's suggestion, I nibble on some cottage cheese and sip some fruit juice in the morning before I head to my workout, but I don't want too much on my stomach for that. This morning (Tuesday) I brought a bag of Kashi Heart To Heart cereal and a half gallon of my milk (which does not bode well...see below) to the office, where I had a proper breakfast after my 30-minute cardio session on the elliptical trainer.
I feel like I'm living at the office, these days. I don't like that feeling.
LD Hell
I got some sorta bad news Monday morning. The doctor with fingers the size of elbows, who insisted on giving me a prostate exam Saturday (for the entire 42 minutes he was probing around in there, I kept saying to myself, "Some people actually ENJOY this?!"), called me to tell me that my lab results from my physical and blood work had come in.
My cholesterol is high. My good cholesterol level (HDL) is below the point it's supposed to be above, and my bad cholesterol level (LDL) (Why don't they just change them to GCL and BCL?) is above the point it should be below. For the first time in my life, I'm not average!! My total cholesterol is 984 or something.
Maybe more like 238.
Crap.
So it would seem that I've chosen the right time — perhaps a little behind the curve — to start working out.
And once I get this tingling sensation all up and down the left side of my body to stop, then I'll really hit it!
°
Saturday, February 07, 2009
Some of My Stuff
As a sister post to What I Do, here's a link to follow to the LIFE Foundation website, where you can find some examples of my work...if you care to look.
On the left side of the page look for the topic "LIFE Programs," and under that "realLIFEstories." You'll find them there, under the sub-sub-headers of "Life Insurance," "Insurance For Business," et.al. I only shot the video, which means I lit the interviews, shot the interviews and the secondary footage, monitored the audio, and did all the traveling to get to those people. I didn't do any editing or picking what to use out of what everyone said.
I didn't do all of those that are to be found there. Mine are:
Custead
Danduran
Hecker
Junk (the follow-up)
Lewis
Rowe
Bloomer
Cunard
Howell
Mentz
Hines
Geistler
Prier
Shore
Wrenn
Moore
Striepe
Sweborg
On the left side of the page look for the topic "LIFE Programs," and under that "realLIFEstories." You'll find them there, under the sub-sub-headers of "Life Insurance," "Insurance For Business," et.al. I only shot the video, which means I lit the interviews, shot the interviews and the secondary footage, monitored the audio, and did all the traveling to get to those people. I didn't do any editing or picking what to use out of what everyone said.
I didn't do all of those that are to be found there. Mine are:
Custead
Danduran
Hecker
Junk (the follow-up)
Lewis
Rowe
Bloomer
Cunard
Howell
Mentz
Hines
Geistler
Prier
Shore
Wrenn
Moore
Striepe
Sweborg
Phoning It In
Satan — in the earthly form of George, the Personal Trainer — had me work the back muscles this morning, and so now I can't sit up straight without crying for my mommy. Instead of putting forth some real thought tonight, I'll transcribe some thought I put forth a couple nights ago for my Facebook page.
Consider yourself tagged. Every. Last. One. Of. You! (except kenju. She already done did it.)
25 Random Things About Me
Rules:
Once you've been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you. At the end, choose 25 people to be tagged. You have to tag the person who tagged you. If I tagged you, it's because I want to know more about you.
(To do this on your Facebook page, go to "notes" under tabs on your profile page, paste these instructions in the body of the note, type your 25 random things, tag 25 people (in the right hand corner of the app) then click publish.)
1. I usually have no clue what I'm going to write when I start one of these things, and then when I'm done I feel I've barely scratched the surface.
2. It's been a slow progression, but I have come to prefer dots to separate the area code and prefix from the extension when I write or type telephone numbers. I like 312.867.5309 instead of 312-867-5309.
3. Whenever I get a hole in a sock, I throw the sock away and keep the good one, because I usually have another pair like it, and one of those is eventually going to get a hole in it, so then I'll still have at least one good pair.
4. It really pisses me off when filling out contact information on a website, and the web form doesn't allow dots to separate the area code and prefix from the extension when entering telephone numbers.
5. It has taken me more than a year to "move in" completely to my apartment. I still have a bunch of junk in boxes taking up prime space in my living room. I just NOW, finally, rented a small storage space to put that crap in.
6. Karaoke no longer scares me.
7. Sometimes I fear that my coworkers think I'm a fraud.
8. Sometimes I think I'm a fraud.
9. My preference in underwear (my own) is evolving.
10. I pay someone else to do my laundry, and I think it's well worth having that time to myself.
11. I have no secret talents...at least none that I'm aware of.
12. I originated the conundrum, "If I told you I was a chronic liar, would you believe me?"
13. I love bananas, but I hate anything "banana-flavored."
14. I love green peppers raw, but will not go near them cooked.
15. I have never tasted tequila. I can't get past the smell making me feel that I would puke if I drank it.
16. I have never been so drunk that I've puked.
17. I have been drunk enough that I licked spilled liquor off the floor...and then been subsequently lifted off that floor by my hair in an effort to prevent me from licking the booze off the floor. ...when I had hair.
18. I am a Mayflower Descendant. William Brewster, who was the leader of the Puritan church, and the pilgrims' elder, was my 11th great grandfather. The first governor of the Territory of Montana was my 1st cousin-five-times-removed. The guy who is credited with the invention of the photo-strobe and, hence, stop-motion photography, was my 8th cousin, and has a building named after him at MIT. And I may be related to one of the two guys who established the Burger King enterprise.
19. I have always liked to dig lint out of crevices, and the fuzz out of the 'hook' side of velcro. It's probably what I'll do all day when I lose my faculties and am a walking vegetable...but preferably not a cooked pepper.
20. I am about one-third of the way through writing a novel, but life and a lack of self-discipline are keeping me from it.
21. When I was younger I used to be able to crack more than 65 joints in my body, and did so regularly: 28 in my feet, both knees, six in my arms, 30 in my hands and four or five in my neck and lower back. Now it's all I can do to reach my toes.
22. In 1993 I went blind in my left eye due to an occurrence called "Central Retinal Vein Occlusion." What that means is that the vein carrying blood from my left eye was somehow blocked, which caused the blood to back up into my eye, causing the retina to hemorrhage, resulting in rendering the eye effectively sightless. An orbit surgeon performed a Retinal Vein Decompression procedure, opening the optic nerve sheath which houses the optic nerve, the retinal artery and the retinal vein, to relieve a possible over-pressure of spinal fluid in the sheath, as that was the only thing he could figure it was after all the tests came up negative. Knowing it was too late to save any vision, the doctor's only concern with the surgery was to stop the hemorrhage in the eye. The center core of sight is gone, but I do have peripheral vision in the eye...so don't be thinking you can sneak up on me from my left.
23. I can't stand cigarette smoke and, therefore, don't smoke 'em. However I do like the smell of cigars on fire. I'm not allowed to smoke in my apartment, but, now that I have a nice deck chair, this spring and summer I will partake of cigars on my balcony.
24. I love movies, but, with rare exception, I can't, for the life of me, quote dialogue from even the most well-known of them like just about everyone else around me can.
25. I lead a very boring life. How do I know this? It has taken me two days to come up with stuff for this list, and I keep falling asleep while trying to think of what to write about.
Consider yourself tagged. Every. Last. One. Of. You! (except kenju. She already done did it.)
25 Random Things About Me
Rules:
Once you've been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you. At the end, choose 25 people to be tagged. You have to tag the person who tagged you. If I tagged you, it's because I want to know more about you.
(To do this on your Facebook page, go to "notes" under tabs on your profile page, paste these instructions in the body of the note, type your 25 random things, tag 25 people (in the right hand corner of the app) then click publish.)
1. I usually have no clue what I'm going to write when I start one of these things, and then when I'm done I feel I've barely scratched the surface.
2. It's been a slow progression, but I have come to prefer dots to separate the area code and prefix from the extension when I write or type telephone numbers. I like 312.867.5309 instead of 312-867-5309.
3. Whenever I get a hole in a sock, I throw the sock away and keep the good one, because I usually have another pair like it, and one of those is eventually going to get a hole in it, so then I'll still have at least one good pair.
4. It really pisses me off when filling out contact information on a website, and the web form doesn't allow dots to separate the area code and prefix from the extension when entering telephone numbers.
5. It has taken me more than a year to "move in" completely to my apartment. I still have a bunch of junk in boxes taking up prime space in my living room. I just NOW, finally, rented a small storage space to put that crap in.
6. Karaoke no longer scares me.
7. Sometimes I fear that my coworkers think I'm a fraud.
8. Sometimes I think I'm a fraud.
9. My preference in underwear (my own) is evolving.
10. I pay someone else to do my laundry, and I think it's well worth having that time to myself.
11. I have no secret talents...at least none that I'm aware of.
12. I originated the conundrum, "If I told you I was a chronic liar, would you believe me?"
13. I love bananas, but I hate anything "banana-flavored."
14. I love green peppers raw, but will not go near them cooked.
15. I have never tasted tequila. I can't get past the smell making me feel that I would puke if I drank it.
16. I have never been so drunk that I've puked.
17. I have been drunk enough that I licked spilled liquor off the floor...and then been subsequently lifted off that floor by my hair in an effort to prevent me from licking the booze off the floor. ...when I had hair.
18. I am a Mayflower Descendant. William Brewster, who was the leader of the Puritan church, and the pilgrims' elder, was my 11th great grandfather. The first governor of the Territory of Montana was my 1st cousin-five-times-removed. The guy who is credited with the invention of the photo-strobe and, hence, stop-motion photography, was my 8th cousin, and has a building named after him at MIT. And I may be related to one of the two guys who established the Burger King enterprise.
19. I have always liked to dig lint out of crevices, and the fuzz out of the 'hook' side of velcro. It's probably what I'll do all day when I lose my faculties and am a walking vegetable...but preferably not a cooked pepper.
20. I am about one-third of the way through writing a novel, but life and a lack of self-discipline are keeping me from it.
21. When I was younger I used to be able to crack more than 65 joints in my body, and did so regularly: 28 in my feet, both knees, six in my arms, 30 in my hands and four or five in my neck and lower back. Now it's all I can do to reach my toes.
22. In 1993 I went blind in my left eye due to an occurrence called "Central Retinal Vein Occlusion." What that means is that the vein carrying blood from my left eye was somehow blocked, which caused the blood to back up into my eye, causing the retina to hemorrhage, resulting in rendering the eye effectively sightless. An orbit surgeon performed a Retinal Vein Decompression procedure, opening the optic nerve sheath which houses the optic nerve, the retinal artery and the retinal vein, to relieve a possible over-pressure of spinal fluid in the sheath, as that was the only thing he could figure it was after all the tests came up negative. Knowing it was too late to save any vision, the doctor's only concern with the surgery was to stop the hemorrhage in the eye. The center core of sight is gone, but I do have peripheral vision in the eye...so don't be thinking you can sneak up on me from my left.
23. I can't stand cigarette smoke and, therefore, don't smoke 'em. However I do like the smell of cigars on fire. I'm not allowed to smoke in my apartment, but, now that I have a nice deck chair, this spring and summer I will partake of cigars on my balcony.
24. I love movies, but, with rare exception, I can't, for the life of me, quote dialogue from even the most well-known of them like just about everyone else around me can.
25. I lead a very boring life. How do I know this? It has taken me two days to come up with stuff for this list, and I keep falling asleep while trying to think of what to write about.
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Ugh
OR:The Not Yet, But Soon To Be, New and Improved Farrago Follow-Up
Well, George didn't kill me, after all. But he did make me very aware of what a huge wimp I am. He's a big believer in the "pure" physical arts, those that require no machinery to work the body. So I was doing squats and lunges and something he called a "body row," which sorta did use a piece of machinery, but it was just a rack-suspended weight bar I swung my legs under, with my feet on the floor and the rest of my body hanging by my arms and facing up at the bar. Then, using my arms and my shoulder muscles (what shoulder muscles?!), I had to raise my chest to the bar. It was pretty easy… the first three reps. Suddenly my upper arms and my shoulders started protesting, and suddenly I was no longer happy that I spent so much goddamn money on this lark.
To give me a little break, George switched me to an inclined pushup. He apparently could tell that I would never make it through a regular pushup, so he put me on the same bar, only a little lower, and I drew my feet back and did pushups on the bar. That proved to be only slightly easier than the body row.
After all that embarrassment, George gave me what looked sorta like a black basketball with handles carved into it. He demonstrated this exercise where he spread his feet shoulder width apart and held the "ball" down by his ankles with both hands. Then he raised the "ball" up over his head, extending his torso as tall as he could, and raising up on his toes.
It was the gayest looking thing I've ever seen in a gym.
Then he handed the "ball" to me to do it, because I'm not paying him to let me watch him do my exercises…and DAMN if I couldn't do that one, either, without wobbling and teetering and thinking I must have looked like I just came straight to the gym from an all night bar!
And today? I. am. sore. everywhere. But, especially sore are the man-boobs. Holy Cheeses Chrysler! I've been sore there before, but that wasn't after 20 solid years of lying motionless on a couch! And I'm sore on the inside of my thighs under my butt, right behind the jewels.
I'VE NEVER BEEN SORE THERE IN MY LIFE!
Sorry for the TMI.
And when I push with my arms to get out of a chair, I feel my triceps muscles — all five or eight or twelve of them…whatever — and they're a little pissed at me right now.
Today is Thursday, as I write. Wednesday morning was my first workout with George; my next one is Saturday. Yesterday, as I was wheezing after my breath following the second set of body rows, and anticipating the sore muscles, I said to George, "I'm gonna hate you tomorrow."
He said, "That's okay. I'm used to it. You're gonna hate me even more on Friday."
Oh, god.
°
Well, George didn't kill me, after all. But he did make me very aware of what a huge wimp I am. He's a big believer in the "pure" physical arts, those that require no machinery to work the body. So I was doing squats and lunges and something he called a "body row," which sorta did use a piece of machinery, but it was just a rack-suspended weight bar I swung my legs under, with my feet on the floor and the rest of my body hanging by my arms and facing up at the bar. Then, using my arms and my shoulder muscles (what shoulder muscles?!), I had to raise my chest to the bar. It was pretty easy… the first three reps. Suddenly my upper arms and my shoulders started protesting, and suddenly I was no longer happy that I spent so much goddamn money on this lark.
To give me a little break, George switched me to an inclined pushup. He apparently could tell that I would never make it through a regular pushup, so he put me on the same bar, only a little lower, and I drew my feet back and did pushups on the bar. That proved to be only slightly easier than the body row.
After all that embarrassment, George gave me what looked sorta like a black basketball with handles carved into it. He demonstrated this exercise where he spread his feet shoulder width apart and held the "ball" down by his ankles with both hands. Then he raised the "ball" up over his head, extending his torso as tall as he could, and raising up on his toes.
It was the gayest looking thing I've ever seen in a gym.
Then he handed the "ball" to me to do it, because I'm not paying him to let me watch him do my exercises…and DAMN if I couldn't do that one, either, without wobbling and teetering and thinking I must have looked like I just came straight to the gym from an all night bar!
And today? I. am. sore. everywhere. But, especially sore are the man-boobs. Holy Cheeses Chrysler! I've been sore there before, but that wasn't after 20 solid years of lying motionless on a couch! And I'm sore on the inside of my thighs under my butt, right behind the jewels.
I'VE NEVER BEEN SORE THERE IN MY LIFE!
Sorry for the TMI.
And when I push with my arms to get out of a chair, I feel my triceps muscles — all five or eight or twelve of them…whatever — and they're a little pissed at me right now.
Today is Thursday, as I write. Wednesday morning was my first workout with George; my next one is Saturday. Yesterday, as I was wheezing after my breath following the second set of body rows, and anticipating the sore muscles, I said to George, "I'm gonna hate you tomorrow."
He said, "That's okay. I'm used to it. You're gonna hate me even more on Friday."
Oh, god.
°
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
The Not Yet, But Soon To Be, New and Improved Farrago
Well, I've gone and done it. Last Saturday I found a facility closer to home than the one I had been planning on using. I spoke with a man there and underwent a brief assessment, and then I paid the fee. Wednesday morning is my first session with George, the Personal Trainer.
ZOINKS!! What have I done?!
This guy is gonna kill me! He's tall, he's big, he's buff (not huge body-builder buff, but really really fit and muscular), and he lets out sort of an evil laugh every time I comment about how out of shape I am.
And, as a guy, I can't tell you how unnerving it is to be told to stand there, immobile, while a tall, big, buff dude is eyeing you up and down. He called it a general fitness assessment, but I felt like I was the poor farmer girl's pitiful cow before the judge at the state fair!
But, seriously, I'm finally putting my money where my mouth is, and I gotta tell you, it tastes like crap! Have you ever stuck money in your mouth? PHTHEEWWW! And then George wouldn't take it because it was all slobbery, so I had to pay with my debit card. Good thing he doesn't know where I've been sticking that!
Okay, but really seriously, I am finally doing what I've been saying since last summer that I was going to do, that I wanted to do. I know from some 35 years of experience being me in such a situation, that I won't do this on my own. I need someone standing over me or behind me telling me what to do and to keep doing it, at least to start. Hopefully I'll move into that zone where I feel I must work out in order to feel that my day is complete. Otherwise, Push Fitness is gonna make a lot of money off of me…or I'll wind up like this guy.
°
ZOINKS!! What have I done?!
This guy is gonna kill me! He's tall, he's big, he's buff (not huge body-builder buff, but really really fit and muscular), and he lets out sort of an evil laugh every time I comment about how out of shape I am.
And, as a guy, I can't tell you how unnerving it is to be told to stand there, immobile, while a tall, big, buff dude is eyeing you up and down. He called it a general fitness assessment, but I felt like I was the poor farmer girl's pitiful cow before the judge at the state fair!
But, seriously, I'm finally putting my money where my mouth is, and I gotta tell you, it tastes like crap! Have you ever stuck money in your mouth? PHTHEEWWW! And then George wouldn't take it because it was all slobbery, so I had to pay with my debit card. Good thing he doesn't know where I've been sticking that!
Okay, but really seriously, I am finally doing what I've been saying since last summer that I was going to do, that I wanted to do. I know from some 35 years of experience being me in such a situation, that I won't do this on my own. I need someone standing over me or behind me telling me what to do and to keep doing it, at least to start. Hopefully I'll move into that zone where I feel I must work out in order to feel that my day is complete. Otherwise, Push Fitness is gonna make a lot of money off of me…or I'll wind up like this guy.
°
Making the Bunnies Laugh
I imagine there are a lot of guys like me, who consider themselves witty and, therefore, like to try to make people laugh. Some of us are pretty good at it, others of us really need to stick to the day job.
Despite where I'd like to believe I am in that crowd, I'm probably somewhere in the middle, toward the lower end.
But I have my moments.
In New Orleans last week, in conjunction with the client's convention meeting, there was a huge exposition hall stuffed to the gills with cars, gadgets for cars, gadgets for dealerships and garages and lending companies, gadgets for gadget distributors… you name it: if it was designed for use in, on, about or around cars or car dealerships, it was probably there.
One notion some of this particular client's exhibitors can't seem to shed is that it is an all male industry. So, in accordance with that ignorant belief, some of them continue to staff their booths with relatively scantily clad female model types. Don't get me wrong... I like the scantily clad model types, but they're hardly appropriate anymore for an increasingly "co-ed" industry.
One booth I passed by many times had arranged to have recent Playboy® Centerfold™ models on hand to sign autographs on their photos (fully dressed) for anybody who wanted one (a photo). Naturally, I, being single and relatively horny, naturally I made my way over there. At that particular time of the day, the 'Playboy® booth' was staffed by two women — twins — who had been featured in the December 2008 issue of the magazine.
While I stood there gawking because — despite the fact that they actually looked and sounded a little 'white trash' — these were real, live Playboy® Playmates™ who, at some point in the past, had actually been naked, and though they were dressed fairly conservatively in long, fluffy dresses with school-marm-ish heels, their cleavage was on display, my mind was racing to figure out some way to talk to them. …the girls, not their cleavage….
I looked down and noticed the big betacam that was dangling at the end of my right arm. Holy SHIT! I'm working! PERFECT!!
So, knowing full well that our client contact who is in charge of approving the video would never allow two cleavage-forward white-trash bimbos to jiggle their way into her highlights video and, further, knowing that, despite my apparently wasted effort, the editors would appreciate a brief little eye massage, I hoisted the camera up onto my shoulder and instructed the young ladies to wait for my cue and then to look at the camera and smile when I said so (that being my cue).
I put my eye to the viewfinder, and then I stopped as an idea hit me. I pulled my eye away from the viewfinder and looked at the two young beauties sitting there waiting for me to do my thing.
And I smiled at them and said, "But keep your clothes on."
And they laughed!
With the possible exception of a wild night of debauched threesome action with twenty-something twin sisters, nothing warms the heart of a divorced, 40s, bald, fat man more than the lilting laughter of two nymphs giggling at his jokes.
About two hours and about eight miles of convention center walking later, I returned to the booth where the twins still sat signing autographs. Producer was in tow this time, and his eyes read shock and pleasure alternately as he took in their shapely forms. We chatted briefly with one of the guys running the booth who has a real job related to the auto industry. And then I got another idea.
There was a momentary lull in the autograph seekers, so I sauntered over to the two young women and asked, "Do you have a copy of the magazine issue you appeared in?"
One of them said, somewhat apologetically, "No."
And then, almost as if we had rehearsed it, Producer said, "Why? You want them to sign the magazine?"
"No," I replied. "I just want to see what they look like nak—" I darted my eyes to the girls in mock alarm, and then I darted them all over as I "lied." "Um, er, ah …articles… I wanted to ch-check out the articles!"
And they laughed!
Yup. I have my moments.
°
Despite where I'd like to believe I am in that crowd, I'm probably somewhere in the middle, toward the lower end.
But I have my moments.
In New Orleans last week, in conjunction with the client's convention meeting, there was a huge exposition hall stuffed to the gills with cars, gadgets for cars, gadgets for dealerships and garages and lending companies, gadgets for gadget distributors… you name it: if it was designed for use in, on, about or around cars or car dealerships, it was probably there.
One notion some of this particular client's exhibitors can't seem to shed is that it is an all male industry. So, in accordance with that ignorant belief, some of them continue to staff their booths with relatively scantily clad female model types. Don't get me wrong... I like the scantily clad model types, but they're hardly appropriate anymore for an increasingly "co-ed" industry.
One booth I passed by many times had arranged to have recent Playboy® Centerfold™ models on hand to sign autographs on their photos (fully dressed) for anybody who wanted one (a photo). Naturally, I, being single and relatively horny, naturally I made my way over there. At that particular time of the day, the 'Playboy® booth' was staffed by two women — twins — who had been featured in the December 2008 issue of the magazine.
While I stood there gawking because — despite the fact that they actually looked and sounded a little 'white trash' — these were real, live Playboy® Playmates™ who, at some point in the past, had actually been naked, and though they were dressed fairly conservatively in long, fluffy dresses with school-marm-ish heels, their cleavage was on display, my mind was racing to figure out some way to talk to them. …the girls, not their cleavage….
I looked down and noticed the big betacam that was dangling at the end of my right arm. Holy SHIT! I'm working! PERFECT!!
So, knowing full well that our client contact who is in charge of approving the video would never allow two cleavage-forward white-trash bimbos to jiggle their way into her highlights video and, further, knowing that, despite my apparently wasted effort, the editors would appreciate a brief little eye massage, I hoisted the camera up onto my shoulder and instructed the young ladies to wait for my cue and then to look at the camera and smile when I said so (that being my cue).
I put my eye to the viewfinder, and then I stopped as an idea hit me. I pulled my eye away from the viewfinder and looked at the two young beauties sitting there waiting for me to do my thing.
And I smiled at them and said, "But keep your clothes on."
And they laughed!
With the possible exception of a wild night of debauched threesome action with twenty-something twin sisters, nothing warms the heart of a divorced, 40s, bald, fat man more than the lilting laughter of two nymphs giggling at his jokes.
About two hours and about eight miles of convention center walking later, I returned to the booth where the twins still sat signing autographs. Producer was in tow this time, and his eyes read shock and pleasure alternately as he took in their shapely forms. We chatted briefly with one of the guys running the booth who has a real job related to the auto industry. And then I got another idea.
There was a momentary lull in the autograph seekers, so I sauntered over to the two young women and asked, "Do you have a copy of the magazine issue you appeared in?"
One of them said, somewhat apologetically, "No."
And then, almost as if we had rehearsed it, Producer said, "Why? You want them to sign the magazine?"
"No," I replied. "I just want to see what they look like nak—" I darted my eyes to the girls in mock alarm, and then I darted them all over as I "lied." "Um, er, ah …articles… I wanted to ch-check out the articles!"
And they laughed!
Yup. I have my moments.
°
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