[WARNING: Long post ahead. Plan accordingly: go to the bathroom, refill your drink, get your affairs in order, sign your will, etc.]
Wild may be too strong a word for the weekend I just had. Perhaps "weird" is more fitting, though there were some seemingly wild parts to it.
Liquor In the Front, Poker In the Rear
Way back in December, when I loaded up on Meetup.com groups, one of them was "Just The Guys Social (and Foosball, Darts, Poker, Etc.)." And it's simply that; guys getting together to be free to be guys, to drink, eat junk food, and fart and belch at their leisure, and be appreciated for it.
For the first month or so after I signed up, the organizer didn't do anything, but then suddenly there was a party scheduled. He wrote of the Texas Hold 'Em poker tournament planned for the party, and I wasn't interested in that, so I didn't RSVP. Another one went by in February, and I passed on it, too.
Then, this past Friday I took the day off after my five day stay in Atlanta and, for some strange reason, the "Just The Guys Social" scheduled for later that evening appealed to me. I RSVPed and mentioned in the message that I wasn't a poker player, but if the others were willing and patient enough to let me learn as I went, then I'd give it a shot.
I arrived a little late, about 40 minutes past the party kick-off time, but the Texas Hold 'Em tournament had not started yet. A couple of the guys seized the opportunity to give me a few lessons in Texas Hold 'Em, and I was on my wobbly way. There was a $20 buy-in to get something like $3,000 worth of chips. Each player played until he was out of chips, at which point he was allowed to re-buy only twice more, and each re-buy was worth less value in chips. Then the top three players would split the pot, with 50% of the pot going to the winner, and then the 2nd and 3rd place players split the remainder 60-40.
I'll spare my reader the rules of Texas Hold 'Em poker simply because I still don't know them! Suffice it to say that we all got some good laughs at my ignorance as I attempted to fold when everyone else had "checked" their bet, choosing not to bet but staying in the deal to see what the next drawn card might present them with (I didn't have to fold yet). Then there was the time I watched the community draw pile grow with diamonds to match the 9 of diamonds I had in my hand. Excited that I had a flush, I stayed in the deal, "seeing" other guys' raises, but never raising the stakes myself. After the fifth card was drawn, I was still in, and it was time to show cards. One other guy had a flush hand. A couple other guys had straights, but of varying suits. I laid my cards down and the whole table erupted in loud groans and laughter. Without my even noticing it, my 9 of diamonds completed a straight flush that had been laid out on the table. One of the guys told me I should have been raising the bets like crazy, as I would have raked in the chips!
After a couple hours into it, I was getting bored and wanted to leave the table, but I kept winning small pots, prolonging my play! Soon players started going broke, and, next thing I knew, there were only four players left out of the original fifteen…and I was one of them!
I had played very conservatively, but had won enough hands that I hung in there. But as I looked at my three opponents' chips, they were all richer than I by several thousand "dollars," so I knew that, unless I came up with four aces, I would go broke very soon… and I did… go broke. Other guys high-fived me for being a beginner who hung in to finish in fourth place.
I stayed to watch the end of the tournament, where the party's host kept trying to expedite the end of play by going all-in with his huge fortune in chips, only to win the "blind" pot when his only opponent folded without betting. This happened about four times! But, finally play ended, and the host finished in 2nd place.
I arrived home around 1:00am, groaning because I had a workout in the morning with George at 8:00.
Karaoke On the Set of Desperate Housewives
Saturday night saw the March gathering for the Chicago Karaoke Underground Party. I did my usual, driving about halfway to the city and parking my car at a CTA parking facility, and then taking public transportation the rest of the way to the hostess's loft apartment on the northwest side of Chicago. There was a good assortment of new faces there, along with several whom I have become familiar with over the past two parties.
Early on, two of the familiar faces made a semi-private announcement to the hostess, ML, that there would soon be an official engagement announcement. The guy in this couple apparently has really bad eyesight, because I saw him reading phone texts, and he held the phone right at the tip of his nose to read it. Let's call him Eagle Eye. For later. His lady is not what I would consider attractive in that she's quite fat, but insists on wearing her jeans about four sizes too small for her waist, and letting the blubber spill over the waistband while wearing a top short enough for all to see that spillover. We'll call her Muffin Top, for later.
Another familiar face there I had first seen at last month's party. She's somewhat attractive, though very tiny and very thin. She has a perpetually either frightened or overwhelmingly uncertain look in her eyes. She also has an annoying tic in which, as she speaks, she turns her head slightly in darts left and right, tilting and straightening, and she strikes me as just plain odd. She doesn't like me. We'll call her Ms. Flinch. For later.
And then there's Butch. It's not his real name, but our name for him for later. He was a new face to me, but he had been to several C-KUPs last year, so I was a new face to him as well. He didn't strike me as a particularly attractive guy, but some of the women in attendance thought otherwise. More on that later.
Things got rolling with the usual kick-off song by the hostess, ML. Next up was another new face, a woman who pretty much set the bar for the evening by blowing us all away with her voice. Fantastic.
The party progressed as parties do, with people drinking and enjoying themselves, getting louder and looser. I had a couple of cans of Miller High Life beer, which I later followed with a shot of Jim Beam. And that was it. I stuck to water and coffee for the rest of the evening. Not the case for Muffin Top, however.
ML likes to celebrate birthdays every month by seating the birthday people at the edge of the "stage" and facing it. She then calls everybody else up to crowd around the two mics and sing to the karaoke version of "Birthday" by the Beatles. March happens to be the month of Muffin Top's as well as Butch's birthdays, and by the time of the birthday song, about halfway through the evening, Muffin Top was feeling no pain…and no shame, for that matter. She was hanging all over Butch and squeezing one of his thighs during the song and, as someone went to take a picture of the birthday kids, Muffin Top got on her knees and pantomimed a very keen interest in performing fellatio on Butch! Everybody had a good laugh at that. At least I think everyone did. I don't recall seeing Eagle Eye at that moment.
Intermittently, Butch was chatting up Ms. Flinch. He seemed to be interested in her, and she seemed definitely interested in him. She sat with him on the couch, she got up to dance when he did. Did I mention Ms. Flinch is tiny? I would guess her weight at around 90 pounds. Did I mention also that Ms. Flinch had a drink in her hand all evening. Well…the first part of the evening, anyway.
So, the party was in full swing by 11:30 or midnight or so. Muffin Top was having a great time. She was up in front of the "stage" during someone else's song dancing with Butch like there was no tomorrow, hooting and hollering, and hanging on him like a lamppost in a windstorm. I glanced over to Eagle Eye, who was not dancing, and who did not appear very happy.
I saw Ms. Flinch standing unsteadily by the food table. I walked over and asked if she was okay. She nodded in her flinchy way. I asked her what she was drinking.
"Whyrhuzhn."
"What?"
"WHYRHUZHHN!"
"Oh. White Russian. I used to drin—"
She walked away. She reeeeally doesn't like me, that kid.
I looked over at the dancers again just as the song was finishing. Butch headed for the couch and Muffin Top walked behind him with her hand on his back. Then she slid her hand down his back and onto his left butt cheek and she SQUEEZED it! TWICE!
Eagle Eye stood silently with his arms folded.
A few minutes later Muffin Top must have looked over at her betrothed and noticed that he was glaring at her. She walked over and, though I couldn't hear what they were saying, their body language shouted. Muffin Top reached to put her hands on Eagle Eye's upper arms, but he backed away. She then tried to put her arms over the back of his neck, and Eagle Eye reached up and pushed her arms away. At that point this casual observer was becoming a voyeur, so I shifted my gaze away from them…and found Ms. Flinch.
Barely conscious, Ms. Flinch was apparently in the throes of a bout of vomiting. She lay back against the backrest of the couch, and then she pitched forward with her head between her knees. She repeated the action a couple times until she remained over her knees. I got up to look for a bucket. By the time I returned, she had already deposited some of the evening's consumption onto the floor…and her boots.
Her friend, Useless, was concerned for Ms. Flinch. "We have to get her to the bathroom."
I agreed. I grabbed one of Ms. Flinch — it occurs to me that now I should refer to her as Ms. Floppy — I grabbed one of her arms and told Useless to help me. I got Ms. Flinch up onto her feet and wrapped an arm around her waist. Her feet were there, but her legs weren't moving, and so Useless and I sort of dragged her toward the bathroom.
As we crossed the threshold into the hallway, Ms. Flinch passed out. If she was floppy to that point, she was totally limp after. Even though she weighs about 90 pounds, she almost took me down! Useless was…well, useless, and I was carrying Ms. Flinch on my own. Useless opened the door to the bathroom, where I tried to maneuver Ms. Flinch over the toilet, but managed to clonk her head on the rim of the bowl not once, but twice. We got her face over the bowl, but the only thing that went into the toilet was Ms. Flinch's hair. I held her up while Useless tied Ms. Flinch's hair up into a bun on the back of her head.
It was pointless. I couldn't hold her at the toilet and wait just in case she puked again. I couldn't let her go because she would either fall over or go face-first into the toilet and drown. So I told Useless that we were bringing her back into the party, and to lay her out on the couch.
I told Useless to open doors for me, and I would carry Ms. Flinch. In trying to maneuver her unconscious body, I had to grab her high on the back of her thigh, near her rear end. It was soaked. She had totally let go, and everything came out of her. She was a disgusting mess. While carrying Ms. Flinch back to the couch, I had a brief argument with Useless.
"Make sure you lay her face up," she said, "or she could die."
"NO!" I practically shouted. "You lay her face down or on her side." Imagined images of the death of John Bonham, the drummer of the rock supergroup Led Zeppelin, played through my head.
"But…"
"If she's face up and she vomits again, she could suffocate. You lay her face DOWN!" I thought to mention John Bonham, but it occurred to me that Useless is about 24 years old. She wouldn't know John Bonham from Dick Cavett.
Once I got Ms. Flinch on the couch in the correct position, Useless freaked out. Ms. Flinch was supposed to go home with her to spend the night, but now Useless didn't want her there because she can't have her throwing up in her apartment, and she couldn't possibly get her on the bus in this condition…. she thought it best that Ms. Flinch go home where she lives with her mother…in the north suburbs. About 25 miles away.
I told her that Ms. Flinch isn't going anywhere any time soon. Useless seemed to be of the impression that ML, the hostess, wouldn't allow Ms. Flinch to sleep it off here in her loft, so we had to get her home. She didn't think Mrs. Flinch could come for her daughter at that late hour.
So I did a quick poll of those standing around us. "Did any of you drive here tonight?"
Nobody. Those who had driven had left already.
"If her mother can't come for her, then I'll drive her home," I said. It would mean getting on the train, riding about 30 minutes or more to where my car was parked, and then another 30 minutes or so driving back, but I was concerned for Ms. Flinch's safety and her health, and no one else seemed capable of thinking about either. Was I the only one sober?!
Ms. Flinch was starting to come around, and someone suggested that she get some water into her system. Useless ran and returned with a cup of water from which Ms. Flinch sipped. And it came back up almost instantly. Though her stomach continued to erupt, she remained conscious.
While Useless tried calling Mrs. Flinch now that her daughter was conscious, I went back to the bathroom to wash what was most likely remnants of Ms. Flinch's pee, poop and puke off of my hands. As I returned Eagle Eye was in the hallway in his coat and heading back into the party, and yelling at Muffin Top, also in her coat, to stay in the hallway.
"But…"
"Just STAY THERE!"
I simply said, "Excuse me," as I slid past them.
Mrs. Flinch did agree to come get her daughter, and she eventually showed up. There was some circus surrounding getting Ms. Flinch into her coat and keeping her on her feet. I ran to get some paper towels to wipe away the vomit that was clinging to her face, but when I returned she was on her knees before a sizeable puddle of new vomit, just a few feet from the door.
I worked on getting her scarf from around her neck, as it was disgusting, while someone else managed to clean up the floor before we got Ms. Flinch on her feet again. I convinced her to hold onto my arm as we entered the elevator and rode down, and I walked her out into the heavy downpour and to her mother's waiting car with Useless in tow.
No sooner had the outer security door closed and locked behind us than Ms. Flinch asked, "Where's my hat?"
We walked to Mrs. Flinch's car and got Ms. Flinch situated. Mrs. Flinch offered Useless a ride home, which she reluctantly accepted. I asked Mrs. Flinch if she wanted to wait while I ran back up to ML's apartment to get Ms. Flinch's hat. She was agreeable to that, so I ran back to the door and rang the bell. And I waited. And waited.
And waited.
I rang the bell again. Nothing. The party was still going on upstairs, and no one could hear the doorbell.
I turned to walk back to the car to see if Useless could get Ms. Flinch's hat in the next day or so, but when I was barely ten steps from the car, Mrs. Flinch pulled away and disappeared into the rain-soaked night.
ML's building is perched right on top of a subway station, so I wasn't in the rain too long before I headed down the stairs to the lonely train platform.
I looked at my watch. 3:16am.
Around 3:35 a train finally pulled into the stop and I got on the front car. The doors remained open longer than usual, and I noticed some canisters containing liquid occupying some of the seats nearest the conductor's cabin. A sign read, "These canisters contain chemicals used to remove ice from the third rail." Despite the hour, the train car was pretty full. I found a place to stand near the rear of the car and waited for the doors to close. Suddenly I heard the sound of liquid hitting the floor. I looked around to find the source, and soon enough I saw the puddle of vomit on the floor between a man's feet and beneath his bowed head where he was seated near the entry doors. The "Doors Closing" warning had not yet sounded, so I gambled at leaving that car and heading for the second car behind it. Another guy had the same idea at the same time, and I accidentally cut him off as I dashed for the exit.
The train ride seemed slower than normal, yet it didn't seem as though the CTA employees were spending extra time de-icing the third rail, either. Thanks to the extra helpings of coffee at the party, the extra time spent getting Ms. Flinch down to her mother's car, and to the longer than usual wait for a train, by the time I got off at the stop where my car was parked, I was approaching bladder distress. As my trip home was practically all expressway from there, I knew that there is an oasis not quite half-way where I could stop before I had my own disgusting accident.
The rain had turned to heavy, wet snow and, the farther northwest I drove, the thicker and heavier the snow had become. No snowplows had been down that stretch of I-90, so the going was treacherous at times. In the roughly 15 mile stretch of highway I had to travel on to get home, I must have seen at least 5 cars that had spun out and gone off the road. CRIPES, people! Did we not just come out of one of the snowiest winters in this city's history? Did you forget — already — how to drive in this stuff? IDIOTS!
As I approached my exit I felt my stomach growling insistently. My intent had been to drive straight home and go straight to bed, but I realized that if I tried that, my complaining stomach would likely keep me awake. So, right off the entrance ramp and at the end of the road I where I live is an International House of Pancakes where I stopped and had a quick breakfast of eggs, bacon and hash browns, with yet another cup of coffee. The snow stopped some time during my meal, and when I went out to my car the eastern sky was clearing, and the breaking clouds were beginning to tint toward purple. I drove the last two minutes to my apartment and headed inside. As I closed the door and locked it behind me I looked at my watch: 5:22am.
What a fupped duck night!
I checked e-mail, updated my Facebook status, got undressed and was in bed by 6:00. I slept until 12:30 Sunday afternoon. And I think I'm still paying for the weekend on Tuesday.
I wonder how Ms. Flinch feels. Or Eagle Eye.
°
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Asian Persuasion
A strange phenomenon has occurred in the recent past in my life: Asian women. Now, while I often find them attractive, I’ve never been fixated on them. In the past couple of months, however, they seem to have invaded my thoughts.
Aged To Perfection
Several weeks back I attended a Meetup.com Dining Out group event at a Chinese restaurant. It was a well-attended event, despite the snowstorm that hit our area that afternoon. The organizer had split the group in two based on preferences: those interested in dining family-style were at one table, and those like me who wished to order individually from the menu were at the other. Once everyone had arrived I found myself seated not quite directly opposite a beautiful Japanese woman who appeared to be about 35 years old. Though she’s a long-time member of the Dining Out group, none at our table had ever met Hiroko before.
As conversation progressed, a couple of people asked Hiroko about her life. She told us in her heavily accented English that she has lived in the USA for 25 years and that she has been divorced for about 10 years. Someone asked her how long she was married. Her answer: 20 years.
Apparently all under the same impression based on her appearance, we all scratched our heads as we each frantically tried to do the math in our heads. Finally one brave soul asked, “How old were you when you married, twelve?”
Hiroko blushed and laughed. “No, I was 20.”
Before anyone could finish that math problem, she said, “I’m 50 years old.”
Silverware rattled as jaws hit the table. There is no way, from any angle, in any light, that I would have guessed Hiroko’s age at anywhere approaching 40, let alone 50!! And judging by the reaction of everyone else at our table, neither would they!
Dinner continued, and Hiroko was positively charming, and I found myself screwing up the nerve to ask for her phone number. I’ve never been comfortable asking such things with an audience, so I chose to wait until I could take her aside for a private moment. However, to my deep chagrin, another member of the group, a man who I could probably more accurately guess to be around age 65, and who apparently has no hangups about an audience, turned to Hiroko right there at the table and asked her for her number! Never before have I felt so compelled to punch an old guy’s lights out!
Undaunted nevertheless, I did wait until we were all getting ready to leave and, while we were putting on our coats, I did ask Hiroko for her number, and she did give it to me. It still boggles my mind that I want to chat up a 50-year-old woman!
The problem now is that quite a few weeks — maybe a couple months — have gone by, and I haven’t screwed up the courage to call her. Have I missed the window? Would I be right or wrong to call her now? Feedback, please.
The Pinch of Sugar
Back in August I signed up with Soulmates, a face-to-face dating service. For a fee they provide referrals which I then call and, if the chemistry seems right or the conversation goes well, I can meet face to face with the woman for some hopeful dating success. Or sex.
“Success” has been fleeting with this group, however. Since September I have met with only three women. The first one seemed very nice, and we even made arrangements for a second date...but then she screened my calls and never returned messages. The second one was very attractive, a medical specialist who drove a BMW, but she had told Soulmates that she wasn’t interested in meeting any divorced men, especially someone as freshly divorced as I was at the time (one week)! The next one was sick when I called and promised to call me back...but she never did. The next one — a woman from Belarus — after a missed meeting because she had forgotten her mobile phone at home, was not very attractive and was very difficult to understand. I need to follow up on my comment to Soulmates to teach their “counselors” the difference between “speaks with an accent” and “speaks broken English.” The former is charming; the latter can be maddening.
Then I got the call a couple weeks ago with a new referral. Sugar (yes, it’s her real name) is 32, from Mongolia, divorced with a 10-year-old son who does not live with her. She is “slender and attractive,” but does not have a driver’s license, so I would have to drive to wherever she is. Was I interested? Uhhh...sure. What the heck!
Usually a little more geographically savvy than the average American, I drew a blank on Mongolia. I went online and found it, tucked there between China and Russia. Then I Googled “Mongolian women photo.”
Holy WOW! I was encouraged.
I phoned Sugar and we chatted. She speaks English very well and with little difficulty. We texted our e-mail addresses to each other, and we agreed to meet on the following Saturday at a mall in the southwest suburbs.
We rendezvoused at the agreed upon place and ... Holy WOW! She is gorgeous! We walked to the Starbucks in the mall, ignored the coffee counter and went straight to a table. She was on her lunch break (she’s a caregiver for invalid and terminally ill people), so we only had about 90 minutes to chat.
The conversation went along smoothly, and we really seemed to hit it off. I was curious about her feelings on the 12-year age difference between us, and when I asked her about it, she asked me what year I was born. When I told her, her face read concern. She must have already known my age; Soulmates would have told her that. But age wasn’t the issue.
“You’re a dragon.”
Huh?
“You’re a dragon. That’s no good.”
Why is that?
“I’m a dragon.”
HUH?
“People of the same Asian zodiac sign are not compatible. The best is the sign four years apart. You want rat or monkey.”
I tried to reason with her that it was all superstition, but, having come from Mongolia only seven years ago, this is practically law to her. She was unwavering.
“I really like you. You the first man I meet from Soulmates I like and want to be friend with.”
Great. The “I like you, but only as a friend” line, with a sexy Mongolian accent.
She did, however, tell me that she has a Mongolian friend who is a rat that she would like me to meet. Maybe the next time they went out together they would call me and we could all three go out where we could meet. I started to protest, saying that I like Sugar, and if this woman isn’t as beautiful or charming to talk to as Sugar is, I would spend all my time talking to Sugar. She laughed and said that her friend is “nice.”
Then I realized two things. One, if Sugar truly believes that she and I would never get along simply because we were born under the same Asian zodiac sign, then it will bother her forever, no matter how well we might get along, and would eventually come between us, magnifying any differences we might have and drawing her attention to that zodiac-mandated “incompatibility.” Two, she was proposing a threesome date...Farrago with two Mongolian women, one of them certainly gorgeous, and the other potentially as hot. While the every-man’s-fantasy scenario would most likely not happen, I could stand being the envy of every guy in whichever place we might spend our evening! And who knows? Maybe the rat and this dragon will make sparks! So I backed down from my protest, and agreed to let her arrange a meeting between her friend and me, if the rat feels up to it.
Regardless, I’m feeling a little relentless. I invited Sugar to the next Sunday Series concert at the Chicago Symphony Orchestra April 5. I still await word whether or not she wants to go.
The Impossible Dream
I spent last weekend and half the week in Atlanta with a client’s annual convention where I did my usual on-site thing, shooting a highlights video. Another usual on-site thing I do is flirt with the home office women who work the registration desks and in the organization’s booth in the exposition hall. With the camera as my tool, and also as my social crutch, I am able to get away with more than I would just on my own, so often I will use it to “torment” my chosen target(s) and get some good video.
I saw a new face, whom here I will simply call ‘D.’ She’s young, slighly plump, and beautiful, with a hint of Asian features in her face. I pressed the record button and aimed the lens right at her, at which point she immediately threw up her hands to block her face, which she had also tried desperately to tuck into her armpit! I did not relent, enthusiastically encouraging her to let me see her face. Then she grabbed the lapel of her sweater, official wear provided to her by her employer, and pulled it up over her face, perfectly displaying the organization’s logo right to the lens!
I momentarily forgot that I already had the tape rolling, and when I saw this perfect display of the logo, I thought it tapeworthy. I said, “Hey! That’s great! Do that again!” I wanted her to cover her face and, since she didn’t want me to capture her countenance, I thought this the perfect scenario. She could cover her face and I would get the video I wanted!
But D was having nothing of it. I lowered the camera to my side in a gesture of peace, and I pleaded with her to do it, but she persistently refused.
Then I noticed a flush in her cheeks, and her eyes looked distressed, almost as though she were about to start crying. I was crushed. I felt I had upset her badly and, despite that my company had worked for hers for more than twenty years, mine is still a vendor and hers is still the client. I could get into trouble for upsetting or pissing off anyone at this event, and I felt I had crossed a line. I apologized and excused myself.
It was already near the end of that first day of shooting, so I left the expo hall and encountered one of the client bosses and told her about the situation, and I apologized to her. She seemed too busy to notice that I was even speaking to her, but I had delivered my apology, and I went on to the next thing.
The next day was just as busy, if not busier, than the first, and though I wanted to approach D in an uncharged moment to give her my sincere apology, I didn’t see her anywhere.
That evening was a late one for everyone involved, as there was an awards dinner, after which I had to shoot a scene as part of a larger sketch we had conceived (and I had written!). I saw D at the doors to the dinner, but she was surrounded by her coworkers and, my audience hangup still perched on my shoulder, I felt unable to approach her.
After the dinner and after the brief shoot, I returned the light I borrowed from another shoot we had going in another room, and then on the way back to my room I took a detour through the bar to see if any of our guys was there, and to maybe have a drink.
Amidst the throng of convention attendees — all of whom seemed to have been at the awards dinner — I did see one of our guys, and after a few minutes of talking with him, I spotted D at a table with a couple of her coworkers. She was still wearing the evening gown she had worn working the awards dinner, and I thought she was absolutely stunning in it. I abandoned my coworker like a soiled diaper and wended my way toward D and said hello. I told her that I really felt bad that I had upset her the day before, that it was never my intention to do that.
She replied that it was no big deal, that she wasn’t upset, just embarrassed. I didn’t believe her, and I told her that I still felt bad for tormenting her. I asked her what she was drinking, and if she wanted another. She did.
Twenty minutes and $23.50 later (fekking hotel bars!) I returned with a Grand Marnier on the rocks for D, and some brand x blended scotch for me. We chatted for a while, and that’s where I fell. I looked at her face and saw the most sincere eyes I’ve ever looked into. She seemed to be listening to every word I said, and when she spoke to me I could have believed anything she told me. She locked her eyes onto mine whenever either of us was speaking to the other, and it seemed to me as though all the crazy noise from the people surrounding us couldn’t interfere with our conversation.
She’s 25 years old, of Filipino and European descent – her mother being from the Philippines and her father of German and French origins. I told her that it appeared she had wound up with the best qualities of each. She asked me my age, and I told her to guess. I always feel that’s a mean thing to make someone do, and I usually respond cruelly to anyone who asks me that by purposely guessing way older than they appear. So call me a hypocrite.
She guessed 28! When I told her my real age she first didn’t believe me, but then she gave me a high-five for my deceptively youthful looks. And I felt my heels float past my head.
As it went, she and her coworker decided to head outside for a smoke (big negative), but D grabbed my forearm and said, “Come with us!” How does one describe the sound of swoon?
We stood outside for a few minutes amid the throng of conventioneers there. D asked me to take a photo of her and her coworker, we engaged in small-talk, and then we went back inside. Done with my drink around 12:30am and looking at an early enough morning ahead of me just for work, and adding to that the workout I wanted to get in beforehand, I announced it was time for me to go. D turned to me to thank me for the drink. That face again. Those eyes. The sensation of falling into them.
It occurs to me now that I should have responded in amazement at her impossibly accurate guess at my age, that people usually guess me a little older, even above 30 sometimes, but she hit the nail on the head with her guess of 28. My evening might have ended differently if she didn’t think I was so much older than she is....
°
Aged To Perfection
Several weeks back I attended a Meetup.com Dining Out group event at a Chinese restaurant. It was a well-attended event, despite the snowstorm that hit our area that afternoon. The organizer had split the group in two based on preferences: those interested in dining family-style were at one table, and those like me who wished to order individually from the menu were at the other. Once everyone had arrived I found myself seated not quite directly opposite a beautiful Japanese woman who appeared to be about 35 years old. Though she’s a long-time member of the Dining Out group, none at our table had ever met Hiroko before.
As conversation progressed, a couple of people asked Hiroko about her life. She told us in her heavily accented English that she has lived in the USA for 25 years and that she has been divorced for about 10 years. Someone asked her how long she was married. Her answer: 20 years.
Apparently all under the same impression based on her appearance, we all scratched our heads as we each frantically tried to do the math in our heads. Finally one brave soul asked, “How old were you when you married, twelve?”
Hiroko blushed and laughed. “No, I was 20.”
Before anyone could finish that math problem, she said, “I’m 50 years old.”
Silverware rattled as jaws hit the table. There is no way, from any angle, in any light, that I would have guessed Hiroko’s age at anywhere approaching 40, let alone 50!! And judging by the reaction of everyone else at our table, neither would they!
Dinner continued, and Hiroko was positively charming, and I found myself screwing up the nerve to ask for her phone number. I’ve never been comfortable asking such things with an audience, so I chose to wait until I could take her aside for a private moment. However, to my deep chagrin, another member of the group, a man who I could probably more accurately guess to be around age 65, and who apparently has no hangups about an audience, turned to Hiroko right there at the table and asked her for her number! Never before have I felt so compelled to punch an old guy’s lights out!
Undaunted nevertheless, I did wait until we were all getting ready to leave and, while we were putting on our coats, I did ask Hiroko for her number, and she did give it to me. It still boggles my mind that I want to chat up a 50-year-old woman!
The problem now is that quite a few weeks — maybe a couple months — have gone by, and I haven’t screwed up the courage to call her. Have I missed the window? Would I be right or wrong to call her now? Feedback, please.
The Pinch of Sugar
Back in August I signed up with Soulmates, a face-to-face dating service. For a fee they provide referrals which I then call and, if the chemistry seems right or the conversation goes well, I can meet face to face with the woman for some hopeful dating success. Or sex.
“Success” has been fleeting with this group, however. Since September I have met with only three women. The first one seemed very nice, and we even made arrangements for a second date...but then she screened my calls and never returned messages. The second one was very attractive, a medical specialist who drove a BMW, but she had told Soulmates that she wasn’t interested in meeting any divorced men, especially someone as freshly divorced as I was at the time (one week)! The next one was sick when I called and promised to call me back...but she never did. The next one — a woman from Belarus — after a missed meeting because she had forgotten her mobile phone at home, was not very attractive and was very difficult to understand. I need to follow up on my comment to Soulmates to teach their “counselors” the difference between “speaks with an accent” and “speaks broken English.” The former is charming; the latter can be maddening.
Then I got the call a couple weeks ago with a new referral. Sugar (yes, it’s her real name) is 32, from Mongolia, divorced with a 10-year-old son who does not live with her. She is “slender and attractive,” but does not have a driver’s license, so I would have to drive to wherever she is. Was I interested? Uhhh...sure. What the heck!
Usually a little more geographically savvy than the average American, I drew a blank on Mongolia. I went online and found it, tucked there between China and Russia. Then I Googled “Mongolian women photo.”
Holy WOW! I was encouraged.
I phoned Sugar and we chatted. She speaks English very well and with little difficulty. We texted our e-mail addresses to each other, and we agreed to meet on the following Saturday at a mall in the southwest suburbs.
We rendezvoused at the agreed upon place and ... Holy WOW! She is gorgeous! We walked to the Starbucks in the mall, ignored the coffee counter and went straight to a table. She was on her lunch break (she’s a caregiver for invalid and terminally ill people), so we only had about 90 minutes to chat.
The conversation went along smoothly, and we really seemed to hit it off. I was curious about her feelings on the 12-year age difference between us, and when I asked her about it, she asked me what year I was born. When I told her, her face read concern. She must have already known my age; Soulmates would have told her that. But age wasn’t the issue.
“You’re a dragon.”
Huh?
“You’re a dragon. That’s no good.”
Why is that?
“I’m a dragon.”
HUH?
“People of the same Asian zodiac sign are not compatible. The best is the sign four years apart. You want rat or monkey.”
I tried to reason with her that it was all superstition, but, having come from Mongolia only seven years ago, this is practically law to her. She was unwavering.
“I really like you. You the first man I meet from Soulmates I like and want to be friend with.”
Great. The “I like you, but only as a friend” line, with a sexy Mongolian accent.
She did, however, tell me that she has a Mongolian friend who is a rat that she would like me to meet. Maybe the next time they went out together they would call me and we could all three go out where we could meet. I started to protest, saying that I like Sugar, and if this woman isn’t as beautiful or charming to talk to as Sugar is, I would spend all my time talking to Sugar. She laughed and said that her friend is “nice.”
Then I realized two things. One, if Sugar truly believes that she and I would never get along simply because we were born under the same Asian zodiac sign, then it will bother her forever, no matter how well we might get along, and would eventually come between us, magnifying any differences we might have and drawing her attention to that zodiac-mandated “incompatibility.” Two, she was proposing a threesome date...Farrago with two Mongolian women, one of them certainly gorgeous, and the other potentially as hot. While the every-man’s-fantasy scenario would most likely not happen, I could stand being the envy of every guy in whichever place we might spend our evening! And who knows? Maybe the rat and this dragon will make sparks! So I backed down from my protest, and agreed to let her arrange a meeting between her friend and me, if the rat feels up to it.
Regardless, I’m feeling a little relentless. I invited Sugar to the next Sunday Series concert at the Chicago Symphony Orchestra April 5. I still await word whether or not she wants to go.
The Impossible Dream
I spent last weekend and half the week in Atlanta with a client’s annual convention where I did my usual on-site thing, shooting a highlights video. Another usual on-site thing I do is flirt with the home office women who work the registration desks and in the organization’s booth in the exposition hall. With the camera as my tool, and also as my social crutch, I am able to get away with more than I would just on my own, so often I will use it to “torment” my chosen target(s) and get some good video.
I saw a new face, whom here I will simply call ‘D.’ She’s young, slighly plump, and beautiful, with a hint of Asian features in her face. I pressed the record button and aimed the lens right at her, at which point she immediately threw up her hands to block her face, which she had also tried desperately to tuck into her armpit! I did not relent, enthusiastically encouraging her to let me see her face. Then she grabbed the lapel of her sweater, official wear provided to her by her employer, and pulled it up over her face, perfectly displaying the organization’s logo right to the lens!
I momentarily forgot that I already had the tape rolling, and when I saw this perfect display of the logo, I thought it tapeworthy. I said, “Hey! That’s great! Do that again!” I wanted her to cover her face and, since she didn’t want me to capture her countenance, I thought this the perfect scenario. She could cover her face and I would get the video I wanted!
But D was having nothing of it. I lowered the camera to my side in a gesture of peace, and I pleaded with her to do it, but she persistently refused.
Then I noticed a flush in her cheeks, and her eyes looked distressed, almost as though she were about to start crying. I was crushed. I felt I had upset her badly and, despite that my company had worked for hers for more than twenty years, mine is still a vendor and hers is still the client. I could get into trouble for upsetting or pissing off anyone at this event, and I felt I had crossed a line. I apologized and excused myself.
It was already near the end of that first day of shooting, so I left the expo hall and encountered one of the client bosses and told her about the situation, and I apologized to her. She seemed too busy to notice that I was even speaking to her, but I had delivered my apology, and I went on to the next thing.
The next day was just as busy, if not busier, than the first, and though I wanted to approach D in an uncharged moment to give her my sincere apology, I didn’t see her anywhere.
That evening was a late one for everyone involved, as there was an awards dinner, after which I had to shoot a scene as part of a larger sketch we had conceived (and I had written!). I saw D at the doors to the dinner, but she was surrounded by her coworkers and, my audience hangup still perched on my shoulder, I felt unable to approach her.
After the dinner and after the brief shoot, I returned the light I borrowed from another shoot we had going in another room, and then on the way back to my room I took a detour through the bar to see if any of our guys was there, and to maybe have a drink.
Amidst the throng of convention attendees — all of whom seemed to have been at the awards dinner — I did see one of our guys, and after a few minutes of talking with him, I spotted D at a table with a couple of her coworkers. She was still wearing the evening gown she had worn working the awards dinner, and I thought she was absolutely stunning in it. I abandoned my coworker like a soiled diaper and wended my way toward D and said hello. I told her that I really felt bad that I had upset her the day before, that it was never my intention to do that.
She replied that it was no big deal, that she wasn’t upset, just embarrassed. I didn’t believe her, and I told her that I still felt bad for tormenting her. I asked her what she was drinking, and if she wanted another. She did.
Twenty minutes and $23.50 later (fekking hotel bars!) I returned with a Grand Marnier on the rocks for D, and some brand x blended scotch for me. We chatted for a while, and that’s where I fell. I looked at her face and saw the most sincere eyes I’ve ever looked into. She seemed to be listening to every word I said, and when she spoke to me I could have believed anything she told me. She locked her eyes onto mine whenever either of us was speaking to the other, and it seemed to me as though all the crazy noise from the people surrounding us couldn’t interfere with our conversation.
She’s 25 years old, of Filipino and European descent – her mother being from the Philippines and her father of German and French origins. I told her that it appeared she had wound up with the best qualities of each. She asked me my age, and I told her to guess. I always feel that’s a mean thing to make someone do, and I usually respond cruelly to anyone who asks me that by purposely guessing way older than they appear. So call me a hypocrite.
She guessed 28! When I told her my real age she first didn’t believe me, but then she gave me a high-five for my deceptively youthful looks. And I felt my heels float past my head.
As it went, she and her coworker decided to head outside for a smoke (big negative), but D grabbed my forearm and said, “Come with us!” How does one describe the sound of swoon?
We stood outside for a few minutes amid the throng of conventioneers there. D asked me to take a photo of her and her coworker, we engaged in small-talk, and then we went back inside. Done with my drink around 12:30am and looking at an early enough morning ahead of me just for work, and adding to that the workout I wanted to get in beforehand, I announced it was time for me to go. D turned to me to thank me for the drink. That face again. Those eyes. The sensation of falling into them.
It occurs to me now that I should have responded in amazement at her impossibly accurate guess at my age, that people usually guess me a little older, even above 30 sometimes, but she hit the nail on the head with her guess of 28. My evening might have ended differently if she didn’t think I was so much older than she is....
°
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Mother Nature Attacks!
Just about two weeks ago, on a Saturday, I visited my best friend, Lu. He and his wife and son live in northwest Indiana, about an hour’s drive from me in the Chicago northwest suburbs. It had been a while since I drove the Xterra that far or at highway speeds, so I thought it was a good workout for my car. Also while in Indiana, the timing worked out such that I needed to put some gas in the tank, always a good thing where gas is typically fifteen to twenty cents less per gallon! Of course, that plus Lu, plus two of my sisters who also live in northwest Indiana, comprise the entire list of things I like about Indiana.
My visit with Lu was nice. He and his wife fed me dinner, plied me with wine, and we reminisced and talked politics and economy, and just plain had a great time, wondering why we don’t do that more often. Very late in the evening I headed home.
The next morning I headed out to do some shopping. I started the engine of the Xterra and I noticed a rhythmic thumping vibration throughout the whole vehicle. The engine was idling very roughly. Then I noticed that the “Service Engine Soon” light was illuminated. Aside from the “Service Engine Soon” light, I had experienced a rough idle in the Xterra before, but it usually cleared up in a matter of minutes. The light, however, had never come on before. Perhaps, I thought, driving it a little would clear it up. That only caused the “Service Engine Soon” light to FLASH. That couldn’t be good! Damn Indiana gas!
Of course, the timing was Farrago perfect; it was Sunday and no garage — let alone my preferred garage — would be open today. As my preferred garage — Reliable Auto Repair — is in the city of Chicago and would likely require several hours of work, I couldn’t take it in during the week. AND, as I would normally prefer to take it in on a Saturday, I was leaving in the morning on the NEXT Saturday for Atlanta. It would be two full weeks of feeling like I was riding behind a huge sewing machine before I could get it looked at.
Finally, the hell-week in Atlanta was finished, I worked the recovery day Thursday at the office, and Friday morning I was up bright and early to get the Xterra into the city and at the front of the line at Reliable Auto Repair.
In need of an oil-change as well, I anticipated a wait of at least two hours. I left the Xterra at the garage while I walked a few blocks to a Wishbone restaurant for breakfast. Not long after I was seated, my mobile phone rang. It was Bob, from Reliable. He told me that “some animal” had attempted to take up residence on top of my engine and, proceeding to make the place his own, tried some interior decorating with the shreds of some essential engine electrical wiring. One of my spark-plug wires was chewed completely in two!
(click on a photo to enlarginate)
The shame is that it looked quite cozy. Above and a little left of the
nest can be seen the tooth-severed spark plug wire.
(Photo by Bob at Reliable Auto Repair)
The other thing I notice, seeing these photos, is that Bob at Reliable
Auto Repair has one damn NICE camera phone!
(Photo by Bob at Reliable Auto Repair)
After breakfast I headed back to Reliable where I sat down, unsheathed my laptop and began writing this most recent flurry of posts. After handing over the keys when the shop opened at 7:00am — and after handing over $495 for the repair and tune-up, plus the scheduled oil change — I had my Xterra back to good health and on the road by 10:30.
On the road, that is, after I backed into a light pole trying to get out of Reliable’s lot. Fortunately I was backing very slowly, and the only contact was with my bumper. There’s a small dent there, noticeable really only if you’re looking for it.
Damn critters!
°
My visit with Lu was nice. He and his wife fed me dinner, plied me with wine, and we reminisced and talked politics and economy, and just plain had a great time, wondering why we don’t do that more often. Very late in the evening I headed home.
The next morning I headed out to do some shopping. I started the engine of the Xterra and I noticed a rhythmic thumping vibration throughout the whole vehicle. The engine was idling very roughly. Then I noticed that the “Service Engine Soon” light was illuminated. Aside from the “Service Engine Soon” light, I had experienced a rough idle in the Xterra before, but it usually cleared up in a matter of minutes. The light, however, had never come on before. Perhaps, I thought, driving it a little would clear it up. That only caused the “Service Engine Soon” light to FLASH. That couldn’t be good! Damn Indiana gas!
Of course, the timing was Farrago perfect; it was Sunday and no garage — let alone my preferred garage — would be open today. As my preferred garage — Reliable Auto Repair — is in the city of Chicago and would likely require several hours of work, I couldn’t take it in during the week. AND, as I would normally prefer to take it in on a Saturday, I was leaving in the morning on the NEXT Saturday for Atlanta. It would be two full weeks of feeling like I was riding behind a huge sewing machine before I could get it looked at.
Finally, the hell-week in Atlanta was finished, I worked the recovery day Thursday at the office, and Friday morning I was up bright and early to get the Xterra into the city and at the front of the line at Reliable Auto Repair.
In need of an oil-change as well, I anticipated a wait of at least two hours. I left the Xterra at the garage while I walked a few blocks to a Wishbone restaurant for breakfast. Not long after I was seated, my mobile phone rang. It was Bob, from Reliable. He told me that “some animal” had attempted to take up residence on top of my engine and, proceeding to make the place his own, tried some interior decorating with the shreds of some essential engine electrical wiring. One of my spark-plug wires was chewed completely in two!
(click on a photo to enlarginate)
The shame is that it looked quite cozy. Above and a little left of the
nest can be seen the tooth-severed spark plug wire.
(Photo by Bob at Reliable Auto Repair)
The other thing I notice, seeing these photos, is that Bob at Reliable
Auto Repair has one damn NICE camera phone!
(Photo by Bob at Reliable Auto Repair)
After breakfast I headed back to Reliable where I sat down, unsheathed my laptop and began writing this most recent flurry of posts. After handing over the keys when the shop opened at 7:00am — and after handing over $495 for the repair and tune-up, plus the scheduled oil change — I had my Xterra back to good health and on the road by 10:30.
On the road, that is, after I backed into a light pole trying to get out of Reliable’s lot. Fortunately I was backing very slowly, and the only contact was with my bumper. There’s a small dent there, noticeable really only if you’re looking for it.
Damn critters!
°
A Change Of Habit
A great deal of things haven’t been happening in my life lately. That, and a general sense of laziness, plus the near-instant gratification from Facebook, results in blog-drought.
Life Changes
Not what it sounds like. I haven’t met the woman of my dreams, nor have I changed teams, nor have I had a sex-change operation, nor have I let Jesus back into my life, or Miguel, for that matter.
I’ve been working out. I know I’ve trumpeted that mundane fact about my life in this space before, but I think this time I really have gone about it in the right way. My attitude has changed toward my workouts: I no longer consider George, the Personal Trainer, to be Satan Incarnate; he’s still evil in ways, but not the Prince of Darkness himself...maybe a lesser demon. My workouts have been less dreadful and more productive, and I feel myself trying harder to push, pull, press and lift more weight more times.
And I think the one doing the work is always the last to see real change, but George has commented that I appear to have developed a little bit of definition in my arms and shoulders. I can make myself believe I see it in the mirror, but I’m pretty good at fooling myself. A former co-worker who came in to prospect for some freelance work, someone I haven’t seen since December or January, saw me and, upon our greetings, looked at me a little strangely and asked, “Have you lost some weight?” and, as a matter of fact, I had lost weight. Just that morning I checked myself on the scale. Ever since I started with George in that first week of February, I felt mild frustration at the fact that I had not lost one bit of weight. I had started at 210 pounds, and I maintained that weight for weeks, fluctuating between 208 and 210. I had commented to George about it, and he said that, since weight loss wasn’t my primary goal, my weight wouldn’t come down very quickly. He even asked me how I would feel if my weight went up five pounds, but I lost an inch in my waist! Then he said that, with increased fitness would come weight loss.
Then, on the very day I would meet my former coworker, I stepped on my scale at home: 201 pounds! I had dropped seven to nine pounds in a week and a half!
I have been very faithful to the rigors that George has set out. There are the workouts with him every Saturday, Monday and Wednesday. There are my cardio workouts at the office every Tuesday and Thursday, and at my apartment complex fitness center on Sundays. On the road I make every effort to use the hotels’ fitness centers, if available (as a matter of fact, in Atlanta last week the fitness center was so crowded at 5:15am that I chose to do my cardio by walking the complete loop around the atrium for 20 minutes. That was about 12 times around!). George has factored accountability into the regimen, expecting me to provide him a daily food journal to track what and how I eat, and to give him a tool to help me tune my diet and make it more balanced and healthy.
I have been eating more whole foods and less fast food. I haven’t had — or missed — a McDonald’s hamburger since February. I avoid french fries entirely. With the exception of breakfast, the only potatoes I eat are baked or boiled. Alcoholic drinks are few and far between; water and fruit juices are now the norm. My coffee intake has remained at one to two cups a day.
I haven’t been perfect; I still have occasional munchie attacks, with chocolate at the head of the cravings pack. But I feel I have totally turned my eating habits around, and George’s food journal assignment keeps me on track...and guilt-ridden if I stray (and I am freakishly honest about it!).
I have already decided to sign up for another 16 sessions with George when this current string ends. I want to feel confident about my self-guided workouts when I leave his tutelage and make it my own responsibility. I feel that, despite the fitness track-record of my life to this point, I will stick to it.
Wish me luck!
°
Life Changes
Not what it sounds like. I haven’t met the woman of my dreams, nor have I changed teams, nor have I had a sex-change operation, nor have I let Jesus back into my life, or Miguel, for that matter.
I’ve been working out. I know I’ve trumpeted that mundane fact about my life in this space before, but I think this time I really have gone about it in the right way. My attitude has changed toward my workouts: I no longer consider George, the Personal Trainer, to be Satan Incarnate; he’s still evil in ways, but not the Prince of Darkness himself...maybe a lesser demon. My workouts have been less dreadful and more productive, and I feel myself trying harder to push, pull, press and lift more weight more times.
And I think the one doing the work is always the last to see real change, but George has commented that I appear to have developed a little bit of definition in my arms and shoulders. I can make myself believe I see it in the mirror, but I’m pretty good at fooling myself. A former co-worker who came in to prospect for some freelance work, someone I haven’t seen since December or January, saw me and, upon our greetings, looked at me a little strangely and asked, “Have you lost some weight?” and, as a matter of fact, I had lost weight. Just that morning I checked myself on the scale. Ever since I started with George in that first week of February, I felt mild frustration at the fact that I had not lost one bit of weight. I had started at 210 pounds, and I maintained that weight for weeks, fluctuating between 208 and 210. I had commented to George about it, and he said that, since weight loss wasn’t my primary goal, my weight wouldn’t come down very quickly. He even asked me how I would feel if my weight went up five pounds, but I lost an inch in my waist! Then he said that, with increased fitness would come weight loss.
Then, on the very day I would meet my former coworker, I stepped on my scale at home: 201 pounds! I had dropped seven to nine pounds in a week and a half!
I have been very faithful to the rigors that George has set out. There are the workouts with him every Saturday, Monday and Wednesday. There are my cardio workouts at the office every Tuesday and Thursday, and at my apartment complex fitness center on Sundays. On the road I make every effort to use the hotels’ fitness centers, if available (as a matter of fact, in Atlanta last week the fitness center was so crowded at 5:15am that I chose to do my cardio by walking the complete loop around the atrium for 20 minutes. That was about 12 times around!). George has factored accountability into the regimen, expecting me to provide him a daily food journal to track what and how I eat, and to give him a tool to help me tune my diet and make it more balanced and healthy.
I have been eating more whole foods and less fast food. I haven’t had — or missed — a McDonald’s hamburger since February. I avoid french fries entirely. With the exception of breakfast, the only potatoes I eat are baked or boiled. Alcoholic drinks are few and far between; water and fruit juices are now the norm. My coffee intake has remained at one to two cups a day.
I haven’t been perfect; I still have occasional munchie attacks, with chocolate at the head of the cravings pack. But I feel I have totally turned my eating habits around, and George’s food journal assignment keeps me on track...and guilt-ridden if I stray (and I am freakishly honest about it!).
I have already decided to sign up for another 16 sessions with George when this current string ends. I want to feel confident about my self-guided workouts when I leave his tutelage and make it my own responsibility. I feel that, despite the fitness track-record of my life to this point, I will stick to it.
Wish me luck!
°
turN mE oN, deaD maN*
You Are 9: The Peacemaker |
 You are emotionally stable and willing to find common ground with others. Your friends and family often look to you to be the mediator when there is conflict. You are easy going and accepting. You take things as they come. Avoiding conflict at all costs, you're content when things are calm. At Your Best: You feel connected, trusting, and fulfilled. You feel at peace with your place in the world. At Your Worst: You compromise your values to make sure peace is maintained. You give in to bullies. Your Fixation: Harmony Your Primary Fear: Causing conflict Your Primary Desire: To preserve things as they are Other Number 9's: Marge Simpson, Ronald Reagan, Audrey Hepburn, Jerry Seinfeld, and Abraham Lincoln. |
*Kudos to you if you can correctly explain to me this reference.
°
Saturday, March 07, 2009
Okay, These Just About Killed Me!
This one is pretty funny...and cute. It's a sleepwalking dog, but she's not just wagging her legs....
Go to the bathroom before watching the next one, or you might pee while watching it. You've been warned.
°
Go to the bathroom before watching the next one, or you might pee while watching it. You've been warned.
°
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
On Karaoke
I guess I’m a karaoke nerd. I’ve done musical theatre and have sung(?) on stage, before an audience, and accompanied by an orchestra…of sorts — in community theatre, you take what you can get.
When I was in college, my best friend, Lu, played me a tape that had been made of him singing Born To Be Wild at some bar in town on “Karaoke Night.” He sounded…okay. But I admired him for his testicular fortitude in getting up there before a crowd of strangers — likely drunk, most of them — and belting a tune. I remember thinking that I did not have the balls for that.
For sixteen years I had no closer brush with karaoke than seeing online videos from Japan of young people — women mostly — standing in front of a screen and mumbling the words to some familiar song or another, and of Producer retelling the tale of how one night on the road he wound up at dinner with the owner of our company and how they were surprised when a woman took the stage and let them all know that it was karaoke night. After several drinks on the boss, he convinced Producer — who sings ALL the time around the office, to just about everyone’s maddening last nerve — that it was a good idea that he give it a whirl. He wound up singing several duets with the karaoke hostess who thought he was the bees knees.
Then, in April of 2007, I was sent to Raleigh, North Carolina, for one night. I had befriended Claire through her blog and via e-mail, and I contacted her to let her know I would be in town. She invited me out to hang with her friends at their favorite bar, where it was karaoke night. I wasn’t crazy about the karaoke thing, but I really did want to meet Claire. So I figured I would go and have a beer and a couple of laughs and be done with it.
While I sat there watching person after person take the stage — some pretty good, some pretty awful — I felt within me a tug at my gut. No, I wasn’t becoming ill… it was the nagging thought, “I can DO this.” Mind you, it wasn’t the thought “I want to do this,” but from the moment Claire asked me if I was going to (she already had), I just knew I would.
I wound up as one of the last singers of the night, and I did Surrender by Cheap Trick. I’m pretty sure I sucked, but not as bad as some of the others of the night (I mean, come ON! I HAVE done some musical theatre, fercryinoutloud!)
I sat down, a little embarrassed, but with the sense — nay, the knowledge — that I had accomplished something, that I had confronted a fear and defeated it. I would never have to do it again.
The next time was on a Baltic Sea Cruise we worked for one of our clients about four months later. One bar aboard ship had karaoke two nights a week, and Producer and Editor told me they were going there for a couple of drinks. I had stuff I needed to shoot that evening, so I told them I would meet them there. By the time I got there, karaoke had been going on for about 40 minutes, and very few people were interested in participating. When I sat down with my coworkers, Editor was deep into razzing Producer for his cowardice, as he was stalling to choose a song and give it to the KJ (Karaoke Jockey). I joined in the razzing and, shortly after Editor, who has sung with rock bands in his youth, totally shredded (in a good way) The Beatles’ Twist and Shout, the KJ shut down due to lack of interest. So I neither got to see Producer sing, nor did I feel the pressure to try it again.
About three months after that I was on a convention site in Orlando, Florida, when word went around that some of the stage crew were piling into a van and going out for a steak dinner. And Karaoke. Producer and I were asked if we’d like to come along — he, I’m sure, because they wanted to hear him sing, I because I was standing beside him when they asked.
We went to a Stuart Anderson’s Black Angus restaurant where the steak was decent, the beer cold and the KJ very late. He eventually showed up and got things rolling. I had had a beer with dinner and another while we waited for the KJ to show. The song list was passed around our table, and Producer stalled again — this the guy at our table who had sung professionally as a young man. Most everybody had chosen songs, even a couple guys I would never have suspected would want to do this, and the daggers were getting pointier the longer Producer stalled. I kept razzing him, calling him a chicken-shit, as he’s the one who was always singing. “Now’s your chance,” I said to him. “Now I want to hear you sing, and I’m not going to tell you to shut up.”
Finally he had enough, and he shot me an angry look. “Are you gonna do it?”
I shot him back a look just as mean. “Not until you do, chicken-shit.”
Our friends started getting called — there were really very few people in the place, and fewer participating in karaoke — and once the music started, and I saw my friends and coworkers up there — some pretty good, some pretty awful — and the beer kicked in, I laughed hard, sang along loudly and had an absolutely fantastic time.
And then Producer walked up and turned in his song choice to the KJ.
Oh, shit.
I had spotted in the list the song I thought I wanted to try, so I wrote it down on the little sheet of paper provided for the occasion, and, a man of my word, I turned it in.
A couple more of our coworkers were called up, and our table of six was laughing and shouting along with them. Producer was called and he did some old standard, made famous by Sinatra or someone of that era. And he was pretty good.
Then it was my turn.
The song I had chosen was “December ’63,” by The Four Seasons. If you’re not familiar with the title, it’s the song that begins with “Oh, what a night/Late December back in ’63.” I sang it in its original key (the KJ can adjust the key with the touch of a button or the turn of a knob), which, the guys later told me, they thought was way higher than they ever imagined I could sing. They told me they all looked at each other and thought, “Oh god, this is gonna suck.”
Aside from getting lost in the words on one of the verses, I didn’t suck, and I nailed all the high notes, even the ones that, halfway through the song I realized I had forgotten went so high! The guys were all high-fives and back slaps when I got back to the table, and I felt an exhilaration I had not felt in years! I don’t know if it was singing a popular song, feeling that I had done it well, or the reactions of my coworkers, but it felt really good.
In the ensuing months after that I had discovered that a bowling alley near our office does karaoke night on Fridays and Saturdays, and I tried to get some of the guys interested in hanging out sometime and doing that. The problem is that work lets out around 5:30, and karaoke at the bowling alley doesn’t start until 9:00 or later. So it never happened.
Then back in December, the evening I signed up for a bazillion and a half groups on Meetup.com, I also signed up for the Chicago Karaoke Underground Party meetup. It’s unique in that the hostess holds the party in her home, which is a huge loft apartment from which she also operates her business. It’s a commercial building, so after 5:00 most evenings, she’s the only person in the building, so she can make as much noise as she wants to without bothering anybody. She structures her parties with a limit of 15-20 singers so that no one who wants to sing gets left out, and she makes it a point that her place is not a bar (though there is plenty of booze on hand!); people are here to sing, to be heard and to listen, and have a good time. It is also a very supportive environment; no one who sings ever faces jeers or criticism, no matter how “off” he or she may have been.
I’ve been to two parties there, now (she hold one per month), and both times I have been dealing with a cold — the first time coming down with one, the second time coming off of one — so my voice wasn’t what it could be. In other words, I sucked. But I had a good time.
In the few karaoke events I’ve done, I have noticed that people fall into some interesting categories, and those of a type all seem to be very similar. I’ve named them somewhat arbitrarily:
The Warbler is someone who doesn’t quite exactly have a handle on her voice. He is usually off key — often not even close — and never goes above the volume of a raised voice. She stands stock-still at the microphone and stares intently at the lyrics on the video screen. The Warbler often chooses a song that would be difficult for even a veteran karaoker to do, but he does it because he loves the song, and he wants to be up there singing it.
The Stickler strives to perform the song exactly the way it is performed on the original album or in a particular performance from a live recording. He tries to hold every note, stroke every vocal nuance and pronounce every word just as the original or popular artist did it in the original recording. She usually stares at the screen, but occasionally knows the song well enough to stare over the heads of the audience. I do believe I fall into this category.
The Entertainer is a frustrated performer who had — or maybe still has — dreams of being onstage and was diverted by life happening to him, she took a crack at it at some point in the past and failed, or he just believes he has the charisma to pull it off. She does her own stylized rendition of the song, often vamping and taking other liberties with the lyrics or the melody, playing air guitar or air piano (or horn, or whatever) during instrumental breaks, and can often go off-screen and perform the song confidently from memory, referring to the screen only occasionally to make sure she’s on track.
The Impersonator attempts to embody the performer who made the song famous, with vocalizations and body movement. He is usually totally off-screen, the accuracy of the lyrics secondary to the summoning of the original’s persona to the stage.
The Ringer sings regularly, currently or formerly professionally or in a church choir or community theatre. She is very comfortable up in front of a crowd of people and has a great command of her voice. He often has a certain repertoire of songs that he has practiced often and does very well. The Ringer is often quite entertaining, but makes the rest of us feel very self-conscious at the mic!
The Addict can fit into any of the aforementioned categories and does karaoke as his only form of social entertainment. She seeks out bars and other establishments that feature karaoke, and may frequent two to three or more in a week to satisfy the craving for expression and attention. I fear I may soon fit this category as well….
When I was in college, my best friend, Lu, played me a tape that had been made of him singing Born To Be Wild at some bar in town on “Karaoke Night.” He sounded…okay. But I admired him for his testicular fortitude in getting up there before a crowd of strangers — likely drunk, most of them — and belting a tune. I remember thinking that I did not have the balls for that.
For sixteen years I had no closer brush with karaoke than seeing online videos from Japan of young people — women mostly — standing in front of a screen and mumbling the words to some familiar song or another, and of Producer retelling the tale of how one night on the road he wound up at dinner with the owner of our company and how they were surprised when a woman took the stage and let them all know that it was karaoke night. After several drinks on the boss, he convinced Producer — who sings ALL the time around the office, to just about everyone’s maddening last nerve — that it was a good idea that he give it a whirl. He wound up singing several duets with the karaoke hostess who thought he was the bees knees.
Then, in April of 2007, I was sent to Raleigh, North Carolina, for one night. I had befriended Claire through her blog and via e-mail, and I contacted her to let her know I would be in town. She invited me out to hang with her friends at their favorite bar, where it was karaoke night. I wasn’t crazy about the karaoke thing, but I really did want to meet Claire. So I figured I would go and have a beer and a couple of laughs and be done with it.
While I sat there watching person after person take the stage — some pretty good, some pretty awful — I felt within me a tug at my gut. No, I wasn’t becoming ill… it was the nagging thought, “I can DO this.” Mind you, it wasn’t the thought “I want to do this,” but from the moment Claire asked me if I was going to (she already had), I just knew I would.
I wound up as one of the last singers of the night, and I did Surrender by Cheap Trick. I’m pretty sure I sucked, but not as bad as some of the others of the night (I mean, come ON! I HAVE done some musical theatre, fercryinoutloud!)
I sat down, a little embarrassed, but with the sense — nay, the knowledge — that I had accomplished something, that I had confronted a fear and defeated it. I would never have to do it again.
The next time was on a Baltic Sea Cruise we worked for one of our clients about four months later. One bar aboard ship had karaoke two nights a week, and Producer and Editor told me they were going there for a couple of drinks. I had stuff I needed to shoot that evening, so I told them I would meet them there. By the time I got there, karaoke had been going on for about 40 minutes, and very few people were interested in participating. When I sat down with my coworkers, Editor was deep into razzing Producer for his cowardice, as he was stalling to choose a song and give it to the KJ (Karaoke Jockey). I joined in the razzing and, shortly after Editor, who has sung with rock bands in his youth, totally shredded (in a good way) The Beatles’ Twist and Shout, the KJ shut down due to lack of interest. So I neither got to see Producer sing, nor did I feel the pressure to try it again.
About three months after that I was on a convention site in Orlando, Florida, when word went around that some of the stage crew were piling into a van and going out for a steak dinner. And Karaoke. Producer and I were asked if we’d like to come along — he, I’m sure, because they wanted to hear him sing, I because I was standing beside him when they asked.
We went to a Stuart Anderson’s Black Angus restaurant where the steak was decent, the beer cold and the KJ very late. He eventually showed up and got things rolling. I had had a beer with dinner and another while we waited for the KJ to show. The song list was passed around our table, and Producer stalled again — this the guy at our table who had sung professionally as a young man. Most everybody had chosen songs, even a couple guys I would never have suspected would want to do this, and the daggers were getting pointier the longer Producer stalled. I kept razzing him, calling him a chicken-shit, as he’s the one who was always singing. “Now’s your chance,” I said to him. “Now I want to hear you sing, and I’m not going to tell you to shut up.”
Finally he had enough, and he shot me an angry look. “Are you gonna do it?”
I shot him back a look just as mean. “Not until you do, chicken-shit.”
Our friends started getting called — there were really very few people in the place, and fewer participating in karaoke — and once the music started, and I saw my friends and coworkers up there — some pretty good, some pretty awful — and the beer kicked in, I laughed hard, sang along loudly and had an absolutely fantastic time.
And then Producer walked up and turned in his song choice to the KJ.
Oh, shit.
I had spotted in the list the song I thought I wanted to try, so I wrote it down on the little sheet of paper provided for the occasion, and, a man of my word, I turned it in.
A couple more of our coworkers were called up, and our table of six was laughing and shouting along with them. Producer was called and he did some old standard, made famous by Sinatra or someone of that era. And he was pretty good.
Then it was my turn.
The song I had chosen was “December ’63,” by The Four Seasons. If you’re not familiar with the title, it’s the song that begins with “Oh, what a night/Late December back in ’63.” I sang it in its original key (the KJ can adjust the key with the touch of a button or the turn of a knob), which, the guys later told me, they thought was way higher than they ever imagined I could sing. They told me they all looked at each other and thought, “Oh god, this is gonna suck.”
Aside from getting lost in the words on one of the verses, I didn’t suck, and I nailed all the high notes, even the ones that, halfway through the song I realized I had forgotten went so high! The guys were all high-fives and back slaps when I got back to the table, and I felt an exhilaration I had not felt in years! I don’t know if it was singing a popular song, feeling that I had done it well, or the reactions of my coworkers, but it felt really good.
In the ensuing months after that I had discovered that a bowling alley near our office does karaoke night on Fridays and Saturdays, and I tried to get some of the guys interested in hanging out sometime and doing that. The problem is that work lets out around 5:30, and karaoke at the bowling alley doesn’t start until 9:00 or later. So it never happened.
Then back in December, the evening I signed up for a bazillion and a half groups on Meetup.com, I also signed up for the Chicago Karaoke Underground Party meetup. It’s unique in that the hostess holds the party in her home, which is a huge loft apartment from which she also operates her business. It’s a commercial building, so after 5:00 most evenings, she’s the only person in the building, so she can make as much noise as she wants to without bothering anybody. She structures her parties with a limit of 15-20 singers so that no one who wants to sing gets left out, and she makes it a point that her place is not a bar (though there is plenty of booze on hand!); people are here to sing, to be heard and to listen, and have a good time. It is also a very supportive environment; no one who sings ever faces jeers or criticism, no matter how “off” he or she may have been.
I’ve been to two parties there, now (she hold one per month), and both times I have been dealing with a cold — the first time coming down with one, the second time coming off of one — so my voice wasn’t what it could be. In other words, I sucked. But I had a good time.
In the few karaoke events I’ve done, I have noticed that people fall into some interesting categories, and those of a type all seem to be very similar. I’ve named them somewhat arbitrarily:
The Warbler is someone who doesn’t quite exactly have a handle on her voice. He is usually off key — often not even close — and never goes above the volume of a raised voice. She stands stock-still at the microphone and stares intently at the lyrics on the video screen. The Warbler often chooses a song that would be difficult for even a veteran karaoker to do, but he does it because he loves the song, and he wants to be up there singing it.
The Stickler strives to perform the song exactly the way it is performed on the original album or in a particular performance from a live recording. He tries to hold every note, stroke every vocal nuance and pronounce every word just as the original or popular artist did it in the original recording. She usually stares at the screen, but occasionally knows the song well enough to stare over the heads of the audience. I do believe I fall into this category.
The Entertainer is a frustrated performer who had — or maybe still has — dreams of being onstage and was diverted by life happening to him, she took a crack at it at some point in the past and failed, or he just believes he has the charisma to pull it off. She does her own stylized rendition of the song, often vamping and taking other liberties with the lyrics or the melody, playing air guitar or air piano (or horn, or whatever) during instrumental breaks, and can often go off-screen and perform the song confidently from memory, referring to the screen only occasionally to make sure she’s on track.
The Impersonator attempts to embody the performer who made the song famous, with vocalizations and body movement. He is usually totally off-screen, the accuracy of the lyrics secondary to the summoning of the original’s persona to the stage.
The Ringer sings regularly, currently or formerly professionally or in a church choir or community theatre. She is very comfortable up in front of a crowd of people and has a great command of her voice. He often has a certain repertoire of songs that he has practiced often and does very well. The Ringer is often quite entertaining, but makes the rest of us feel very self-conscious at the mic!
The Addict can fit into any of the aforementioned categories and does karaoke as his only form of social entertainment. She seeks out bars and other establishments that feature karaoke, and may frequent two to three or more in a week to satisfy the craving for expression and attention. I fear I may soon fit this category as well….
Sunday, March 01, 2009
Massive Coverage
In this post I will strive to encompass several posts' worth of bloggerel without all the volume. If it turns out to still be too much volume for you, then turn your computer down…
Training Pants
I'm keeping up with my workout schedule. Monday mornings at 6:00, Wednesdays at 6:30am and Saturdays at 7:00am. On the days in between I flail about on the elliptical trainer or the recumbent cycle trainer the boss has installed at the office. And on Fridays I rest, so to speak. George still manages to find muscles I haven't used since… oh, birth, so I still waddle around the office grunting like an old man while doing the simplest of tasks, such as breathing.
The one thing I am certain of while I patiently await the shrinking of my distended gut — something George tells me I won't see for a while, yet (WTF?!) — is that, were it not for George — or more realistically, were it not for the fact that I've paid a good chunk of money for George to do for/to me what he does — I wouldn't be doing this at all. No, instead I would have hobbled away from the first ill-conceived first self-inflicted workout and been content to sleep in every Monday, Wednesday and Saturday morning….
Give me a moment while I pause for a good cry.
It's a CROCK, I Tell Ya!
Going on a month or so ago, I finally decided to go ahead and purchase a Crock Pot. I don't know…there's just something about spending a frantic mere few minutes of cutting up stuff, unwrapping a hunk of raw meat, chucking it all into the pot under some water and then walking away for several hours that appeals to me…not to mention the yummy result.
I am learning, however, that there are varying degrees to the yummy based on what I do…or have done. The first attempt was a beef roast (don't anticipate it getting any more exciting or exotic than that) with a large onion and a large potato, both chopped up and tossed in the pot, with a moderate-sized piece of meat that I first seared in a frying pan under sprinkles of salt and pepper.
My neighbors in the apartment building can always tell when I'm trying to cook because the smoke alarm goes off… Every. Damn. Time.
I set the crock on low for about 8 hours. The meat came out tasting okay, but was fairly dry. The next attempt, about a week later, was much the same, only I added a chopped stalk of celery to the veggie mix, and I set the crock on high for about 4 hours, to pretty much the same result.
The most recent attempt — not counting the one that is cooking as I write — was much better as a result of oversight and serendipity. I had intended to prepare all the ingredients in the morning, before leaving for my workout on Wednesday, but mismanagement of my time and just plain forgetting about it until it was too late put that on hold until lunchtime. Then I frantically seared a considerably larger hunk of meat, chopped up vegetables — this time adding a fourth ingredient, carrots, to the veggies — and added sprinkles of dried basil flakes and dried oregano flakes. Why? I don't know. They smelled good?
Then it dawned on me that I had a dinner Meetup planned that evening, and I wouldn't get to eat at home. I didn't want to let it cook all that time, so at 5:30 I scrambled for home, turned the crock off and let the meat sit in there until I got home again, around 9:00. WOW! I've had better pot roasts before (Mom, R.I.P.), but this was a vast improvement over my earlier attempts. It was moist, tender, flavorful and, most of all, held up to being reheated in the microwave. That thing fed me for nearly a week, for lunch or dinner!
So that's my current method: crock on low for four to five hours, then shut it off and let it sit for another four. It's the method I'll stick to until one of my readers comes through (HINT!) with the real secret, or just a better recipe for beef pot roast…or any great Crock Pot recipes a culinarily inept single guy can manage.
Please?
A Spiffy Weekend
The radar showed a faint blip that represented a possible shoot for one of our clients, but we had to wait for them to decide if they really wanted us to do it. I asked Producer where this guy was that we had to shoot, and he didn't know, so I looked up the guy's business online.
RALEIGH!
Not wanting to get anybody's hopes up — especially mine — I didn't say a word to anybody, but I told Producer to try to arrange it for a Friday if it was going to happen at all, and I would try to stay the whole weekend and visit my blogger friends, Biff and Tiff Spiffy, kenju and Claire!
We didn't get the word until Thursday, and I sent out the last minute news to all of them that I was heading their way, and to clear their schedules.
Well, FAT CHANCE! Mr. and Mrs. kenju had an important event to attend out of state, and Claire had Friday evening plans, so the Spiffys would be stuck with me alone for the evening.
As a rare treat for me, I was able to travel very lightly, carrying our new, small-footprint, lightweight Hi Definition camcorder, one field light with stand, and a Chimera soft box, an attachment to the light that diffuses the beam and softens the shadows it casts. I arrived in Raleigh late Friday morning and spent an inordinate amount of time renting a car. Fortunately, since the flight was right on time, there was enough time for the rental car people's dicking around, and I was on my way with enough time for lunch.
Whichever end of Raleigh I was in must be some sort of secret, because my GPS unit was wrong for about half the restaurants I told it to find. I wound up at a Wendy's, only mildly upset that I wasn't eating as sensibly as I otherwise could have.
The shoot went just fine, as the guy who was my subject was very accommodating and friendly, and in a bit of a hurry. In all, I was only there for about two-and-a-half hours. Then I made my way out Wake Forest way, to the environs of the Tiny House.
After getting set up in my hotel I GPSed their address, and in ten minutes I was pounding on their door. They greeted me with warm pets (their animals, you sickos!) and cold beer, and we set about to talking like old friends. Before too much time had passed we headed out to a local pub (help me out with the name, guys?) where we sipped, supped and played with a very temperamental electronic dartboard. If I recall correctly, Tiff was the winner, though nobody was really too concerned with the outcome. And besides, the dartboard was cheating.
We returned to the Tiny House where we chatted into late night. I stopped trying to be more entertaining when I finally realized that their yawns were not of boredom, but of real sleepiness. So I bid good night with promises of getting together on Saturday.
I slept in just a little and then headed down to the hotel workout room. It was a pitiful thing, but the equipment worked, and I got a goot sweat from a 30-minute walk on the treadmill. After cleaning up, I headed out to the car to zip on over to the Tiny House, where I had been tolf by Biff on the phone that Tiff was preparing lunch for us! I slipped the key into the ignition keyhole, turned it and…
Bupkis.
The brand new 2009 Dodge Journey was dead. The rental car company, whose name I will not divulge here, but it sounds a lot like "Taller," told me that if I could get someone to jump my car and drive it the 45 minutes back to the airport, I could exchange it there. Otherwise I could wait a minimum of two hours for a tow truck to bring me another car.
It was Biff to the rescue, as he showed up in his shining white steed, otherwise known as a Ford van. He jumped the turd, and I told the rental car company that I would be driving it in to exchange.
But first it was lunch at the Tiny House. It was some kind of sausage (kielbasa?) with sautéed peppers and onions on a toasted bun, and mashed potatoes. I had a Sam Adams Black Lager to wash it down. I don't recall from the dizziness of the feeding frenzy, but I may have licked my plate.
Plans were laid to head to a park and feed the ducks, but it was never made clear what we were going to feed the ducks to. Since I was turning the car in, I left my camera at the Tiny House, just so there would be no unfortunate oversight. But that was an oversight in itself…
Tiff lures the unwitting participant
in a bit of subterfuge... (Photo
by Biff Spiffy.)
...just so they could leave this
incriminating shot on my camera!
For fear of providing too detailed
a description, let two words
suffice: Pussy pussy. (Photo by
Biff Spiffy...with MY CAMERA!)
Shortly after my return from the airport we headed back to Raleigh to some pretty park with a walking trail and a lake and a few trees. Tiff had to tinkle something fierce, but the facilities were all closed. I don't think I care for the parks in Raleigh. We walked down to the bridge and found that the Goose Gang had invaded the Duck Squad's turf and were making the place their own.
Tiff tells the story much better (and she's told it already, so why should I?). I'll just provide the visuals (and some snarky commentary).
Tiff and Biff share a last moment
with their beloved bagels.
(Photo by Farrago)
Tiff and her gaggle of
friends. (Photo by
Farrago)
Biff makes friends his
own way. (Photo by Farrago)
Biff has his hand out
with a hand-out.
(Photo by Farrago)
Biff throws rocks at the seagulls
because he loves to hear them swear.
(Photo by Farrago)
Whenever I look at geese, they seem to have this bewildered look in their eyes, as though they're really not sure what they're supposed to be doing.
The scenario comes to me of people who have died and are reincarnated, and come back as geese, but are fully cognizant of their lives as humans. They spend their days running around, shouting, "What the hell is going on? What's happening here?!" And "Oooh! Food!" And "Fly south. FLY SOUTH!"
But it only comes out of their mouths as "HONK! HONK!"
Soon Tiff found herself feeding two
small children and a grown man.
Despite the fact that they were
clearly human, she still wouldn't
let them eat out of her hand.
(Photo by Farrago)
Both subjects in this photo have
dinner on their minds, but the
seagull gave up because he didn't
have a pot big enough in which
to cook Biff. (Photo by Farrago)
One of the most incredible photos
I've shot in my life! The seagull
just dropped the bread right into
Biff's fingers! Amazing! (Photo shot
and enhanced by Farrago)
Biff and Tiff watch the spectacle
of waterfowl beneath them.
(Photo by Farrago)
Back at the Tiny House, the Spiffys once again kicked their kitchen into action, and let me partake of the results: really tasty grilled pork chops with Biff's secret marinade (I don't remember what ingredients he told me are in it, so let's just keep that part secret), and some other stuff I don't remember, now, that I'm writing this a full week after it happened. (Kinda like the Bible in that way… it all happened so long ago that I can't remember, but it goes sorta like this…). All I know is that it was delicious, and I made a pig of myself by shamelessly taking the last pork chop.
We finished the evening off by flipping through one of Biff's old photo albums, featuring photos of him when he had hair and a band. I fondly refer to it as Mullets and Music.
Soon yawns were plentiful again, and I saw that it was time to go. And I secretly think the newlyweds had some boinking to do, so I figured it best that I go, lest they start petting in front of me.
Sunday, after another workout on the treadmill, and cleaning up and packing, I was once again at the Tiny House. Claire had finally made contact, and I promised her I would let her know what our plans were as soon as we made some.
We drove in two cars back to Raleigh, as I would be leaving straight for the airport from there after lunch. We meandered into the depths of downtown and to an Irish pub called Egg-a Nog, or something like that. They had on offer a Sunday brunch buffet. Period. There were no other offerings from the menu, as the buffet apparently taxed the kitchen so mightily that they couldn't possibly fry another egg or corn another beef. Not to worry, however, as the buffet was outstanding. Honestly, theirs was probably the best buffet I've ever had anywhere and, believe me, with as much road time I've put in, I've seen lots of buffets! Again, the food is a blur, but there was sea bass, tortilla soup, eggs benedict, bread pudding… I had way more than that, but just the memory of it alone is sending me into a post-meal stupor.
Claire showed up and had a margarita, and we all had a nice chat until I ruined the party by leaving. Oh, how full of myself I am! But it did break up when I put on my coat, and we all hugged our good-byes on the street corner, only to see Claire nearly get creamed by a Cadillac as she made her way across the street!
My flight through Philadelphia was fairly uneventful, except for the fact that on both legs of the trip I was seated beside an exceptionally large woman who squeezed me by her sheer girth into the aisle against my armrest opposite her. And it wasn't the same woman on each leg.
Monday morning it was back to the routine: workout with George at the ungodly hour, working on photographs for the boss who is increasingly on the warpath as the economy — and our client base — slides deeper into the toilet, and wishing the weekend could have lasted a week.
And it wasn't until Tuesday when I realized that somewhere during the weekend I had misplaced the Chimera softbox, and that it had not come home with me. There went $275 flying out of my pocket!
Ugh! This is long! Oh, well. If you've read this far, thanks! If you've just woken up drooling on your keyboard…sorry!
Training Pants
I'm keeping up with my workout schedule. Monday mornings at 6:00, Wednesdays at 6:30am and Saturdays at 7:00am. On the days in between I flail about on the elliptical trainer or the recumbent cycle trainer the boss has installed at the office. And on Fridays I rest, so to speak. George still manages to find muscles I haven't used since… oh, birth, so I still waddle around the office grunting like an old man while doing the simplest of tasks, such as breathing.
The one thing I am certain of while I patiently await the shrinking of my distended gut — something George tells me I won't see for a while, yet (WTF?!) — is that, were it not for George — or more realistically, were it not for the fact that I've paid a good chunk of money for George to do for/to me what he does — I wouldn't be doing this at all. No, instead I would have hobbled away from the first ill-conceived first self-inflicted workout and been content to sleep in every Monday, Wednesday and Saturday morning….
Give me a moment while I pause for a good cry.
It's a CROCK, I Tell Ya!
Going on a month or so ago, I finally decided to go ahead and purchase a Crock Pot. I don't know…there's just something about spending a frantic mere few minutes of cutting up stuff, unwrapping a hunk of raw meat, chucking it all into the pot under some water and then walking away for several hours that appeals to me…not to mention the yummy result.
I am learning, however, that there are varying degrees to the yummy based on what I do…or have done. The first attempt was a beef roast (don't anticipate it getting any more exciting or exotic than that) with a large onion and a large potato, both chopped up and tossed in the pot, with a moderate-sized piece of meat that I first seared in a frying pan under sprinkles of salt and pepper.
My neighbors in the apartment building can always tell when I'm trying to cook because the smoke alarm goes off… Every. Damn. Time.
I set the crock on low for about 8 hours. The meat came out tasting okay, but was fairly dry. The next attempt, about a week later, was much the same, only I added a chopped stalk of celery to the veggie mix, and I set the crock on high for about 4 hours, to pretty much the same result.
The most recent attempt — not counting the one that is cooking as I write — was much better as a result of oversight and serendipity. I had intended to prepare all the ingredients in the morning, before leaving for my workout on Wednesday, but mismanagement of my time and just plain forgetting about it until it was too late put that on hold until lunchtime. Then I frantically seared a considerably larger hunk of meat, chopped up vegetables — this time adding a fourth ingredient, carrots, to the veggies — and added sprinkles of dried basil flakes and dried oregano flakes. Why? I don't know. They smelled good?
Then it dawned on me that I had a dinner Meetup planned that evening, and I wouldn't get to eat at home. I didn't want to let it cook all that time, so at 5:30 I scrambled for home, turned the crock off and let the meat sit in there until I got home again, around 9:00. WOW! I've had better pot roasts before (Mom, R.I.P.), but this was a vast improvement over my earlier attempts. It was moist, tender, flavorful and, most of all, held up to being reheated in the microwave. That thing fed me for nearly a week, for lunch or dinner!
So that's my current method: crock on low for four to five hours, then shut it off and let it sit for another four. It's the method I'll stick to until one of my readers comes through (HINT!) with the real secret, or just a better recipe for beef pot roast…or any great Crock Pot recipes a culinarily inept single guy can manage.
Please?
A Spiffy Weekend
The radar showed a faint blip that represented a possible shoot for one of our clients, but we had to wait for them to decide if they really wanted us to do it. I asked Producer where this guy was that we had to shoot, and he didn't know, so I looked up the guy's business online.
RALEIGH!
Not wanting to get anybody's hopes up — especially mine — I didn't say a word to anybody, but I told Producer to try to arrange it for a Friday if it was going to happen at all, and I would try to stay the whole weekend and visit my blogger friends, Biff and Tiff Spiffy, kenju and Claire!
We didn't get the word until Thursday, and I sent out the last minute news to all of them that I was heading their way, and to clear their schedules.
Well, FAT CHANCE! Mr. and Mrs. kenju had an important event to attend out of state, and Claire had Friday evening plans, so the Spiffys would be stuck with me alone for the evening.
As a rare treat for me, I was able to travel very lightly, carrying our new, small-footprint, lightweight Hi Definition camcorder, one field light with stand, and a Chimera soft box, an attachment to the light that diffuses the beam and softens the shadows it casts. I arrived in Raleigh late Friday morning and spent an inordinate amount of time renting a car. Fortunately, since the flight was right on time, there was enough time for the rental car people's dicking around, and I was on my way with enough time for lunch.
Whichever end of Raleigh I was in must be some sort of secret, because my GPS unit was wrong for about half the restaurants I told it to find. I wound up at a Wendy's, only mildly upset that I wasn't eating as sensibly as I otherwise could have.
The shoot went just fine, as the guy who was my subject was very accommodating and friendly, and in a bit of a hurry. In all, I was only there for about two-and-a-half hours. Then I made my way out Wake Forest way, to the environs of the Tiny House.
After getting set up in my hotel I GPSed their address, and in ten minutes I was pounding on their door. They greeted me with warm pets (their animals, you sickos!) and cold beer, and we set about to talking like old friends. Before too much time had passed we headed out to a local pub (help me out with the name, guys?) where we sipped, supped and played with a very temperamental electronic dartboard. If I recall correctly, Tiff was the winner, though nobody was really too concerned with the outcome. And besides, the dartboard was cheating.
We returned to the Tiny House where we chatted into late night. I stopped trying to be more entertaining when I finally realized that their yawns were not of boredom, but of real sleepiness. So I bid good night with promises of getting together on Saturday.
I slept in just a little and then headed down to the hotel workout room. It was a pitiful thing, but the equipment worked, and I got a goot sweat from a 30-minute walk on the treadmill. After cleaning up, I headed out to the car to zip on over to the Tiny House, where I had been tolf by Biff on the phone that Tiff was preparing lunch for us! I slipped the key into the ignition keyhole, turned it and…
Bupkis.
The brand new 2009 Dodge Journey was dead. The rental car company, whose name I will not divulge here, but it sounds a lot like "Taller," told me that if I could get someone to jump my car and drive it the 45 minutes back to the airport, I could exchange it there. Otherwise I could wait a minimum of two hours for a tow truck to bring me another car.
It was Biff to the rescue, as he showed up in his shining white steed, otherwise known as a Ford van. He jumped the turd, and I told the rental car company that I would be driving it in to exchange.
But first it was lunch at the Tiny House. It was some kind of sausage (kielbasa?) with sautéed peppers and onions on a toasted bun, and mashed potatoes. I had a Sam Adams Black Lager to wash it down. I don't recall from the dizziness of the feeding frenzy, but I may have licked my plate.
Plans were laid to head to a park and feed the ducks, but it was never made clear what we were going to feed the ducks to. Since I was turning the car in, I left my camera at the Tiny House, just so there would be no unfortunate oversight. But that was an oversight in itself…
Tiff lures the unwitting participant
in a bit of subterfuge... (Photo
by Biff Spiffy.)
...just so they could leave this
incriminating shot on my camera!
For fear of providing too detailed
a description, let two words
suffice: Pussy pussy. (Photo by
Biff Spiffy...with MY CAMERA!)
Shortly after my return from the airport we headed back to Raleigh to some pretty park with a walking trail and a lake and a few trees. Tiff had to tinkle something fierce, but the facilities were all closed. I don't think I care for the parks in Raleigh. We walked down to the bridge and found that the Goose Gang had invaded the Duck Squad's turf and were making the place their own.
Tiff tells the story much better (and she's told it already, so why should I?). I'll just provide the visuals (and some snarky commentary).
Tiff and Biff share a last moment
with their beloved bagels.
(Photo by Farrago)
Tiff and her gaggle of
friends. (Photo by
Farrago)
Biff makes friends his
own way. (Photo by Farrago)
Biff has his hand out
with a hand-out.
(Photo by Farrago)
Biff throws rocks at the seagulls
because he loves to hear them swear.
(Photo by Farrago)
Whenever I look at geese, they seem to have this bewildered look in their eyes, as though they're really not sure what they're supposed to be doing.
The scenario comes to me of people who have died and are reincarnated, and come back as geese, but are fully cognizant of their lives as humans. They spend their days running around, shouting, "What the hell is going on? What's happening here?!" And "Oooh! Food!" And "Fly south. FLY SOUTH!"
But it only comes out of their mouths as "HONK! HONK!"
Soon Tiff found herself feeding two
small children and a grown man.
Despite the fact that they were
clearly human, she still wouldn't
let them eat out of her hand.
(Photo by Farrago)
Both subjects in this photo have
dinner on their minds, but the
seagull gave up because he didn't
have a pot big enough in which
to cook Biff. (Photo by Farrago)
One of the most incredible photos
I've shot in my life! The seagull
just dropped the bread right into
Biff's fingers! Amazing! (Photo shot
and enhanced by Farrago)
Biff and Tiff watch the spectacle
of waterfowl beneath them.
(Photo by Farrago)
Back at the Tiny House, the Spiffys once again kicked their kitchen into action, and let me partake of the results: really tasty grilled pork chops with Biff's secret marinade (I don't remember what ingredients he told me are in it, so let's just keep that part secret), and some other stuff I don't remember, now, that I'm writing this a full week after it happened. (Kinda like the Bible in that way… it all happened so long ago that I can't remember, but it goes sorta like this…). All I know is that it was delicious, and I made a pig of myself by shamelessly taking the last pork chop.
We finished the evening off by flipping through one of Biff's old photo albums, featuring photos of him when he had hair and a band. I fondly refer to it as Mullets and Music.
Soon yawns were plentiful again, and I saw that it was time to go. And I secretly think the newlyweds had some boinking to do, so I figured it best that I go, lest they start petting in front of me.
Sunday, after another workout on the treadmill, and cleaning up and packing, I was once again at the Tiny House. Claire had finally made contact, and I promised her I would let her know what our plans were as soon as we made some.
We drove in two cars back to Raleigh, as I would be leaving straight for the airport from there after lunch. We meandered into the depths of downtown and to an Irish pub called Egg-a Nog, or something like that. They had on offer a Sunday brunch buffet. Period. There were no other offerings from the menu, as the buffet apparently taxed the kitchen so mightily that they couldn't possibly fry another egg or corn another beef. Not to worry, however, as the buffet was outstanding. Honestly, theirs was probably the best buffet I've ever had anywhere and, believe me, with as much road time I've put in, I've seen lots of buffets! Again, the food is a blur, but there was sea bass, tortilla soup, eggs benedict, bread pudding… I had way more than that, but just the memory of it alone is sending me into a post-meal stupor.
Claire showed up and had a margarita, and we all had a nice chat until I ruined the party by leaving. Oh, how full of myself I am! But it did break up when I put on my coat, and we all hugged our good-byes on the street corner, only to see Claire nearly get creamed by a Cadillac as she made her way across the street!
My flight through Philadelphia was fairly uneventful, except for the fact that on both legs of the trip I was seated beside an exceptionally large woman who squeezed me by her sheer girth into the aisle against my armrest opposite her. And it wasn't the same woman on each leg.
Monday morning it was back to the routine: workout with George at the ungodly hour, working on photographs for the boss who is increasingly on the warpath as the economy — and our client base — slides deeper into the toilet, and wishing the weekend could have lasted a week.
And it wasn't until Tuesday when I realized that somewhere during the weekend I had misplaced the Chimera softbox, and that it had not come home with me. There went $275 flying out of my pocket!
Ugh! This is long! Oh, well. If you've read this far, thanks! If you've just woken up drooling on your keyboard…sorry!
Monday, February 23, 2009
My Private Shame
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....
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....
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.
°
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)