Like Minds

There's an old saying we've probably all heard that claims, "Laughter is the best medicine." While I can't vouch for its medicinal purposes, I can say that it at times can be a tremendous workout, and working out regularly can keep illness at bay. Of course, it has to be real, sustained laughter, not the "therapeutic" kind you force in search of some sense of well-being.

The crux — or crutch, if you will — of most of my humor is the double-entendre. Whether I'm in conversation or just witness to it, my brain is always tuned to the other meanings of words or their sound-alikes and, when the situation is informal and amenable enough to it, I'll make comments to those other meanings. That's making a double-entendre out of innocent or unfortunate phrasing, and I go for the laugh. Unfortunately, since so much of it is of the moment, I rarely remember the things I come up with, and some of them are, to my mind, real gems.

I recently got a laughter workout on a shoot gig. I usually do when I work for this particular producer. His name is Andy, and his employer is a long-time client of my former employer, who booked me a while ago for last week's shoot.

Andy and I worked together for the first time probably back in 2002, and it was way back then that we realized we had synchronous — if not identical — senses of humor. We both fully grasp the concept of the double-entendre and its comic potential, and we bounce our fleeting thoughts off of each other for maximum entertainment value.

A few years ago Andy and I worked together on a shoot in southern California and, on the last day, as we were running late to the airport (I missed my scheduled flight), we passed a restaurant called The Buggy Whip. We both seized on that and turned it into a restaurant with a BDSM (bondage, domination, sadism, and masochism) theme, positing a dominatrix-cum-hostess (perhaps an unfortunate syntax there!!) who seats you when and where she wants to while shaping your behavior with the threat and/or use of a whip, and wait staff who make you beg before you can request — rather than order — your food. We laughed well, but briefly, over that one, and I retained very few of the ideas we broached in the car.

This most recent shoot with Andy was once again in southern California, which makes me think the place imparts to us some kind of cosmic synergy. Monday evening, after being treated to dinner and drinks by the subject of our shoot, Andy and I were driving back to our hotel when, just to keep silence from invading our ride, I did what I often find myself doing and blurted out the name of the cross street at which we paused for a red light.

"Orangewood," I blurted.

Andy looked down at his lap. "No, mine's usually sort of pink." Typical guy humor, I know.

Feigning mild disgust, I said, "Dude. You just described part of your anatomy to me." And then my own odd phrasing and pronunciation occurred to me, and I repeated, "Anatomy to me."

Displaying perfect timing, Andy sang, "Doot-doooo-dee-doo-doot!" from the Manah Manah song. It took me a second to catch it, but when I did, HOLY CRAP! I hadn't laughed like that in years, and suddenly I was seized in hysteric convulsions. Mind you, I was driving; I can only imagine the look on the police officer's face if we had been pulled over at that moment. He would have had probable cause to search the vehicle for drugs! We laughed for another ten minutes, all the way to the hotel!

Maybe you get it. Maybe you had to be there.

Tuesday was a regular day. We shot several interviews, I shot a half-ton of b-roll. We finished around 5:00, and I debated whether to see my uncle who — so it turns out — lives only a few miles from where we were working, or to hang with Andy for the evening. The next day looked to be fairly light, with a late evening flight home, so I opted to visit Uncle Guido on my way out of town on Wednesday, and to hang with Andy Tuesday night.

We made plans to go see the film The Hangover at a shopping mall theater complex a few miles away, and thought we would take our chances at finding somewhere to eat close to it.

On our way there we saw a sign on a building, obviously a pet- or pet supply store. However, our minds took Pet City the other way, and it became a place where you go to be fondled. We didn't just state our interpretations, we created scenarios in the air, with a man going in to look for some stuff for his dog, but he walks in and is groped by an attractive female employee. He expresses his shock and confusion, and the woman explains what the place is, and then reveals to him a line of men waiting their turn.

We got some good laughs from "Pet City," but further along down the road we drove past a restaurant of the name, "Wok Experience." Nothing came to either of us as far as double entendre is concerned, but I blurted out the image of an unwitting customer entering the place, and a small Asian man running up and clocking the guy with a wok! I spoke as the attackee: "Why did you hit me with a pan?"

Andy countered in a stereotypical Asian accent, "Better than chopstick in eye!"

And we were rolling. Without going into all the details, we created a whole scene that involved more woks to the head (as the standard greeting upon arrival), to hands shoved into hot oil, to warnings about the Asian man's brother's place, "Chopstick Experience," where you get "chopstick in eye," and the Asian's admonition, "You no wanna go there!" We also included free foot binding as Tuesday's special; and Wednesday's special, the hibachi experience. Hmmm. It seems we get a lot of mileage out of the S&M theme....

We didn't have time to eat dinner and catch The Hangover, so we decided to just eat, and then we would catch the late showing of Angels and Demons at a different theater.

We sat at an Italian restaurant, where I actually wrote down some of the ideas spilling out of our heads, and we riffed for two hours on "Wok Experience," certainly convincing our waitress that we were high or certifiably loony. Neither Andy nor I could stop laughing, nor did the ideas and dialogue stop coming to us, which certainly didn't help to stop the laughter. Andy coughed briefly, then lamented, "Aw, now I'm gonna start coughing up crap."

Well, guess what that started?

On our way to the theater we passed some sort of oil-change/auto service place that had a huge neon sign glowing in the night: "Pit Service." I raised my arm and looked at my pit and said, "Can you tell me how long this is going to take? I have to be to work in an hour..."

Andy was gone. I was losing it...and, yes, driving again.

We managed to keep quiet during the film, but were rolling again — mostly with a revisit to "Wok Experience" — on the way back to the hotel.

The next morning I felt hung-over, only without the headache and nausea. I was achy from laughter, the muscles for which had not been engaged so much in years. My sinuses were clogged. I felt exhausted, yet exhilarated. And inspired. I told Andy I wanted to write "Wok Experience" as a scene, a short screenplay. He agreed that I should. After the day's shoots, a few more giddy laughs at lunch, and a visit to my uncle and aunt, I sat at the airport and tapped out a script on my laptop. As with anything I write, I'm not too crazy about how it turned out, but I sent it to Andy, and he thought it hilarious.

I hope someday to make it, or see it made into a film.

Hope with me, won't you?



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Where's a Cop When You Need One?

I was headed home Wednesday afternoon on a busy road not too far from my apartment. Stopped at a light in the center lane, with cars on all sides of me, I happened to notice the Asian driver of the car on my right take a drag on a cigarette, and then slip the still-lit butt out through the gap made by his partially open window, and drop it to the road. I hadn't noticed the car prior to pulling up beside it, but I think it was a Toyota Prius.

The butt went out the window just as traffic started moving under the green light. I was so incensed I thought of stopping (or pacing him) and yelling at the guy. Of course, that would have been irrational and dangerous, albeit liberating.

I pulled forward with my lane of traffic, still fuming at that careless boob, but I didn't notice he hadn't moved. A hundred feet or so forward, I looked in my rear view mirror and saw him still parked where he had dropped the butt, but now his door was open, and all the cars in his lane behind him were blocked.

A second look yielded to my eyes the flashing headlights and the grill-embedded blue strobes of the unmarked police car that had been in line immediately behind him, and the bent-over body of the cop whose face was now in the driver's, undoubtedly asking why he had tossed the lit cigarette butt out his window!!!

FINALLY, after 45 years of seeing assholes get away with all kinds of shit, I saw proof that sometimes they do get caught!

And it was good!

Skeletons From My Closet, pt IV

Another one for Calhoun Street Motors. I don't recall having much input into this one, but I do love the names of the newsmen posted on the screen.

Skeletons From My Closet, pt III

Another client sold on me as his "spokesface," this guy couldn't seem to get enough of me: I was in four of his TV spots. I believe this one was the first, and was written, directed, and shot by my boss. The "It's right there on the screen" idea was mine, though. I crack me up!

"Detective" - Calhoun Street Motors • Bainbridge, Georgia, circa 1998

Skeletons From My Closet, pt II

My debut went over so well among the account executives at my office that they began to offer my likeness as part of the production package. I protested, and put my foot down. I would not do it unless I got paid a talent fee on top of my regular hourly wage, thinking that would put the idea right out of their heads. The next client negotiated for $25. Note to self: when putting foot down, name a price!

I had very little input on this one. My boss produced, wrote, shot, directed, and edited.

This client loved me, and wanted me to be the advertising face of their company(?!), even talking, for a time, of a billboard campaign along I-75 throughout south Georgia. Can you imagine the wrecks that would have caused? I appeared in several more of their spots, and one infomercial. This is the best of them...by a long shot, believe me!

"Anything On Trade" - Premier Home Center of Valdosta, Georgia

Skeletons From My Closet, pt I

When I lived in Albany, Georgia, working at TCI Cable, I was also heavily involved in community theatre. I wrote a TV commercial, as it was part of my job, with a mind to give some of the actors in the theatre group some exposure in a local ad. However, as I read the idea — in a voice I considered appropriate to the main character I had created — to my boss and the account executive for whose client I wrote the spot, they looked at each other and determined that I should portray the character. I protested. I wanted to direct it; I wanted to shoot it; I wanted to edit it. I scored a partial victory... I got to edit it.

So here I am in my television acting debut, circa 1997, for Rick Davis Motors of Americus, Georgia.

I Got It, But I Don't Get It

Maggie over at Do These Shoes... passed the above award on to me, as is her privilege, I guess, as a recipient of the award herself.

I am tremendously honored that someone felt I deserve to be so bestowed with such an award... but... I don't know what the award stands for. Maggie wrote that she honored me for "always being an honest blogger" that makes her laugh. She didn't clarify if that laughter came as a result of my attempts at humor, or just as a reaction to the poor quality usually on display here.

I would love to pass it on to someone else, but I don't know for which qualities I should honor any of my favorite bloggers. They all possess distinguishing qualities... except for Schprock; I just like his Boston accent ...and I should like to give this to each of them, but that just smacks of cowardice. For now I shall just selfishly cling to the award, and bask in the vainglorious glow of my übercoolness.

Get your own damn award.

Examiner Examiner

Both of the regular readers of Farrago may be wondering why I haven't been writing, lately. The answer, frankly, is that I've been writing.

In addition to my EventChaser gig, which seems to happen about once every other month, I just signed on for a "paid" writing gig with Examiner.com.

I enclosed the word in quotations because the pay is minimal, and is based on several factors, to include readership, advertising clicks, and how often I send hot, loose women to my manager's office. It certainly won't pay any bills, but think of the exposure! I've been writing naked all week!

I viewed an ad in Craig's List for Examiner.com, and I read their story. It seemed legit and potentially doable, so I responded with which of their topics listed in their ad I might wish to write about. Among the three I chose was the topic of hypermiling. As with EventChaser.com, I was asked to jump through a few hoops, provide a writing sample, and then offer some ideas I might entertain for my column.

Despite telling me that it could take up to two weeks for my approval, I was writing that very evening, as once they approve you, they want to see your first article within 3 business days! Also, despite telling me that my first article would not post immediately, pending scrutiny from my manager/editor, it went up immediately after I posted it.

So now I am the Chicago Hypermiling Examiner at Examiner.com. I might even be National; as far as I know, I'm the only person writing specifically about hypermiling.

And I don't know how long I can keep that up!

So, please do check out my column, click on a couple of ads, and return often. By the end of next month, thanks to your patronage, I could be buying a cup of coffee. At Starbucks!

The Dream Machine

Monday night I watched the next Netflix selection in my queue, Two Weeks Notice, starring Hugh Grant and Sandra Bullock.

Yeah, I watched a chick-flick. Alone. You got a problem widdat?

It was sweet, funny, sexy, formulaic and predictable. I doubt the Roger Eberts, Leonard Maltins, and the A.O. Scotts of the nation gave this 2002 film very high marks, but the movie knows where your buttons are and when to push them.

As it finished I realized that this was the same romantic comedy I had ever seen starring either of the two stars. Grant played the same charming, womanizing, wealthy cad he seems to always play, who — somewhere in the middle of the film — realizes that he's in love with the same clumsy, intelligent, understatedly-pretty-until-the-"a-ha!"-moment, opinionated-but-lonely, pain-in-the-ass woman, that Sandra Bullock seems to always play.

I've always been one to scoff at people who won't go see a movie because they don't like a particular actor. What difference does it make, I've argued, he/she is portraying a character, not him/herself! And, at some levels I know I'm right. Most film actors must be able to get out of that wet paper bag if they're going to carry that 70-million-dollar picture.

But Sunday evening — very briefly — I saw the world more as it is than as I think it should be. Maybe it was too much V8 and chocolate, I don't know. But as I felt my buttons being pushed in the right order at the right time, it occurred to me that these two stars didn't have to break out of anything in this movie. Most of the English-speaking, movie-going world like Hugh Grant — certainly the women, anyway — and they want him to be the sexy, naughty boy who gets hooked by the klutzy, plain girl. They like Sandra Bullock as that klutz who wins the guy over without even trying, and who is filmed with softer and softer focus throughout the film to accentuate the beauty that her leading man is supposedly seeing — not to mention the stalwart men's men who bravely accompany their girlfriends and wives to these films. You have to give them something to look at between all the girl-talk and winsome expressions.

This is what we want as a collective audience. We men want to identify with the charismatic playboy who finds the diamond in the rough. Women want to identify with the smart, sassy, everyday girl with one killer outfit that knocks the playboy off his horse. Hugh Grant and Sandra Bullock are repeatedly given these roles because we're comfortable with their faces and with their schtik, and we like how they make us feel at the end when they finally kiss.

But, oh, does that swelling-music, circling camera, fuzzy-focus love ever truly happen in the real world? I think not. I believe it's a myth perpetuated by the Hollywood dream machine as "the hope."

And now I sorta have a thing for Sandra Bullock.



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Thematic Photographic #53 - Hittin' the Road

The theme over at Carmi's blog this week is "Road." My contribution below has appeared on my site before, during my drive to Montana and back in July last year. As soon as I saw "Road" as the theme, the image of this photo swam to the fore in my mind. I guess it's a powerful photo to me, and shows that there is still lots of wide-open land in our country.

Thanks, Carmi, for giving me the opportunity to share this one again.

Supercali...docious!

The review for my most recent EventChaser professional writing gig assignment has been posted. As a reminder, that's what that big orange badge is over on the left side of my blog page. Pop on over and see what I have to say about "Mary Poppins" on Broadway in Chicago, and maybe you'll want to head to Chicago to catch a performance before she leaves!

If, after you've read my review, you find yourself saying, "I can do better than that!" read up on how to become an EventChaser correspondent and, who knows? Next weekend you could be seeing a show for free and writing about it!



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Like Winning the Lottery!

Usually things go "okay." It's not perfect; some things don't work as you'd like them, but it works out in the end. Of course, there are those hell days where if it can break, fail, show up late, be the wrong color, weight, style or flavor, it will.

As shoots go, I can say this most recent — my first gig as a freelancer since I was released from permanent employment — would go in that "okay" category, but perilously close to the "hell" category.

I don't wish to dwell there. For as bad as some parts were, the client asked me to see the project through its minimal edit the next day, which was an unexpected second day of work, and at a producer's rate, for which I bill $250 more per day!

No, the part upon which I wish to dwell came after I was finished with the shoot.

Because the client couldn't get either a reasonably timed flight or a reasonably priced flight to get me back home from Boston Thursday, I was stuck there for the night. I had contacted Mr. Schprock a day before my trip to see if he might want to get together, but he had unalterable plans (I'm guessing Thursday is sex night in the Schprock abode). Dee J Wave, my friend from Flashback Alternatives had commented that she lived only three hours away, but I would never ask her to travel six hours just to hang with me for two.

As I rode in the cab in a downtown section of the city, I contemplated my options for the evening. I was booked in the near vicinity of the airport at a Comfort Inn & Suites, which, often enough, are roadside motels with the slimmest of amenities, so it was a 50-50 chance that there would be a restaurant in the hotel. I considered just dumping off at the hotel the gear I was carrying and returning to the city for a meal and a stroll. I even considered another option as we drove past a strip club, but that would have just proved frustrating in the long run.

At one point, where the traffic seemed the thickest my cab crawled through, I saw a man standing in the street waving a triangular orange flag and pointing at a space between buildings. It reminded me of the scenes around Wrigley Field in Chicago on a Cubs home game day where guys hawk parking spaces near the venue where they will park your car for a steep fee, and where they'll park your car so tightly into their lot that you can't hope to leave until the last guy parked chooses to leave. The thought ran through my head, "We must be near Fenway Park. There's probably a Red Sox game tonight."

And then the thought hit me: "THERE'S PROBABLY A RED SOX GAME TONIGHT!" Suddenly a night baseball game seemed like an excellent idea! I checked my watch and it was only around 4:30. I guessed the game would start around 7:00. When I got to the hotel (where there does happen to be a restaurant on the premises!) I did dump the gear in storage, and I asked a young guy behind the counter about a game that night.

"You got tickets?!" he asked me incredulously.

"No," was my reply. "I'll see what they have at the gate."

He went online and checked, and indeed the Red Sox were playing at home that night. But, he told me, the Sox were playing the Toronto Blue Jays, and "those games are usually sold out." He also had told me of the plethora of places around Fenway Park where I could get a bite to eat. I figured I could head down to Fenway, see if I could get a ticket and, if I couldn't, then I would eat at one of the dozens of places I was told are there.

The guy was incredibly helpful. He pulled out a map of the Boston transit system, the "T," and showed me which train line to take, and which train terminuses I had to look for, where to switch lines, and the best place to get off the train for Fenway.

I left the hotel at 5:30, on the Comfort Inn & Suites complementary airport shuttle. I asked the bus driver about how to get back to the hotel after the Red Sox game.

"You got tickets?!" he asked me incredulously. Damn! Are Red Sox tickets that difficult to come by?

The shuttle took me to the "T" Blue Line Airport Station. A train came within a minute or two, and I rode it past four stops to Government Center, where I switched to the Green Line, where another train arrived within seconds of when I did. The trains on this line are more like big trolley cars, and they were packed with people, most of who were headed for the game, too. The throng on the train could have been a warning for me that my chances were slim for getting a ticket.

From the Green Line stop at Kenmore I walked with the throng headed for the game. People were boisterous, but they were very nice. No one talked to me, nor did anyone bother me. The crowd dispersed into the larger throng surrounding Fenway Park, and I located the "Game Day Tickets" booths. They were cordoned off with metal barricades manned by Fenway security staff. This could have been another omen.

I walked up to one of the security guys and asked, gesturing to the barricades, "So does this mean the game is completely sold out?"

The guy replied, "I dunno. You can go ask at the window." He told me it was okay to go around the barricade.

At the window the playful woman looked up single seat availabilities and told me there was a seat available in Section 25. A seating diagram taped to the ticket window showed the section to be about 50 to 100 rows back from the third base line, starting about ten feet down the line from home plate.

"Cool! How much?"

Fifty dollas was the price. That's not a typo, by the way.... I asked if there were any less expensive seats, and she said there were not.

Then she said there was also some singles available in Section 93, which the diagram showed to be an upper deck seat down the first base line and in right field beyond first base.

She said, "Let me check the seats." After a mere second or two she practically shouted, "OOH! You gotta take the seat in Section 25. It's row one! The guy in front of you, in the last row of the section in front of you, paid 90 dollas for his seat. It's a great seat!"

I complimented her salesmanship and dropped my debit card into the tray. I wandered into the bowels of the stadium and got my bearings somewhat. I was quite hungry, so before I even checked out my seat, I went on the hunt for food. A few minutes later, with a beer in one hand and an Italian sausage in the other, I went to my seat.


The pre-game goings on going on...

And what a grand seat it was! I was close enough to read the names on the players' jerseys, but not close enough to smell them. At 6:30 it was still an absolutely gorgeous day. The sun was still high enough in the sky to alight on the grass on the field, but the shadows grew longer by the minute. There were some festivities on the field, with some honored kids bestowed with the opportunity to pose for photos with The Big Green Monster character, a really great sounding high school(?) female quartet singing the Canadian national anthem, an equally talented Latina singing the US National Anthem, and a couple different people out to toss the ceremonial first pitch.


PLAY BALL!


The Big Green Monster!

The game commenced, and the first inning ended with a Red Sox run on the scoreboard. There was one home run in the game, many great plays, and the Toronto Blue Jays out hit the Red Sox, but the Red Sox emerged victorious in the end. It wasn't until the fifth inning or so, when I looked at the American League standings board at the far left field end at the bottom of the famous Big Green Monster, that I realized why everyone was so eager to know if I had tickets. I never knew that the Toronto Blue Jays were in first place in the American League Eastern Division, and the Red Sox were in second place, just a game and a half behind them! What I also didn't know was that this game was the final in the series in which the Red Sox had already taken two games. If you were a Red Sox fan, this was the. game. to attend!

What a perfect night! There was at least one ticket to be had; the people in the seats all around me were civil at worst, friendly at best; the weather could not have been any better — the temperature was perfect; the food and drink were tasty (I also had a big slice of pizza and another beer in the 6th inning!); the view was spectacular; I was in the second greatest ballpark in the nation (sorry, Beantown...nothing will surpass Wrigley Field in my heart!); and the home team won.

To borrow from Marc Cohn's great song "Walking In Memphis," had anyone asked me that evening if I was a Red Sox fan, my reply would have been, "I am tonight!"

It was a perfect brew of circumstances: time on my hands, a legendary baseball park in the vicinity, an unbelievably gorgeous day and evening, and the well-timed thought to give it a go and take the chance that I could get a ticket. I think Murphy was asleep that night and was unable to enforce his law.

Well, Murphy is Irish. Maybe he's a Boston Red Sox fan.




End note: The next morning I did get the chance to meet up with Mr. Schprock for breakfast, and I told him about the baseball game.

"You got tickets?!" he asked me incredulously.

I guess I'm a lucky, lucky man!




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How Could I Be So Busy? I'm Unemployed!

Holy Crime and Punishment! I have been terribly lacking in the blog department, both the writing of and the reading of! For this I apologize, and I encourage you to go peruse my Facebook page and scroll back among my status updates to see where my head — and my creative energy — has been all this time. Of course, due to some reluctance on my part about putting my name out there on everything, I purposely omit the link to my Facebook page in hopes that you who don't already know it will be resourceful and dig it up on your own.

But on to the news...

Still Waters
Not much has been happening in the ol' World O' Farrago since I was given the ol' heave-ho by my former employer. Really, there are no hard feelings there. If it were some trumped-up accusation of wrongdoing or malfeasance on my part to bring on the boot, I would be disgruntled. If there had been some wrongdoing or malfeasance on my part — which would have indicated a certain level of disgruntlednessment — then I would likely still carry it with me. But, no. I was quite contentedly gruntled. It's just that the economy hit our clients who began cutting things out of their convention budgets... things like videos ... which are essential things if a videographer is going to keep his job...which this one did not.

And so here I sit, fully 5 weeks-and-change later, still jobless. I have been busy, nonetheless, with looking for gigs, trying to set up an online business, trying to get my actor's résumé together, and entertaining friends' offers to take me to lunch! The last on that list hasn't happened for a while, now, but it was nice while it lasted.

I have a head shot, now, for my actor's resume...



My (now very) good friend, Bob the Photographer, took this and many other shots, at no charge, nor expectation of any compensation, but I have yet at this moment to contact any agencies to see if they think I'm pretty enough to live.


Stirring the Waters
As dull as life has been since April, the past week has been equally opposite. On Friday Maggie, someone who has reinvented her online self (not to mention her real self!) since I visited on her turf last year, pulled into town to spend a couple evenings hanging around and sight-seeing and chatting. I like to talk, but I think I have found my equal — if not superior — in the gab department!!

There had been a loose plan from just about the moment she arrived to head downtown to Navy Pier or Chinatown for the afternoon. Unfortunately the weather had cooperated with Maggie less and less the further west she traveled, to the point that she reported seeing exotic animals lined up by twos along the Kennedy expressway! So, instead of Chicago we hit Schaumburg, the site of IKEA in the Chicago northwest suburbs! We browsed, observed a veritable surfeit of cheap French Press style coffee makers...they were stuck everywhere they could fit them, in all departments, on all floors. I was tempted to buy one just because I was certain that if I didn't, I sure as hell would need one later. As it goes, I already have a French Press coffee maker and, unfortunately, I paid about eight dollars more for it at Tar-zhay.

From IKEA, after our feet were tired from the wandering among the approximately 7.3 billion French Press coffee makers, and from posing the fairly hideous IKEA stuffed animals in obscene positions (well, I was, anyway), we departed IKEA for a local grocery store for some meat and produce. I guess I should rephrase... we went to a produce store for some meat and groceries. The produce section of this store has more fruits and vegetables on offer than some small Central American countries! I suppose I should have expected such a thing when I first entered the place, named Valli Produce, but Holy Crybabies! Maggie said she couldn't focus on the salad fixins she wanted to pick up because she was overwhelmed! But she got over it, we got all the things we needed, and we headed back to my place.

Maggie wanted to contribute to our meal by purchasing the ingredients for, and by making the salad. She done good, because here it is five days since she made the salad, and I'm still eating it!! Thanks, Maggie! I'm dreaming in color, now...it's GREEN!

We grilled steaks and potatoes, noshed on salad (which was superb, by the way), and we each fought to jibber-jabber more than the other, covering topics from religion, to theater, to music, to sex, my fetish for slim women, travel, the pope, and the life of an electron in the variegated constructs of quantum physics.

Okay. I'm kidding. We didn't really discuss the pope.

At two o'clock in the morning we looked at the clock and realized it was two o'clock in the morning, and we crashed, looking forward to Saturday.


Shine A Town... With Your Very Own Shy Knees
Morning dawned bright but grey. At least I think it was grey then. I wasn't up until way past dawn. I made a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon, but I offended Maggie's coffee sensibilities with my Italian Roast from my French Press served in American mugs made in China. I guess I've just gotten so used to strong coffee that I had forgotten that the spoon isn't supposed to stick straight out of the coffee without touching the sides of the mug.

We got a later start than we had wanted, but we were eventually on our way. We drove down to the edge of the city, hopped on a public transit train, were evicted from the train due to track work and herded onto a shuttle bus, driven downtown, herded back onto the train on the other side of the construction, down two stops, strolled briefly from one train station to another, boarded yet another train to go two stops south to Chinatown.

Though a lifelong resident of the Chicago area, this was my first time in Chinatown, and I must say I was a little disappointed. I expected a longer, larger, denser neighborhood than what is there. Maybe it used to be so, but with assimilation and maybe because of children growing up with more opportunities and leaving the area, Chinatown is perhaps suffering the consequences of progress.

We wandered up and down the one main drag, stopped into a few shops — a grocery/convenience store; a couple of pastry shops which, aside from the obviously Asian clerks, looked more Polish than Chinese; and one place on a corner, the merchandising of which we didn't get a chance to figure out because, shortly after we entered, the fire alarm sounded, and everyone in the store ran out the front door, out onto the sidewalk, around the side of the building and then back in through the rear door, at which point the fire alarm went silent. We never went back inside, but the alarm kept going off repeatedly, seeming to coincide with every time the traffic light on the corner turned red.

At one other place, a pastry shop, Maggie got a mango slushee made with real mango, and I got a Chinese coffee. I was intrigued by this until I realized that a Chinese coffee is simply coffee made and served by a Chinese person.

We briefly indulged the idea of finding Little Italy, and not entirely because I was keen on trying Italian coffee. However, it proved too far away and too daunting a public transportation adventure. And besides, we were running out of time for Navy Pier and dinner before the party.


Pier Pressure
We took a train and a bus up to Navy Pier where I gawked at the slim women walking to and fro, and Maggie gawked at the US Marines on hand to demonstrate how cool it is to be a US Marine — once you can get through that pesky 12-week boot camp — and, no doubt, to ruin any chance I might have had with any of the slim women standing around gawking at them. Barstads! Aren't they supposed to be off fighting a war, or something?

We wandered the length of the Pier, abbreviated by some sort of construction going on at the farthest point out into the lake, and we returned to the Pier entrance area, where we had dinner at Capi's Italian cafeteria. I had a side salad that could in no way even compare with Maggie's of the evening before (and several since!), and the chicken piccata, which was out of this world!


A Shared Shared Moment
After dinner we sort of moseyed along, taking a stroll to and along a very crowded Michigan Avenue until we reached Chicago Avenue, where we boarded a bus. We had only about a mile and a half to ride, but with the Saturday evening traffic, the going was slow. Maggie found an open seat on the jammed bus, but I remained standing for a couple more stops before a space opened beside her. We were in sideways-facing seats on the right side of the bus, facing in the direction of the left side. Directly to my left was one pair of forward-facing seats, occupied by a woman in the window seat, and a Hispanic-looking, 40-ish man on the aisle. Sitting there and riding along, waiting to hear the automated P.A. voice call out our stop, I started to people-watch. Shortly, several people wedged their way into place directly in front of Maggie and me, and stood there holding onto the straps above their heads. I looked up at one particularly slim, very attractive woman and made eye contact with her. What I mean is, when I looked up at her face, she was already looking at me. Somewhat surprised by this, I looked away again. Just a few seconds later, and because it was kind of a pleasant feeling the first time, I looked at the woman's face again, and she was still looking at me! I held her gaze for a couple of seconds, waiting for her to look away — or stick out her tongue at me, or mace me — and then I looked away again.

Once more, just a few seconds later, I looked at her again. She was STILL looking at me. So this time I held her gaze and smiled as smooth and cool and sexy a smile I could muster without crossing over into cheesy. Then her eyes darted over to Maggie, seated beside me to my right, and then back to me. I subtly shook my head to indicate that Maggie and I weren't "together," but as soon as I did, she looked away from me. I looked at her again a few times before we got to our stop, but she wasn't looking at me any more. If I were to wager a guess, I would say she was now avoiding my gaze. Weird! But exhilarating! I surmise that she was baiting me to see if I would "cheat" on my woman — who she thought was Maggie — and the moment I responded to her "offer" she was no longer interested because now I'm an asshole. OR, she was looking for the other two-thirds of the ingredients for making a Tony sandwich, and I simply wiggled my head the wrong way!

The bus arrived at our stop, and Maggie and I, as well as the really weird guy off his meds and being told some pretty hilarious jokes by the voices in his head, disembarked. No sooner had the doors closed again had Maggie started swearing and stomping her feet, and cursing the brevity of the bus ride. As I eagerly — and somewhat confusedly — awaited the end of her tirade, which I wasn't exactly hearing because I wanted to tell her of the experience I had just had on the bus, she went on to rant about the aforementioned Hispanic looking guy seated on the aisle just to my left who had made eye contact with her repeatedly, and then darted his eyes at me as though to ask if I was "in the picture," at which Maggie shook her head!

THESE ENCOUNTERS HAPPENED SIMULTANEOUSLY!

And then, as we left the bus, the guy had reached up and gently touched Maggie's hand and said, "Good-bye!"

I honestly don't know what either of us would have done had we connected, respectively. Well, I take that back. I know what I would've done. Maggie, being from out of town, wouldn't have known where to find me or how to get to me. Perhaps she wouldn't have cared! But would I have gone after the vague offer of a chance to pursue the idea of some nookie while hosting a friend from out of town? I'm fairly certain Maggie would have said... no, shouted, "GO!" But I would've worried about her...at least until I got eye-contact girl's shirt off....


Partay At the 'Belt' Way
Anyhoo, neither of us connected, and we went to the Chicago Karaoke Underground Party. It was a smaller turnout than times past, though no less the experience it has always been. Due to the drawn out conversation into the wee hours of the prior morning, and quite a bit of blathering throughout the day Saturday, my throat was feeling fairly raw, and my voice sounding ragged, before the first song rolled. I sounded like a poor impersonation of Paul Williams.

Maggie, who was demure and self-effacing about her singing ability, fairly well blew the room away from the moment she first opened her mouth at the mic. I don't recall which song she did first, but her rendition of "All That Jazz," from the musical Chicago, left just about everybody — men and women alike — panting. She was quite popular with everyone, certainly not shy, and quickly earned the adoration of the other guys in the room. She had already received several text messages from them before we ever got on the bus after the party.

We had left the party around 4:30am. The public transit back to my car on the edge of the city, and the ride in my car back to my apartment all totaled about an hour and, as we ascended the walk to my apartment building, I glanced to the east and said, "Heh," as it was all I could muster to draw attention to the dawn twilight at 5:30 in the fucking morning!

Saying very little, we headed to our respective beds and crashed immediately, waking about five hours later. After another hour or so of chatter, both our voices now evidencing wear and strain, Maggie determined it was time to go. She departed Chicago with promises of returning soon, and I waved her off with promises of letting her.

Woik!
Monday, while I tried to move forward on my acting career as well as my writing career (both still in "Park," at the moment) I received a text message from a former co-worker: "R U available thurs to shoot?"

A GIG!

I followed up on it all and it turns out it's not for my former employer, though I will be using some of their gear. I head to Boston early Thursday morning to shoot a skit with some executives in the afternoon, after which I'm stuck in Boston for the night due to the inequities of airline scheduling. I return home Friday morning. I'm hopeful that I'll be able to get together to break bread (or maybe wind) with Mr. Schprock, of Blogger.com fame. It'll have to be an early morning affair, seeing as how my flight is at 10:25, but le restaurant du choix is downtown.

As I prepared some gear at the place of my former employment, one of my former co-workers, Producer, saw me and said, "Hey! I have to book you for a couple of shoots!" It would appear that one of my former employer's clients who are still doing shoots happened to book their shoots for when the guy upon whose shoulders the shooting now falls is already booked! DAMN THE LUCK! WOO HOO!

Geeesh! I'm tired. Thanks for reading!

BBD

Hey, all, it's Berf's Biffday. Or make that Beef's Barfday. Baff's Beefday?

Whatever! Just click on the link and drop him a note...or drop your pants. Either way, he'll probably get a big kick out of it, seeing as how he's one to flash the family jewels on occasion.



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Flight of the Conchords Review Linky-Poo

As I promised, here is the link to my first pro writing gig, my review of Flight of the Conchords Tuesday night at the Arie Crown Theater in Chicago.

Read it 'n sleep!

But be sure to visit EventChaser.com to check for reviews of events and venues in your neck of the woods, and snoop around razorgator.com to see what's coming to your area and to buy tickets!

Coming Round

Carmi over at Write, Inc. does a weekly photo assignment for his readers to follow — if they're so inclined — called Thematic Photographic. This week's theme is "Round." If you feel so inclined, go there to see the rules, and to play.

I looked around (no pun) my home office and right away saw several round things...



A paper plate with the casings from formerly round slices of salami...



A water bottle...



A whole LOTTA round, here! (a drink coaster)...



Round, and round and round and round again...



I'll have one round, and then another (and another and another)...



I'll bet nobody else thought of the thing through which we photograph
our world!! (Yeah...the lens is dusty. I know. Get off my back!)

I kept looking around my apartment and saw so many round things that I felt faint to imagine shooting and posting them all, so I stopped.



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Writing For Pay! ...Sorta....

A few of my readers may have noticed that big orange ticket looking thing that recently appeared under my photo over there to the left. The other two of my readers usually fall asleep right at "FARRA—zzzzzzz..."

What the appearance of that big orange ticket looking thing means is I am now an official EventChaser. What that means is I have signed up at EventChaser.com to attend certain shows I want to see that they want covered, and then I will write a review at their website.

I went to their ticket site, Razorgator, perused the huge list of events, from sports to concerts to stage plays to coffee shop Icelandic death poem readings... okay, just kidding on that last one... and provided them with a list of the events coming to Chicago that I would like to attend.

The site is broken down into categories that separate the different events from each other so it's easy to find the kind of entertainment you're looking for, and I was most interested in concert tickets. Their list of concerts is two pages long with several hundred different shows currently listed! I provided them with a short list of about 97 things I'd like to see, and they're now going to send me at least one, maybe two Flight of the Conchords tickets for a show at the end of April! For FREE!!

Well, free, except for that part where I promised to write a review...

And then, in a fuzzy haze of bravado the likes by which I have never before been possessed, I asked the woman from EventChaser with whom I was corresponding if she would like to accompany me to the show! She declined, claiming that she lives in Arizona. My thought was, Fine, if she doesn't think I'm worth a 30-hour drive, eating fast-food in her car at 70 miles per hour, four nights of lodging alone in roadside motels, missing a week of work, and just one evening with a really nice guy who has some minor rejection issues and who might not want sex, then it's her loss. But I didn't say anything. I had already moved on.

Keep your eyes peeled at this site for a mention of my review with a link to EventChaser, where you will get to see my very first assignment as a professional writer!



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This Has Got To Be The Most Amazing Video On Youtube!

It came up on the home page. Please watch this. You will be entertained and astounded, especially if you have an appreciation for filmmaking and animation!






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Caught In the Wash

Just when I was hoping that the bad of 2007 and 2008 was wearing off, the other shoe dropped as the axe fell on the fat lady singing.

Circling the Drain
In 2003 I topped out at 94,000 miles on United Air Lines, with three trips to Hawaii in a six-week period, plus a now long-forgotten string of trips everywhere else. But that was also the year the United States initiated war on two fronts amid an economy reeling from the burst tech bubble and the effects of the 9/11 terrorist attacks on our nation. It's when things started to come apart.

I started my job in 2001, and established a travel trend. The following year showed an increase over the first, and 2003 was the peak. In the ensuing years, as the war(s) raged on in faraway places, our clients' budgets were gradually trimmed, certain of our services were not requested or were sought at a discount. The trend continued through each year; fewer videos were requested, fewer trips were made, fewer miles accumulated, and we were expected to cram more shooting into fewer shoot days on each trip.

Then came 2008 and the financial malfeasance of the largest insurance company in the world — and our second largest client — exposed when the stock markets could no longer maintain their stability. The ensuing bailout of the financial industry, and a further, yet misunderstood, misstep by that largest insurance company seemed to intensify the gravitational pull on the economy.

That largest of insurance companies, bolstered by the federal shot in the arm, proceeded to do business as usual, the business of making money. Unfortunately for them — though fortunately for the bloodthirsty news media — business as usual included annual incentive meetings recognizing their top performers, their top earners of the many smaller companies that make up the larger. This recognition was, for one of these smaller companies, in the form of a business conference at an upscale resort somewhere in the world where its top performers were lavished with dinners and entertainment and awards ceremonies, all on top of a few days with a lush resort at their disposal. What the rest of the world doesn't know because the ratings-hungry, bloodthirsty media didn't tell them is that this lavish party thrown for the people who earned the company millions of dollars in the previous year had already been paid for a year in advance. None of the bailout money had been used to put on the spectacle, save, probably, for travel expenses. And they flew in coach. I know this. I've flown with them.

The lawmakers, infuriated by the news media "exposure" of that largest insurance company's perceived lack of decorum with their assistance money, then further restricted that company from planning any more incentive trips, thus punishing the very people responsible for the company's earnings. Further, as that large insurance company had to cancel its contracts with several dozen resort hotels, event planning companies, travel management companies, and audio-visual event staging companies around the world, it lost several million more dollars that it had paid in non-refundable deposits and pre-payments to secure properties and services.

The side-effect, then, is that all those fringe companies lost work. All those companies faced huge budget shortfalls. All those small companies that rely on big companies doing big business with them had the rug yanked out from under their feet. And now all those companies are in crisis, letting staffers go, trying to outrun complete ruin.

Down the Tube
Three months into 2009, I had traveled a grand total of 5,300 miles on my airline of choice. The average by April 1 in prior years had been around 17,000 miles. Things were looking bleak.

On Friday I was working on a long-term, in-house project creating a book of photo contact sheets of the stages of all of our conventions and business meetings dating as far back as 1996. I was just about finished rearranging all of the pages in the backup copy when the accountant/CFO of the company appeared in the hallway and asked me to come to her office when I was done with what I was doing. I said I would, but I still had about a half-hour of work to do. After she walked away, the gears started turning in my head.

In October of 2008, two of the most recently hired people were laid off. It happened on a Friday afternoon at the end of a pay period.

I looked at my watch. It was about 4:00. The CFO rarely asked me to come to her office. If I was missing a receipt, she usually brought out a photocopy of a credit card statement with my expenses highlighted, and the transaction awaiting a receipt underlined. I started mentally preparing myself for a blow.

About ten minutes later she came back out and urgently waved at me to come with her. I followed her to her office and when I walked in, there sat the owner of the company. He asked me to close the door.

The good part of it is that he tried to be upbeat, earnest in letting me know that there is no animosity on his part in his decision to let me go, that it is just an unpleasant part of doing business. He told me there is a likelihood in the short term that I could be called back to work on a freelance basis should the need arise, and that, long term, if things turn around sufficiently, that I could be called back to join the staff again. However, he didn't sound as confident about the latter as he did the former. He gave me his assurance that I have his recommendation any time I ask for it.

It is clear to me that he is in survival mode.

And so, I am now among the ranks of the unemployed.


Phone Deaf
Since around 2003 I have carried a mobile phone provided to me by my employer. It actually supplanted my personal mobile phone as my employer purchased unlimited long distance plans and placed no restrictions on personal calls.

Upon my dismissal from their employ, I was notified that I could keep the phone (it's about three years old) and the phone number, but I would have to handle its transfer to a personal account.

I was told that there was no hurry in getting my ass out the door. I could take time to tell my now-former coworkers of my dismissal, or I could bolt out the door that second. I chose to stay and finish putting the pages in the book I had been working on, and then I went around the office and told people on an individual, face-to-face basis that I would not be back on Monday. It got me a big, warm hug from the hot graphic artist chick! I can say that now because I don't work with her any more.

A couple of guys said they would take me out for a beer, and they did. I felt bad enough already; I didn't want to swig beer all evening, risk a DUI on the way home and then wake up feeling like hell on top of feeling like shit…and possibly in the pokey…so I had A beer. They also footed for the steak dinner I had. And the cute waitress leaned against my leg every time she came to the table.

When I got home I sent e-mail to my siblings and to all of my friends across the country to let them know I was out of work and potentially coming to live with them. I announced it to the world in my Facebook status updater, and the responses started pouring in. The sympathy and shock were heartfelt and appreciated. My college friend who now lives in Florida was worried about me because, as she wrote in the Facebook chat box, she had tried to call me but couldn't get through, and she couldn't even leave me a voice mail.

That was odd. I picked up my phone and it appeared to be off. I pressed the "End" button to turn it on. It showed me the usual Verizon startup graphic, but then the screen went black for a second or two, and a strange, blue screen that I had never seen before popped up with the Motorola logo and a very tech-y font that read "BOOTLOADER USB INIT."

Those motherfuckers! I thought. They turned off my phone pretty much as I had walked out the door! My Florida friend called them bastards!

I had planned to make a trip to the Verizon store Saturday morning, anyway, but now it was absolutely necessary!

Saturday morning I fielded more responses to my predicament, chatted again with my Florida friend, and then I went to the Verizon store. I told the woman who greeted me about my circumstances, that the phone had already been turned off and asked if I could change the service over to a personal account. She called up the account by my phone number and gave the computer a strange look. Then she said, "The number is still active."

"Well, the phone doesn't work," I said.

She asked me, "What's it doing?"

I told her about the blue screen, and she shook her head.

"That means your phone is fried."

"Fried?" I asked.

"Fried."

The conversation went on like that for a few more seconds, at which point she told me that the blue screen pops up when the memory is full with too many photos and/or texts and/or audio or video files. And nothing can be done with it. None of the stored information can be retrieved from it.

Totally. Fupped. Duck. Dead.

All my contacts — gone. All my Police concert at Wrigley Field photos — gone. My photo of Jesus Christ at the airport, the photos of my ex-wife…. okay, maybe not so bad after all.

And my former employer had not turned off my phone.

Nobody at the Verizon store would transfer the number from the corporate account into a personal account without authorization from my former employer's CFO, who was also responsible for the Verizon contract. The manager was now chiming in. I asked if the CFO could do it over the phone, and they said they could try. Then it hit me: I don't know the CFO's number; I always used the speed dial function on my mobile phone! The other option was for me to fill out a form that I would then send in to Verizon. Once approved, they would transfer the number into a personal account in my name. That would take a minimum of two weeks. Mobile is the only voice communication I have. I do not have home phone service; I'm über-progressive that way. I had to get phone service today, whether it be my current number or a new one. So the Verizon lady looked more deeply into the corporate account info on her screen and found the CFO's mobile phone number!

I interrupted her grocery shopping, but she was very helpful in speaking to the Verizon folks, authorizing them to switch the number, and telling me to call her again if I needed anything.

I got the neat little Krave™ touch-screen phone by Motorola that had a special deal on offer. Of course, now the anal side of me is in constant freak mode because I have to touch the screen! I spent a good portion of the afternoon and early evening going through my e-mail address book and discovering how out of date a lot of my friends' contact information is! I got some phone numbers loaded, but the majority are lost until I can get the numbers from mutual acquaintances.


The Road Ahead
I still haven't gotten my head completely around what I have to do. Since I joined the Air Force in 1983, I had only been unemployed twice before — the first time right after I got out of the Air Force, and the next time eleven years later for an eight-month stretch when I moved back to Chicago and in with the future ex-Mrs. Farrago. That was almost ten years ago.

I received a decent severance. I could loaf for a month or so and concentrate on my writing. I have my Big Story that's been gathering dust on the proverbial shelf and in need of a research trip or two. I could explore different careers, such as professional writer, voice actor, actor actor, nude model, mod nudel….

But the responsible freak inside me says I should find some kind of employment SOON, like TOMORROW. So I will look.

Do you suppose they advertise for nude models in the newspaper?



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"Thinking"

I found this site thanks to John over at Random Squeegee, and I made my own little flick.

It's called Thinking. Does a woman really want to know what's on a man's mind?





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