Birds. I don't hate all of them across the board. Raptors I like a lot. Crows are cool. Hummingbirds are a constant source of amusement for me, as are all tiny birds in general, like wrens. I laugh anytime I see a tiny bird hopping about on the ground, instead of flying.
Pigeons are turds with wings. Seagulls are rat turds with wings, and lazy to boot. Doves are fairly inoffensive, but appallingly stupid.
All of these are allowed to exist in my world. The species I don't want, however, is the nameless little bastard who now infests a dense tree across the street from my house. I don't know what the thing is, as I have never seen it. The internet is of no use, as putting "noisy tiny feathered asshole awake only from 1 AM to 7 AM and singing" returns no useful data, like a wanted poster. If I could get even a general idea as to what it is, I would print some up myself and hang them about the neighborhood. "WANTED DEAD: Flapitus Obnoxius for crimes against the peace."
It might be different if the stupid thing actually sang. But no, all it does is repeat endlessly a series of individual piercing notes, which echo off the school building behind me. And it remains annoyingly silent during daylight. It starts up almost exactly at 1 AM every morning, and continues it's avian version of a Ramones song until 7 am. Yesterday I got home at 3 AM from working Keith Urban, and the little bastard was going full bore with all three of it's mindless notes. So I walked quietly over and stood under the tree he was in, shining my mag lite upwards to try and spot him. Finally I just body checked the tree a few times, and he flew off. Of course I couldn't get out from under the branches fast enough to spot him. I then decided perhaps I should amble back to my house, as even glib and silver-tongued me would have trouble explaining to Sunnyvale PD why I was slamming myself into a tree and shining a light in it at 3AM.
"Drinking officer? Me? Never touch the stuff. The tree thing? Oh I was just putting my trick shoulder back in place. The light? What light? Oh, you mean this lil ol thing?"
If I actually managed to, say, nail the peeping little crap-head with a rock, I would probably feel bad (maybe. Not very) and people would think I was mean or vicious. I do actually like to sleep, ya know....
If I was a cat though, I could wait patiently crouched behind shrubbery. Once the manic thing went into it's mindless noise routine, I could slink across the grass, and slowly work my way up the tree. Once I had spotted the target, a patient wind-up of my bunched up steel spring butt muscles, and a launch! Blammo! Mouth full of bird, air full of feathers, and blessed silence.
I picture further explaining to the Sunnyvale cops why I was up in tree, and why I had a bird in my mouth...
"Murd? Mwhut Murd? Verrs muffing im my mouffe...."
Friday, March 14, 2008
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Definitions
Recently it was suggested I look up the word "irony". So here it is....
i·ro·ny [ahy-ruh-nee, ahy-er-]
–noun, plural -nies.
1. the use of words to convey a meaning that is the opposite of its literal meaning: We are certainly fortunate to have a President concerned about education. "Rarely is the question asked: Is our children learning?" Well, is they?
2. Literature.
a. a technique of indicating, as through character or plot development, an intention or attitude opposite to that which is actually or ostensibly stated. No way can I improve on the Bard: "I come not to praise Caesar, but to bury him." It just doesn't get any better.
3. an outcome of events contrary to what was, or might have been, expected. "I am announcing a $5 million dollar grant for small businesses" and then getting outed for spending only $4300.00 on a prostitute.
or perhaps "“Well, we've got good relations with a lot of members of OPEC. If the president does his job, the president will earn capital in the Middle East, and get OPEC to open their spigots, and the president should have good standing with those nations. It's important for the president to explain, in clear terms, what high energy prices will not only do to our economy, but what high energy prices will do to the world economy.” Thankfully, our President is just as skilled at foreign relations as he is public speaking.
4. an objectively sardonic style of speech or writing. (see Scott.... and Jessica....) "Iraqi terrorist Khay Rahnajet didn't pay enough postage on a letter bomb. It came back with "return to sender" stamped on it. Forgetting it was the bomb, he opened it and was blown to bits." It's good to know the new improved security measures of the US Postal service caught this. Though it does seem a bit harsh to blow people up for insufficient postage.
At Dick Cheney's recent birthday party, the cake was Chocolate with Lipitor frosting.
i·ro·ny [ahy-ruh-nee, ahy-er-]
–noun, plural -nies.
1. the use of words to convey a meaning that is the opposite of its literal meaning: We are certainly fortunate to have a President concerned about education. "Rarely is the question asked: Is our children learning?" Well, is they?
2. Literature.
a. a technique of indicating, as through character or plot development, an intention or attitude opposite to that which is actually or ostensibly stated. No way can I improve on the Bard: "I come not to praise Caesar, but to bury him." It just doesn't get any better.
3. an outcome of events contrary to what was, or might have been, expected. "I am announcing a $5 million dollar grant for small businesses" and then getting outed for spending only $4300.00 on a prostitute.
or perhaps "“Well, we've got good relations with a lot of members of OPEC. If the president does his job, the president will earn capital in the Middle East, and get OPEC to open their spigots, and the president should have good standing with those nations. It's important for the president to explain, in clear terms, what high energy prices will not only do to our economy, but what high energy prices will do to the world economy.” Thankfully, our President is just as skilled at foreign relations as he is public speaking.
4. an objectively sardonic style of speech or writing. (see Scott.... and Jessica....) "Iraqi terrorist Khay Rahnajet didn't pay enough postage on a letter bomb. It came back with "return to sender" stamped on it. Forgetting it was the bomb, he opened it and was blown to bits." It's good to know the new improved security measures of the US Postal service caught this. Though it does seem a bit harsh to blow people up for insufficient postage.
At Dick Cheney's recent birthday party, the cake was Chocolate with Lipitor frosting.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Golden Boy is Back!
Here is my cliff notes review of last nights Oscars:
Favorites
Cate Blanchett's obviously excited reaction for Marion Cotillard winning, even though it meant Cate hadn't.
Diablo Cody, who reacted just right. I doubt she expected to win; only in Holly-owood could a former stripper win an Oscar.... oh, wait......
Jack Nicholson. Nuf' said.
Amy Adams. Sorry, her ultra-cutesy Betty Boop hands went perfectly with the song. Every time she did the hand twist, I saw Disney's Snow White. Perfect.
Cameron Diaz stumbling over "cinematography" and her recovery "I can do this..."
The winner of the Documentary film "Taxi to the Dark Side" who kept his speech short and direct, rather than getting on a soapbox. Good thing Michael didn't win..
In spite of the whole "keep it short" impetus, I think when there are two or even three winners, time could be extended by a few seconds to allow each at least time to say "thanks mom!"
John Stewart's best line of the night was about the Vanity Faire party allowing the writers to attend; "Don't worry, they won't mingle."
And the best moment was John Stewart, or whoever made the call, bringing back Marketa Irglova so she could say thank you. It was pretty obvious that Conti cut her short.
Not-Favorites
"Norbit" being nominated for anything. I'm not black, and I felt degraded when I saw the trailers. If I was black, I would probably smack Eddie Murphy. Twice.
The brevity of the Technical Awards. Maybe they could just have a separate nights show presenting those, so those of us who also have ties and skills in technical areas could enjoy seeing who got what.
Cate not winning for "Elizabeth: The Golden Years". She owns that role. If Cate did nothing but play Elizabeth in films covering her entire 44 year reign, I would applaud it. Besides, I have a huge crush on her.
The bee segment. I agree. I would rather watch 'The Swarm" than "Bee Movie". OK, maybe not. Close though.
The pacing. I didn't think it was staid, as much as I thought every one of the presenters, and even Stewart, were going a little slower just in case they didn't get enough rehearsal .....
The "In Memoriam" feature. I hate it because it always effects me. This years worst for me was the loss of Heath Ledger. He was talented and pleasant and looked to be another of the new stars, and his loss diminishes us all.
Favorites
Cate Blanchett's obviously excited reaction for Marion Cotillard winning, even though it meant Cate hadn't.
Diablo Cody, who reacted just right. I doubt she expected to win; only in Holly-owood could a former stripper win an Oscar.... oh, wait......
Jack Nicholson. Nuf' said.
Amy Adams. Sorry, her ultra-cutesy Betty Boop hands went perfectly with the song. Every time she did the hand twist, I saw Disney's Snow White. Perfect.
Cameron Diaz stumbling over "cinematography" and her recovery "I can do this..."
The winner of the Documentary film "Taxi to the Dark Side" who kept his speech short and direct, rather than getting on a soapbox. Good thing Michael didn't win..
In spite of the whole "keep it short" impetus, I think when there are two or even three winners, time could be extended by a few seconds to allow each at least time to say "thanks mom!"
John Stewart's best line of the night was about the Vanity Faire party allowing the writers to attend; "Don't worry, they won't mingle."
And the best moment was John Stewart, or whoever made the call, bringing back Marketa Irglova so she could say thank you. It was pretty obvious that Conti cut her short.
Not-Favorites
"Norbit" being nominated for anything. I'm not black, and I felt degraded when I saw the trailers. If I was black, I would probably smack Eddie Murphy. Twice.
The brevity of the Technical Awards. Maybe they could just have a separate nights show presenting those, so those of us who also have ties and skills in technical areas could enjoy seeing who got what.
Cate not winning for "Elizabeth: The Golden Years". She owns that role. If Cate did nothing but play Elizabeth in films covering her entire 44 year reign, I would applaud it. Besides, I have a huge crush on her.
The bee segment. I agree. I would rather watch 'The Swarm" than "Bee Movie". OK, maybe not. Close though.
The pacing. I didn't think it was staid, as much as I thought every one of the presenters, and even Stewart, were going a little slower just in case they didn't get enough rehearsal .....
The "In Memoriam" feature. I hate it because it always effects me. This years worst for me was the loss of Heath Ledger. He was talented and pleasant and looked to be another of the new stars, and his loss diminishes us all.
Friday, February 15, 2008
I still think these were funny
In fact, funny enough I would probably do them again. Consequences be damned...
My mother is a very petite 5' 1" and a whopping 105 pounds. She is also pretty high-strung. When I was in high school, the house we lived in had a very nice front entry, and a huge bay window next to the door. There was just enough space between the edge of the door, which opened away from the window, and the edge of the window itself for me to stand with my back flat against the wall, hidden behind the gathered drapes if they were opened.
Every day my mother had the same routine when she got home from work; open the door with her right hand (silly one-handed people) purse clutched in left. Take the keys out of the door and step inside, turning to push the door shut.Then it's down the hall to her room, into her closet, keys in a tray, purse on a hanger, suit jacket or sweater on its hanger, and then maybe changing into casual clothes.
So there she is, stepping inside the front door one afternoon, keys in one hand, purse in the other, oblivious to a six foot tall son standing inches away. OK, hiding behind the drapes. A tiny touch on the neck as I say "Hi mom!" loudly alomost in her ear. Wheeee! Keys flying one way, purse the other! If she was a Toon her eyes would have popped out of her head. A very satisfying shriek, and off I scamper through the living room, laughing like a mad thing, pursued by my mothers lilting dulcet theatre-trained tones.... "God damn you....bastard...". For my mother, that was intense language; if she was furious, you might actually hear "Shithead".
Of course no one could take that lying down; so I stop just around the corner of the wall that goes down to the right in the hallway that leads to all the bedrooms, the den, the bathrooms etc. It's basically a big "L" shape, with the foot of the L pointing out to the front of the house; my mothers bedroom, walk-in closet and master bathroom at the back corner of the L, then a bathroom, my brothers bedroom, my bedroom down the outer edge, the den and my grandmothers room on the inner edge, and the two car garage which was a playroom, and my workshop area, at the top. Ok, anyway, there I am lurking around the corner. Just before she comes around I lean out and say "Hi Mom!" again. Yipeee! A Double! Keys and purse are airborne again! "Bastard!"
Off I scurry again, mad delight lighting my eyes. She has had to turn around and pick up her stuff. She can't see where I am going. Now I can hear my grandmother calling her name, to see what the hell is going on, and my brother saying "Mom?" As she approaches again I can hear her muttering darkly. About what you would hear if Yosemite Sam's mom was pissed. Not sure she is speaking any human tongue, but I am probably lucky I have not been reduced to a grease spot. My grin is manic by now; I can hardly wait. Sure enough, the closet door swings open on to darkness, she reaches in to turn on the light, and I reach around the door to grab her wrist. "Hi mom!"
She could not have bounced about more if I had touched her with a live power line; her hair is all but standing on end. I am capering about inside the closet in a frenzy of personal enjoyment. Of course, my now highly pissed off mother.... is in the doorway. The exit. The escape path. Whoops. Short of just running her down, I am not going to escape unscathed. I don't. Pelted by her itty fists and her invective, which is mostly a string of "God damn hairy bastard rotten son of a bitch shithead monster grrr echhghge akfiefo ewwiofe" and as I laugh hysterically down the hallway a shoe ricochets off the wall. Into my room with the speed of glee, and lock the door! I think idly about moving the furniture in front of it as well, as I hold my aching sides. I think she is describing each and every way in which she plans to murder me, from the other side of the thin barrier. Hard to tell, as I am still laughing so hard tears are running down my cheeks. It's my first Trifecta!
This was followed, a safe interval later ( a month?) by my clearing every single item out from under the counter in the double-wide cupboard area next to the sink. Every Saturday, again a very predictable routine. Out she comes to the kitchen in her robe and jammies. Coffee cup down from the hangers, on the counter to the side of the sink. Water in the kettle on the stove, and fire it up. Instant coffee set down by the still empty cup. A bowl for cereal, a box of cereal, and finally the milk out of the refrigerator. Coffee crystals in the cup, jar back on the shelf. Cereal (almost always Grape Nuts) in the bowl, and back to your shelf you cereal box. Then the milk added, jug back in the refrigerator, the water is almost boiling, TADA!
There I am curled like an alien inside the cupboard, one door barely ajar. I can hear every step of the process, and her little ankles are inches away. There it is, the moment! I brush the door wider and grab both ankles. Her entire body vibrates as she jitters in place, trying to run while both her feet are pinned to the floor. The cereal box has gone flying, spreading a rain of Grape Nuts about the kitchen ( you can't vacuum milk, I have SOME sense....) the bowl is rattling about on the counter, singing it's hard plastic song, and I am howling with laughter again. Of course I also have no escape path again, but I knew that going in. I sort of failed to see however that with the knobs on the outside, there was no way I could hold the cupboard doors shut. Especially since once I start laughing, a three year old can beat me at arm wrestling. I have no strength at all when I start laughing.
So the cupboard doors are both wide open, I'm being kicked by angry little mom feet, a string of complete gibberish is pouring out, and I could not be having more fun.
Until Laura, that is. Also petite, she was about 5' 3" , with some surprising muscle hidden in the curves. And a temper, when roused, that would cow a par-boiled badger. My apartment in Redwood City had a walk in closet near the front door. The breaker panel was inside there, against the back wall. For several months, completely at random, the breaker that controlled all the main lighting would trip. Maybe once every two weeks, then three times in one night, then not again for a month... I replaced the breaker itself once, and still had the problem. Twice when we got home, Laura found the lights dead. The second time she went on a snarly little rant about my crappy apartment, my failure to fix the thing ( I had) how I should call a professional then.... Yes, dear, of course dear, whatever you say dear... (grin).
The next night, off it goes again. It's December, overcast and very dark outside. Laura is due any minute. So there I am, lurking. Sure enough, she opens the door, flips the switch, and nothing happens. And of course the muttered "stupid boyfriend crappy lighting damn landlords blah blah blah..." when she opens the door and reaches for the switch, I grab her wrist lightly and say "Booo!" Did I mention she was muscular? Out of the closet I come, towed on the end of an itty bitty arm attached to a vibrating in surprise little body. I fell on the floor laughing while she stood over me fuming, swearing, steam all but coming out of her ears. Wheee! Not as funny as my mom, but pretty good all the same....
Of course I have also paid a fairly serious price for a few stunts. Pinning one girlfriend to the bed and tickling her by dragging my hair back and forth over her got me a black eye, when her head came up while mine was swinging back... my friends at work refused to believe Lyn had done that, and that I must have been in a fight and won.
Then there was Margaret. Did I say Laura had a temper? Nothing beats black Irish. Scott Breedlove and his wife Blossom were down for the weekend, and we were engaged in our regular game of "Boys vs Girls for domination of the world" Uno match. We played to a thousand points, and used a modified deck, with all the action cards, the zeros ,ones and twos added from a second deck. A certain amount of drinking and ... ahem..... smoking accompanied the game. Well, truth to be told it usually started before dinner, and continued all night. Whatever.
On the fateful hand, I was dealt seven Draw Four cards out of a possible eight. Scott B got the other Draw Four, and I think three Draw Twos, a Reverse and a pair of Skips. Margaret never got to play a single card. Blossom played two. I hit Blossom once with a Draw Four, Scott got her once, and Margaret got hit with everything else. On Blossom's deal. I was actually feeling a bit bad, but the truth is that the girls never once pushed us over a thousand points, or even over 600. They rarely won more than one or two hands the entire night. This was just so overwhelming it was absurd. Added to that was the growing look of utter shock on everyones face, as I continued to roll out nothing but the Draw Fours. Even Scott was stunned.
I tried to say "Sorry" to Margaret when Scott went out, but instead of counting her points, or even responding to Blossoms offer to count them for her, she threw her cards down on the floor. I was thinking to get her laughing, but chose the wrong tactic (there was no right one.... but I chose poorly). "Margaret, are you mad at me?" with a dopey little grin, as if to say hey, how could you be mad, it's only a game.... and she swatted at my head. I pulled back out of range, and I made another bad choice. I decided to bait her a bit. So I kept leaning a little closer, pullling back a little later, as I asked three times "Are you trying to slap me? You wouldn't slap me, would you?" Each time the hand came a bit closer. I suddenly realized she wasn't playing, she was seriously pissed, and I made my third bad choice. I would let her actually slap me, and then she would cool down.
Wrong plan. This time the wind-up nearly turned her 180 degrees. The hand came at the end of a fully extended arm, and Margaret was 5' 7" and 140 pounds. Not a tiny girl. I was leaning way in, and there was no way to get away fast enough. I caught the whole hand across the side of my face.
The sound was like a pistol shot; my head snapped all the way over my right shoulder, so far that I could see Blossoms face, with eyes the size of saucers. My contact lenses came loose. I snapped my head back, looking at Margaret with a combination of anger at her for nailing me, and at myself for provoking it, and shock. There was a good full second of stillness, and then she threw herself forward and wrapped her arms around my waist, her head buried against my body, and a constant stream of "I'm sorry I didn't mean to do that you were teasing me and I was mad and I shouldn't be a poor sport and please don't throw me off the balcony or draw and quarter me....".
It took a few seconds for the ringing in my head to stop, and about that time my shocked nervous system cautiously sent the first message along. "Ow. Shit. Owwww! Christ, how hard did you slap me? Owww!" After prying her loose, and assurring her that I probably wouldn't kill her, I walked in to the bathroom and turned on the light. If I ever needed Margarets fingerprints, I could have taken them then. Her hand was perfectly outlined in red on my face. Ow.
Scott and Blossom were still frozen in place, like deer caught inside your... refrigerator. I started laughing, which I'm sure they all thought meant I was totally insane, then apologized to Margaret and tried to explain I had actually thought it would get her laughing when I teased her, and how amazed I had been at the hand..... we finally picked up all her cards, and I think she had about 500 points all by herself. I had dumped at least 20 cards on her, and I think Scott nailed her for 4 more. We had to wait to start the next hand while I held an ice pack on my face, which felt sunburned for about 10 minutes at least.
My mother is a very petite 5' 1" and a whopping 105 pounds. She is also pretty high-strung. When I was in high school, the house we lived in had a very nice front entry, and a huge bay window next to the door. There was just enough space between the edge of the door, which opened away from the window, and the edge of the window itself for me to stand with my back flat against the wall, hidden behind the gathered drapes if they were opened.
Every day my mother had the same routine when she got home from work; open the door with her right hand (silly one-handed people) purse clutched in left. Take the keys out of the door and step inside, turning to push the door shut.Then it's down the hall to her room, into her closet, keys in a tray, purse on a hanger, suit jacket or sweater on its hanger, and then maybe changing into casual clothes.
So there she is, stepping inside the front door one afternoon, keys in one hand, purse in the other, oblivious to a six foot tall son standing inches away. OK, hiding behind the drapes. A tiny touch on the neck as I say "Hi mom!" loudly alomost in her ear. Wheeee! Keys flying one way, purse the other! If she was a Toon her eyes would have popped out of her head. A very satisfying shriek, and off I scamper through the living room, laughing like a mad thing, pursued by my mothers lilting dulcet theatre-trained tones.... "God damn you....bastard...". For my mother, that was intense language; if she was furious, you might actually hear "Shithead".
Of course no one could take that lying down; so I stop just around the corner of the wall that goes down to the right in the hallway that leads to all the bedrooms, the den, the bathrooms etc. It's basically a big "L" shape, with the foot of the L pointing out to the front of the house; my mothers bedroom, walk-in closet and master bathroom at the back corner of the L, then a bathroom, my brothers bedroom, my bedroom down the outer edge, the den and my grandmothers room on the inner edge, and the two car garage which was a playroom, and my workshop area, at the top. Ok, anyway, there I am lurking around the corner. Just before she comes around I lean out and say "Hi Mom!" again. Yipeee! A Double! Keys and purse are airborne again! "Bastard!"
Off I scurry again, mad delight lighting my eyes. She has had to turn around and pick up her stuff. She can't see where I am going. Now I can hear my grandmother calling her name, to see what the hell is going on, and my brother saying "Mom?" As she approaches again I can hear her muttering darkly. About what you would hear if Yosemite Sam's mom was pissed. Not sure she is speaking any human tongue, but I am probably lucky I have not been reduced to a grease spot. My grin is manic by now; I can hardly wait. Sure enough, the closet door swings open on to darkness, she reaches in to turn on the light, and I reach around the door to grab her wrist. "Hi mom!"
She could not have bounced about more if I had touched her with a live power line; her hair is all but standing on end. I am capering about inside the closet in a frenzy of personal enjoyment. Of course, my now highly pissed off mother.... is in the doorway. The exit. The escape path. Whoops. Short of just running her down, I am not going to escape unscathed. I don't. Pelted by her itty fists and her invective, which is mostly a string of "God damn hairy bastard rotten son of a bitch shithead monster grrr echhghge akfiefo ewwiofe" and as I laugh hysterically down the hallway a shoe ricochets off the wall. Into my room with the speed of glee, and lock the door! I think idly about moving the furniture in front of it as well, as I hold my aching sides. I think she is describing each and every way in which she plans to murder me, from the other side of the thin barrier. Hard to tell, as I am still laughing so hard tears are running down my cheeks. It's my first Trifecta!
This was followed, a safe interval later ( a month?) by my clearing every single item out from under the counter in the double-wide cupboard area next to the sink. Every Saturday, again a very predictable routine. Out she comes to the kitchen in her robe and jammies. Coffee cup down from the hangers, on the counter to the side of the sink. Water in the kettle on the stove, and fire it up. Instant coffee set down by the still empty cup. A bowl for cereal, a box of cereal, and finally the milk out of the refrigerator. Coffee crystals in the cup, jar back on the shelf. Cereal (almost always Grape Nuts) in the bowl, and back to your shelf you cereal box. Then the milk added, jug back in the refrigerator, the water is almost boiling, TADA!
There I am curled like an alien inside the cupboard, one door barely ajar. I can hear every step of the process, and her little ankles are inches away. There it is, the moment! I brush the door wider and grab both ankles. Her entire body vibrates as she jitters in place, trying to run while both her feet are pinned to the floor. The cereal box has gone flying, spreading a rain of Grape Nuts about the kitchen ( you can't vacuum milk, I have SOME sense....) the bowl is rattling about on the counter, singing it's hard plastic song, and I am howling with laughter again. Of course I also have no escape path again, but I knew that going in. I sort of failed to see however that with the knobs on the outside, there was no way I could hold the cupboard doors shut. Especially since once I start laughing, a three year old can beat me at arm wrestling. I have no strength at all when I start laughing.
So the cupboard doors are both wide open, I'm being kicked by angry little mom feet, a string of complete gibberish is pouring out, and I could not be having more fun.
Until Laura, that is. Also petite, she was about 5' 3" , with some surprising muscle hidden in the curves. And a temper, when roused, that would cow a par-boiled badger. My apartment in Redwood City had a walk in closet near the front door. The breaker panel was inside there, against the back wall. For several months, completely at random, the breaker that controlled all the main lighting would trip. Maybe once every two weeks, then three times in one night, then not again for a month... I replaced the breaker itself once, and still had the problem. Twice when we got home, Laura found the lights dead. The second time she went on a snarly little rant about my crappy apartment, my failure to fix the thing ( I had) how I should call a professional then.... Yes, dear, of course dear, whatever you say dear... (grin).
The next night, off it goes again. It's December, overcast and very dark outside. Laura is due any minute. So there I am, lurking. Sure enough, she opens the door, flips the switch, and nothing happens. And of course the muttered "stupid boyfriend crappy lighting damn landlords blah blah blah..." when she opens the door and reaches for the switch, I grab her wrist lightly and say "Booo!" Did I mention she was muscular? Out of the closet I come, towed on the end of an itty bitty arm attached to a vibrating in surprise little body. I fell on the floor laughing while she stood over me fuming, swearing, steam all but coming out of her ears. Wheee! Not as funny as my mom, but pretty good all the same....
Of course I have also paid a fairly serious price for a few stunts. Pinning one girlfriend to the bed and tickling her by dragging my hair back and forth over her got me a black eye, when her head came up while mine was swinging back... my friends at work refused to believe Lyn had done that, and that I must have been in a fight and won.
Then there was Margaret. Did I say Laura had a temper? Nothing beats black Irish. Scott Breedlove and his wife Blossom were down for the weekend, and we were engaged in our regular game of "Boys vs Girls for domination of the world" Uno match. We played to a thousand points, and used a modified deck, with all the action cards, the zeros ,ones and twos added from a second deck. A certain amount of drinking and ... ahem..... smoking accompanied the game. Well, truth to be told it usually started before dinner, and continued all night. Whatever.
On the fateful hand, I was dealt seven Draw Four cards out of a possible eight. Scott B got the other Draw Four, and I think three Draw Twos, a Reverse and a pair of Skips. Margaret never got to play a single card. Blossom played two. I hit Blossom once with a Draw Four, Scott got her once, and Margaret got hit with everything else. On Blossom's deal. I was actually feeling a bit bad, but the truth is that the girls never once pushed us over a thousand points, or even over 600. They rarely won more than one or two hands the entire night. This was just so overwhelming it was absurd. Added to that was the growing look of utter shock on everyones face, as I continued to roll out nothing but the Draw Fours. Even Scott was stunned.
I tried to say "Sorry" to Margaret when Scott went out, but instead of counting her points, or even responding to Blossoms offer to count them for her, she threw her cards down on the floor. I was thinking to get her laughing, but chose the wrong tactic (there was no right one.... but I chose poorly). "Margaret, are you mad at me?" with a dopey little grin, as if to say hey, how could you be mad, it's only a game.... and she swatted at my head. I pulled back out of range, and I made another bad choice. I decided to bait her a bit. So I kept leaning a little closer, pullling back a little later, as I asked three times "Are you trying to slap me? You wouldn't slap me, would you?" Each time the hand came a bit closer. I suddenly realized she wasn't playing, she was seriously pissed, and I made my third bad choice. I would let her actually slap me, and then she would cool down.
Wrong plan. This time the wind-up nearly turned her 180 degrees. The hand came at the end of a fully extended arm, and Margaret was 5' 7" and 140 pounds. Not a tiny girl. I was leaning way in, and there was no way to get away fast enough. I caught the whole hand across the side of my face.
The sound was like a pistol shot; my head snapped all the way over my right shoulder, so far that I could see Blossoms face, with eyes the size of saucers. My contact lenses came loose. I snapped my head back, looking at Margaret with a combination of anger at her for nailing me, and at myself for provoking it, and shock. There was a good full second of stillness, and then she threw herself forward and wrapped her arms around my waist, her head buried against my body, and a constant stream of "I'm sorry I didn't mean to do that you were teasing me and I was mad and I shouldn't be a poor sport and please don't throw me off the balcony or draw and quarter me....".
It took a few seconds for the ringing in my head to stop, and about that time my shocked nervous system cautiously sent the first message along. "Ow. Shit. Owwww! Christ, how hard did you slap me? Owww!" After prying her loose, and assurring her that I probably wouldn't kill her, I walked in to the bathroom and turned on the light. If I ever needed Margarets fingerprints, I could have taken them then. Her hand was perfectly outlined in red on my face. Ow.
Scott and Blossom were still frozen in place, like deer caught inside your... refrigerator. I started laughing, which I'm sure they all thought meant I was totally insane, then apologized to Margaret and tried to explain I had actually thought it would get her laughing when I teased her, and how amazed I had been at the hand..... we finally picked up all her cards, and I think she had about 500 points all by herself. I had dumped at least 20 cards on her, and I think Scott nailed her for 4 more. We had to wait to start the next hand while I held an ice pack on my face, which felt sunburned for about 10 minutes at least.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Nope, not going there
I thought today I would write some funny anecdotes about ex-girlfriends.
Fortunately, I saw some emails from ex girlfriends. I then realized ( I is slow ) that I am still in touch with several, going back as far as High School. While I am still friends with all of them, the rational part of my mind (yes, all of you; I do have a rational part. It's tiny, and hides a lot in fear of the rest of my minds contents) said
"Uh, boss?"
"Yes?"
"Is that a good idea?"
"I don't see why not. They all still like me."
"True. But you see, what you think is funny does not always match too well with what other people think is funny. The Bucky Bee thing? Funny. The jump out of the closet in the dark and grab her? Not funny."
"Oh. Right"
"Plus, they would compare notes."
"Oh shit......Nyarlathotep! Run!"
Sooooo..... I think I'll just amble away from that one, mental hands in pockets, whistiling idly while trying to glance surreptitiously over my electronic shoulder, to see if there is anything inbound with my name on it, like a bowling ball.
"So, you thought my sitting on your brush was funny, did you? Steeeerike!"
Of course I could always trash the two who don't talk to me any more, but where is the fun in that? I mean if they won't ever see it, it's just me being a jerk. Plus, women always stick together, so I would get roasted that way too. (gr) Sigh. I'm afraid that the idea confirms my worst nightmare; my tombstone is almost guaranteed to say;
It seemed like a good idea at the time...
Fortunately, I saw some emails from ex girlfriends. I then realized ( I is slow ) that I am still in touch with several, going back as far as High School. While I am still friends with all of them, the rational part of my mind (yes, all of you; I do have a rational part. It's tiny, and hides a lot in fear of the rest of my minds contents) said
"Uh, boss?"
"Yes?"
"Is that a good idea?"
"I don't see why not. They all still like me."
"True. But you see, what you think is funny does not always match too well with what other people think is funny. The Bucky Bee thing? Funny. The jump out of the closet in the dark and grab her? Not funny."
"Oh. Right"
"Plus, they would compare notes."
"Oh shit......Nyarlathotep! Run!"
Sooooo..... I think I'll just amble away from that one, mental hands in pockets, whistiling idly while trying to glance surreptitiously over my electronic shoulder, to see if there is anything inbound with my name on it, like a bowling ball.
"So, you thought my sitting on your brush was funny, did you? Steeeerike!"
Of course I could always trash the two who don't talk to me any more, but where is the fun in that? I mean if they won't ever see it, it's just me being a jerk. Plus, women always stick together, so I would get roasted that way too. (gr) Sigh. I'm afraid that the idea confirms my worst nightmare; my tombstone is almost guaranteed to say;
It seemed like a good idea at the time...
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Trial by fire
OK, so several friends whined, I mean sniveled, I mean asked politely, if I would change the posting restriction to allow "anonymous" posts, so they did not have to create a Gmail account. Even if it just meant having the account, and never having to read the emails they might (or probably would not) get, since the account wouldn't go anywhere. Sigh.
Of course I had it set that way on the advice of three people who had blogs already, and from the Godfather of Geeks, Loyd Case.
But because I love you all dearly, I will see how much crap winds up on my blog from morons doing spam-posts. If its less than one or two a week, no problem. If it gets to the point where I have to take time each day to clean the blog off, remove those "I have pics of myself wearing rubber galoshes and latex gloves and nothing else, come see me!" "Nede Vgria? Fr3 spmalples here!" "Penguin love, only $9.95 a month!" postings, then it gets turned back on, and you can either try to remember that one added logon you now have, or worry about how much spam is getting sent to an email account you never open; unless of course possession of an email address is to you what "Shave and a Haircut" is to a 'Toon, and having the account means you are compelled to check it every day for the emails you didn't want in the first place, like the people who can't see a long running thread and just hit "delete" instead of opening it and then complaining about the endless thread, which of course means you just added a pointless email to everyone else that is actually enjoying the thread, or who think that the use of capitals AT ALL in an email constitutes "shouting" as though the email made more noise when you read it if there are any capitals in it or your computer is actually so overloaded with gak that the damn thing reads the emails to you so you don't have to strain your eyes, which are probably trashed anyway, in a voice like a carefully crafted blend of Stephen Hawking and a Stepford wife...... in which case I will torture you at every opportunity by rapping it out on nearby walls, desktops, etc. forcing you to leap up on the nearest flat surface, moving or not, and belt out "twooooo bitttts!"
Oh. The title actually refers to A) my playful flaming of some of you, and B) my intent to actually set you ablaze on a Denethor-inspired pre-funeral pyre if I have to fuss over this blog endlessly, assuming I can find a really tall cliff for you to run off the edge of while burning. So there.
Of course I had it set that way on the advice of three people who had blogs already, and from the Godfather of Geeks, Loyd Case.
But because I love you all dearly, I will see how much crap winds up on my blog from morons doing spam-posts. If its less than one or two a week, no problem. If it gets to the point where I have to take time each day to clean the blog off, remove those "I have pics of myself wearing rubber galoshes and latex gloves and nothing else, come see me!" "Nede Vgria? Fr3 spmalples here!" "Penguin love, only $9.95 a month!" postings, then it gets turned back on, and you can either try to remember that one added logon you now have, or worry about how much spam is getting sent to an email account you never open; unless of course possession of an email address is to you what "Shave and a Haircut" is to a 'Toon, and having the account means you are compelled to check it every day for the emails you didn't want in the first place, like the people who can't see a long running thread and just hit "delete" instead of opening it and then complaining about the endless thread, which of course means you just added a pointless email to everyone else that is actually enjoying the thread, or who think that the use of capitals AT ALL in an email constitutes "shouting" as though the email made more noise when you read it if there are any capitals in it or your computer is actually so overloaded with gak that the damn thing reads the emails to you so you don't have to strain your eyes, which are probably trashed anyway, in a voice like a carefully crafted blend of Stephen Hawking and a Stepford wife...... in which case I will torture you at every opportunity by rapping it out on nearby walls, desktops, etc. forcing you to leap up on the nearest flat surface, moving or not, and belt out "twooooo bitttts!"
Oh. The title actually refers to A) my playful flaming of some of you, and B) my intent to actually set you ablaze on a Denethor-inspired pre-funeral pyre if I have to fuss over this blog endlessly, assuming I can find a really tall cliff for you to run off the edge of while burning. So there.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Some funny stuff
Some of these are only funny at a remove of some time, and some were funny right then. I'm trying for a chronology from my early years on; no, the first one did not happen last week.....
Looking to see where the wee-wee came from while I was being potty-trained. My mother really didn't think it was that funny; I was just startled.... (what, 1 1/2?)
Trying to keep my friend Laura from looking at mine, even though she was adamant about it and pulling my pants down. Her mother had to intervene. (2-3 years old)
Putting a cheerio in my eye, because it was round, and my father put round things in HIS eyes at the table every morning. (Same age)
Trying to reassemble the camera I had taken apart. I actually got all the parts back on.... well, except the little plastic shield that covered the film, and let you see how much was left. Sorry. (4)
Setting the dining room center piece on fire, whilst ridding myself of the napkin I had stuck in the candle flame.... ooops (4)
Learning about gravity when I tried to throw a chunk of wood the size of my arm over a seven foot high fence. Bonk (4)
Learning that A) My mother screams really loud and B) Tarantulas do not take baths, when she saw one the size of a dessert plate marching it's wet little (big, hairy, pissed) self up the hill after me. How was I supposed to know that the hole in the ground I had decided to stick the garden hose in while supposedly helping her water was it's home? Who lives in holes in the dirt? (4 or 5)
Playing catch with ANY kind of ball is stupid, if you live at the top of a street that slants downwards for 100 yards at a 10 degree angle. You are not playing "catch". You are playing "Shit! Run!" so you don't lose another one to traffic on Farm Hill Boulevard, which is actually around the corner another 200 feet and down another sloping street. What dipshit builds houses on hills like this? Any kind of round ball is hopeless, and the bouncier they are the worse they are. Footballs still roll away really fast, they just look retarded doing it, and take evasive action at random, which actually makes you run more.... ( 3 to almost 6)
Discovering that tossing little rocks into the dryer flap from outside really wasn't all that cool, even if they did get tossed back out, after one got stuck and broke the dryer, forcing my parents to call a repairman, who asked how rocks got into the blower motor..... the cats? (6)
Stabbing my father in the nose while he was teaching me to fence. (7)
Punching my father in the crotch, when he switched to boxing lessons. (8)
Driving my bike in a circle and then falling off it, because I was riding around two 10 year old girls and showing off. (8)
Playing army in houses being built, and discovering I could jump out a second floor window and land in a sand pile below. The only thing better than the look of panic and shock on my friends faces was when we all stopped playing army and started leaping out the windows, and the look on the construction guys face when he came back to get something and saw 6 boys leaping out windows. Priceless (8 or so)
Showing up in my Zorro costume complete with sword on my first Halloween in a new school. And then finding out no one else ever came to school in costume.... whooops. (9)
Showing up in my cub scout uniform (yes, doubters, all the way to Eagle..) and discovering no one wore THOSE to school either... god dammit... (9)
Driving my brand new ten-speed into the rear gate of a badly parked station wagon and winding up all the way inside. Why? I was flirting with the girl I had a mad crush on, Debra Lakkso, who was in her swimsuit in her front yard. She did come running to see if I was OK, and felt it was her fault for calling out to say hi.... suddenly, being draped over the back of a seat in some asshole strangers station wagon was a good thing. (10)
Falling 10 feet or more from 50 feet up in pine tree, and landing sitting on branch, paralyzed and terrified. No girls involved, I just went too high and chose poorly... (10)
Having a crush on a teacher, and thinking neither she nor my classmates knew it. (11)
Thinking my cast was good for using on the 8th grader trying to bully me. Sure, hitting him in the head with a plaster covered arm made him run away. Fuck. I should have let him keep jabbing me. ( 11)
Getting the broken arm in the first place, chasing a girl on a winding brick garden path (supposedly because she took my glasses, in actuality so I could try another kiss) and tripping, falling and breaking my stupid arm. Would have been OK if I had still collected the kiss.(11)
Blushing even more than she did when I explained how Boa Constrictors work to a really lovely girl named Becky. (12)
Someone (ahem HI!) getting a Sequoia Players award for skimpiest bathing suit; two corn pads and a band-aid. Of course then I got a copy of "How to Win Friends and Influence People", so I should probably shut up. I gave it away. I had already read it. Obviously it didn't take. (13)
Getting stoned for the first time with two senior girls during intermission for "J.B" and thinking the semi-chaperone would not have a clue. Who smells like pot? (15)
Discovering that what they tell you about ministers daughters is the tip of the iceberg. Nuff said. (16)
Finding that the two women I shared a dressing room with were down to underwear during a costume change, and realizing I hadn't noticed it in four or five shows, and several rehearsals. Then turning red because I was in nothing but socks and underwear, and I had no idea if I had ever been wearing the red and black tiger stripe men's bikini briefs. (17) (I stopped tightie-whities at 13 or 14, and boxers suck. Sorry girls, you may think they are sexy; you don't have to deal with the luggage issue...)
Getting outside the SOC dorms with Marc Lieberman, and reciting Romeo's balcony speech in stereo to the collection of 14 to 16 year old girls on the third floor, until their chaperone looked out to see what was going on.... (17)
And getting locked (tied, actually) into my dorm room at SOC with the whole batch while George Dragan and the others went off to the local bar. I hate being trapped in a room with, what eight pretty women? OK, and one gay male, and one other guy (Mitch? Help me out here!) (17)
Getting too high at my own cast party, walking out of my room and taking a shower to sober up, putting my pants on but forgetting my shirt, and walking back into my room. Problem? Oh, yeah. All my friends were still in the room; Cathy, Peter, Nancy, Wesa...... oh well. (17 or so)
Thinking that the bikini briefs I was wearing were dark enough, and looked like Speedos... sort of, so I could go swimming in the SOC pool while we were at Ashland. One, the material in Speedos is actually DENSER than, oh, cotton underwear... and the elastic holds up better if you are doopid enough to use the high board.... (18)
Getting too high with friends, and forgetting to tell them that in my bedroom was OK; when my mother opened the door two of them almost imploded, and I was laughing so hard I couldn't get out of my lounge chair to open my window. I had forgotten to open it, and smoke was "billowing" out from under the door. My mother called me an idiot, opened the window and marched out, and my friends were still paralyzed. Scott Breedlove was laughing almost as hard as I was. (18)
Horseback riding with Shelley and Scott Breedlove. Finding out my horse was cranky, when she would pick one leg up at random anytime we stopped, including once in the midst of stirrup-high bushes. Finding out she was in heat when she tried to let Shelley's stallion mount her, while I was still aboard. Finding out I could teleport when she (Nugget, not Shelley) tried to kick me while I groomed her. (18)
Watching Scott's feet come out of the stirrups when Shelley sent his horse galloping off across a newly plowed field, and not being able to stop laughing as the "Ah! AH! AHH! shouts of pain dwindled in the distance, because all Scott could do was grab the pommel and bounce. (18)
Accidentally (honestly) removing Lynda Paynes mini-skirt in the school hallway, then having to run all the way back into the main building while she chased me swinging her purse at my head,trying to give her the skirt back en-passant. (18)
Using a smaller snoshield ( or whatever those dumb round trash-can lid things were called) than I should have, and using it on a toboggan run. During the course of my completely out-of-control spinning slide I lost my hat, one glove, both of my goddamn BOOTS, one sock..... crap. Did you know snow is cold? Did you know that those stupid things have no brakes? Did you know that if you stop them by ramming head-first into a drift, snow will follow the path of least resistance through every tiny gap in your clothes? Did I mention snow is COLD? (18)
Taking Liz Sulikowski's halter top off, not once or twice but three times, every time I put my hand behind her neck. (18)
Losing a wheel chair race in college, because I took a "shortcut" and wound up rolling into the bushes at the foot of the wheelchair ramp. The guys in wheel chairs came down sllllooowwwwwwly.... (19)
Discovering my pants had split in back while ice skating with Lya, and I WAS wearing tiger stripes (new pair). (19)
Getting a pie in the face for my birthday, from Marge. (19)
During the performance of my scene for finals in drama, getting completely lost in the kiss at the end with my (female, dorks) partner Lori. We sort of both forgot, actually. Until the applause started. Whooops. Then we had to sit there and listen to notes, from Kurtwood Smith. (20)
Nude skydiving. Yes. Once. It was suggested at a party as a challenge actually, from a rather jealous boyfriend of a woman named Lisa. Unfortunately he never showed up, and I was left with a six-pack of dead-head skydivers, who still wanted to do it. The honest truth? I was terrified. I think I tried to grab the plane after I got dragged (yes) out. I probably wouldn't have remembered to pull anything if I hadn't been on a training leash. The only satisfaction came really at the landing, when one of the pros landed in some bushes; like, the only clump available in a 30 or 40 foot area. Well, that and what terminal velocity does to exposed skin, and ummm, other things.....(22)
Christ. That only covers me for 20 years. Chapter two will come later, I guess..... have you noticed, all of my dimmer moments involve women? They will be the death of me. Yesssss!
Looking to see where the wee-wee came from while I was being potty-trained. My mother really didn't think it was that funny; I was just startled.... (what, 1 1/2?)
Trying to keep my friend Laura from looking at mine, even though she was adamant about it and pulling my pants down. Her mother had to intervene. (2-3 years old)
Putting a cheerio in my eye, because it was round, and my father put round things in HIS eyes at the table every morning. (Same age)
Trying to reassemble the camera I had taken apart. I actually got all the parts back on.... well, except the little plastic shield that covered the film, and let you see how much was left. Sorry. (4)
Setting the dining room center piece on fire, whilst ridding myself of the napkin I had stuck in the candle flame.... ooops (4)
Learning about gravity when I tried to throw a chunk of wood the size of my arm over a seven foot high fence. Bonk (4)
Learning that A) My mother screams really loud and B) Tarantulas do not take baths, when she saw one the size of a dessert plate marching it's wet little (big, hairy, pissed) self up the hill after me. How was I supposed to know that the hole in the ground I had decided to stick the garden hose in while supposedly helping her water was it's home? Who lives in holes in the dirt? (4 or 5)
Playing catch with ANY kind of ball is stupid, if you live at the top of a street that slants downwards for 100 yards at a 10 degree angle. You are not playing "catch". You are playing "Shit! Run!" so you don't lose another one to traffic on Farm Hill Boulevard, which is actually around the corner another 200 feet and down another sloping street. What dipshit builds houses on hills like this? Any kind of round ball is hopeless, and the bouncier they are the worse they are. Footballs still roll away really fast, they just look retarded doing it, and take evasive action at random, which actually makes you run more.... ( 3 to almost 6)
Discovering that tossing little rocks into the dryer flap from outside really wasn't all that cool, even if they did get tossed back out, after one got stuck and broke the dryer, forcing my parents to call a repairman, who asked how rocks got into the blower motor..... the cats? (6)
Stabbing my father in the nose while he was teaching me to fence. (7)
Punching my father in the crotch, when he switched to boxing lessons. (8)
Driving my bike in a circle and then falling off it, because I was riding around two 10 year old girls and showing off. (8)
Playing army in houses being built, and discovering I could jump out a second floor window and land in a sand pile below. The only thing better than the look of panic and shock on my friends faces was when we all stopped playing army and started leaping out the windows, and the look on the construction guys face when he came back to get something and saw 6 boys leaping out windows. Priceless (8 or so)
Showing up in my Zorro costume complete with sword on my first Halloween in a new school. And then finding out no one else ever came to school in costume.... whooops. (9)
Showing up in my cub scout uniform (yes, doubters, all the way to Eagle..) and discovering no one wore THOSE to school either... god dammit... (9)
Driving my brand new ten-speed into the rear gate of a badly parked station wagon and winding up all the way inside. Why? I was flirting with the girl I had a mad crush on, Debra Lakkso, who was in her swimsuit in her front yard. She did come running to see if I was OK, and felt it was her fault for calling out to say hi.... suddenly, being draped over the back of a seat in some asshole strangers station wagon was a good thing. (10)
Falling 10 feet or more from 50 feet up in pine tree, and landing sitting on branch, paralyzed and terrified. No girls involved, I just went too high and chose poorly... (10)
Having a crush on a teacher, and thinking neither she nor my classmates knew it. (11)
Thinking my cast was good for using on the 8th grader trying to bully me. Sure, hitting him in the head with a plaster covered arm made him run away. Fuck. I should have let him keep jabbing me. ( 11)
Getting the broken arm in the first place, chasing a girl on a winding brick garden path (supposedly because she took my glasses, in actuality so I could try another kiss) and tripping, falling and breaking my stupid arm. Would have been OK if I had still collected the kiss.(11)
Blushing even more than she did when I explained how Boa Constrictors work to a really lovely girl named Becky. (12)
Someone (ahem HI!) getting a Sequoia Players award for skimpiest bathing suit; two corn pads and a band-aid. Of course then I got a copy of "How to Win Friends and Influence People", so I should probably shut up. I gave it away. I had already read it. Obviously it didn't take. (13)
Getting stoned for the first time with two senior girls during intermission for "J.B" and thinking the semi-chaperone would not have a clue. Who smells like pot? (15)
Discovering that what they tell you about ministers daughters is the tip of the iceberg. Nuff said. (16)
Finding that the two women I shared a dressing room with were down to underwear during a costume change, and realizing I hadn't noticed it in four or five shows, and several rehearsals. Then turning red because I was in nothing but socks and underwear, and I had no idea if I had ever been wearing the red and black tiger stripe men's bikini briefs. (17) (I stopped tightie-whities at 13 or 14, and boxers suck. Sorry girls, you may think they are sexy; you don't have to deal with the luggage issue...)
Getting outside the SOC dorms with Marc Lieberman, and reciting Romeo's balcony speech in stereo to the collection of 14 to 16 year old girls on the third floor, until their chaperone looked out to see what was going on.... (17)
And getting locked (tied, actually) into my dorm room at SOC with the whole batch while George Dragan and the others went off to the local bar. I hate being trapped in a room with, what eight pretty women? OK, and one gay male, and one other guy (Mitch? Help me out here!) (17)
Getting too high at my own cast party, walking out of my room and taking a shower to sober up, putting my pants on but forgetting my shirt, and walking back into my room. Problem? Oh, yeah. All my friends were still in the room; Cathy, Peter, Nancy, Wesa...... oh well. (17 or so)
Thinking that the bikini briefs I was wearing were dark enough, and looked like Speedos... sort of, so I could go swimming in the SOC pool while we were at Ashland. One, the material in Speedos is actually DENSER than, oh, cotton underwear... and the elastic holds up better if you are doopid enough to use the high board.... (18)
Getting too high with friends, and forgetting to tell them that in my bedroom was OK; when my mother opened the door two of them almost imploded, and I was laughing so hard I couldn't get out of my lounge chair to open my window. I had forgotten to open it, and smoke was "billowing" out from under the door. My mother called me an idiot, opened the window and marched out, and my friends were still paralyzed. Scott Breedlove was laughing almost as hard as I was. (18)
Horseback riding with Shelley and Scott Breedlove. Finding out my horse was cranky, when she would pick one leg up at random anytime we stopped, including once in the midst of stirrup-high bushes. Finding out she was in heat when she tried to let Shelley's stallion mount her, while I was still aboard. Finding out I could teleport when she (Nugget, not Shelley) tried to kick me while I groomed her. (18)
Watching Scott's feet come out of the stirrups when Shelley sent his horse galloping off across a newly plowed field, and not being able to stop laughing as the "Ah! AH! AHH! shouts of pain dwindled in the distance, because all Scott could do was grab the pommel and bounce. (18)
Accidentally (honestly) removing Lynda Paynes mini-skirt in the school hallway, then having to run all the way back into the main building while she chased me swinging her purse at my head,trying to give her the skirt back en-passant. (18)
Using a smaller snoshield ( or whatever those dumb round trash-can lid things were called) than I should have, and using it on a toboggan run. During the course of my completely out-of-control spinning slide I lost my hat, one glove, both of my goddamn BOOTS, one sock..... crap. Did you know snow is cold? Did you know that those stupid things have no brakes? Did you know that if you stop them by ramming head-first into a drift, snow will follow the path of least resistance through every tiny gap in your clothes? Did I mention snow is COLD? (18)
Taking Liz Sulikowski's halter top off, not once or twice but three times, every time I put my hand behind her neck. (18)
Losing a wheel chair race in college, because I took a "shortcut" and wound up rolling into the bushes at the foot of the wheelchair ramp. The guys in wheel chairs came down sllllooowwwwwwly.... (19)
Discovering my pants had split in back while ice skating with Lya, and I WAS wearing tiger stripes (new pair). (19)
Getting a pie in the face for my birthday, from Marge. (19)
During the performance of my scene for finals in drama, getting completely lost in the kiss at the end with my (female, dorks) partner Lori. We sort of both forgot, actually. Until the applause started. Whooops. Then we had to sit there and listen to notes, from Kurtwood Smith. (20)
Nude skydiving. Yes. Once. It was suggested at a party as a challenge actually, from a rather jealous boyfriend of a woman named Lisa. Unfortunately he never showed up, and I was left with a six-pack of dead-head skydivers, who still wanted to do it. The honest truth? I was terrified. I think I tried to grab the plane after I got dragged (yes) out. I probably wouldn't have remembered to pull anything if I hadn't been on a training leash. The only satisfaction came really at the landing, when one of the pros landed in some bushes; like, the only clump available in a 30 or 40 foot area. Well, that and what terminal velocity does to exposed skin, and ummm, other things.....(22)
Christ. That only covers me for 20 years. Chapter two will come later, I guess..... have you noticed, all of my dimmer moments involve women? They will be the death of me. Yesssss!
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
More babble
Other things you don't get to do at your job.
"Scott, take this bottle and run hot water over it, but don't get any inside. As soon as it is fully liquid, bring it back"
OK, so that really doesn't seem that cool. Add this however: "OK, now get just each of the four corners and the center of this cloth nice and wet with the solution. It will spread out on it's own" (uhm, then why am I doing such an OCD thing as folding all the corners to the center, and wetting only the center? Whatever.) "OK, now take one corner for each of these black neoprene divers suits we have cut open and sewn velcro closures on, and covered with luminous wire attached to mesh. Get all the blue and yellow greasepaint off, anywhere you find it. Once you have done the outside, do the inside. Then use the middle to do the dress."
This was an hours work on Blue Man Group. Cleaning a set of the effect suits. Very Zen. Not like the often frantic rushing/toting/lifting/attaching. Two hours all together working on the various props for the show, like the sound tubes (PVC pipe) the wands (won't tell ya how it's done) the figures they use in cutout, etc. Then home! Wheee! Back in time to see the Chargers finish losing, dammit, and the Giants take out the Packers, in a moment that was eerily predicted by Eddie Murphy in "Coming to America" about ten years ago.
Back to BMG, which oddly took almost as long to take down as it did to set up. Usually its about a two-to-one ratio. Standing backstage to catch cables and wands as the show ended was not quite as fun as watching from the front... since I had no clue what they were actually doing half the time. Oh well. I can say I was onstage with them, and not really be lying.
If this job is cool, how much cooler would it be to have the job of sitting around a shop asking "What would happen if we took a whole bunch of 3" PVC pipes, twisted them about in a convoluted mess, and capped each one with a small rubber head at one end, and a mic pickup at the other? What could we possibly do with a thousand latex condoms, and some tempera paint? What would it look like if we put really bright lights shining upwards through Conga-type drums, and then sprayed water across the heads while we played them?"
"Scott, take this bottle and run hot water over it, but don't get any inside. As soon as it is fully liquid, bring it back"
OK, so that really doesn't seem that cool. Add this however: "OK, now get just each of the four corners and the center of this cloth nice and wet with the solution. It will spread out on it's own" (uhm, then why am I doing such an OCD thing as folding all the corners to the center, and wetting only the center? Whatever.) "OK, now take one corner for each of these black neoprene divers suits we have cut open and sewn velcro closures on, and covered with luminous wire attached to mesh. Get all the blue and yellow greasepaint off, anywhere you find it. Once you have done the outside, do the inside. Then use the middle to do the dress."
This was an hours work on Blue Man Group. Cleaning a set of the effect suits. Very Zen. Not like the often frantic rushing/toting/lifting/attaching. Two hours all together working on the various props for the show, like the sound tubes (PVC pipe) the wands (won't tell ya how it's done) the figures they use in cutout, etc. Then home! Wheee! Back in time to see the Chargers finish losing, dammit, and the Giants take out the Packers, in a moment that was eerily predicted by Eddie Murphy in "Coming to America" about ten years ago.
Back to BMG, which oddly took almost as long to take down as it did to set up. Usually its about a two-to-one ratio. Standing backstage to catch cables and wands as the show ended was not quite as fun as watching from the front... since I had no clue what they were actually doing half the time. Oh well. I can say I was onstage with them, and not really be lying.
If this job is cool, how much cooler would it be to have the job of sitting around a shop asking "What would happen if we took a whole bunch of 3" PVC pipes, twisted them about in a convoluted mess, and capped each one with a small rubber head at one end, and a mic pickup at the other? What could we possibly do with a thousand latex condoms, and some tempera paint? What would it look like if we put really bright lights shining upwards through Conga-type drums, and then sprayed water across the heads while we played them?"
Hand held movies
Blair Witch was an innovative and interesting, and in the end pretty creepy, little movie effectively using the idea of "found" video footage as a documentary about the disappearance of three kids in the woods.
I went to see "Cloverdale" last night. It is also shot entirely as a hand-held camcorder record made almost by accident, of the attack on Manhattan by a monster. I'm not going to riff on it much, as I actually enjoyed it enough to wish it was shot as a "regular" film. I thought the monster was pretty scary, and quite effective for being shot from the vantage of a Joe Average running for his life, rather than trying to win an Oscar.
The audience was a different matter. Sadly, I am now convinced global warming will not destroy our species or our planet. It will be the people now in their early to late teens, unable to grasp the concept behind the "look what we found, let's watch it. oh crap" idea. The ones who sum up their dislike of something with "that was so gay" "Totally, that was the gayest movie ever" "yeah, it was soooo gay, I mean, I was like, hoping to learn about the monsters, and you know?'" Jessica Simpson would look down on them as being dimwitted; Paris Hilton could beat them at chess. OK, no, bad analogy. Paris could beat them at pick-up-sticks. OK, what the hell, she could beat them at chess too. She would at least grab all their men, and peep "mine! mine!" before burying that beak of a nose into the nearest sails. Miss South Carolina's unfortunate brain-lock moment of stream-of-panic-what-on-earth-is-my-mouth-doing-oh-my god probably sounded deep to them. "wow. she like, so has it, about you know, school, and Lemmings and stuff that, of course, isn't gay, and world peace." These knuckle dragging low-browed dorks wouldn't get an idea bulb if you glued one to their heads; these examples of horrible inbreeding among field mice and soccer balls are the ones who will be on the road in a few years killing innocent bystanders due to the complete lack of understanding of A) Physics and B) Rain, other than the fact that their BFF drowned in it once looking up, which at least will cull the herd somewhat. They will be wandering about inside our nuclear power plants going "what happens if I push this, huh huh huh" and causing a core-dump, which they and the cockroaches who actually rewired their five synapses will survive.
What makes it worse was that every one of them was a girl. Two of them might even grow up to be pretty, and have children, unless they forget to text each other with the "Breathe in. Breathe out." mantra every day. Or we might get lucky and they won't understand the concept of procreation thanks to the failure to teach actual biology or human sexuality in schools courtesy of the modern-day Shaker movement occupying Washington who will wipe us out by prohibiting actual physical contact, which is, after all so gay. Amazingly not one of them was texting, although they were sitting side by side and thus at a distance from each other. Of course they were texting again the moment they walked down the stairs, and I at least had the pleasure of watching two of them bounce off each other since they were not actually looking, all their faculties being absorbed in the complex process of stringing a few consonants together in txt-spk, DYK, and one even got turned around backwards and walked half way back into the theatre, before gazing about in bovine stupidity and reversing her direction, most likely texting "OMG! IM AB LOST! WTF, WWY?"
Our retirement is in their hands. WASF. Oops, sorry. We. Are. So.......
Did I mention I liked the movie?
I went to see "Cloverdale" last night. It is also shot entirely as a hand-held camcorder record made almost by accident, of the attack on Manhattan by a monster. I'm not going to riff on it much, as I actually enjoyed it enough to wish it was shot as a "regular" film. I thought the monster was pretty scary, and quite effective for being shot from the vantage of a Joe Average running for his life, rather than trying to win an Oscar.
The audience was a different matter. Sadly, I am now convinced global warming will not destroy our species or our planet. It will be the people now in their early to late teens, unable to grasp the concept behind the "look what we found, let's watch it. oh crap" idea. The ones who sum up their dislike of something with "that was so gay" "Totally, that was the gayest movie ever" "yeah, it was soooo gay, I mean, I was like, hoping to learn about the monsters, and you know?'" Jessica Simpson would look down on them as being dimwitted; Paris Hilton could beat them at chess. OK, no, bad analogy. Paris could beat them at pick-up-sticks. OK, what the hell, she could beat them at chess too. She would at least grab all their men, and peep "mine! mine!" before burying that beak of a nose into the nearest sails. Miss South Carolina's unfortunate brain-lock moment of stream-of-panic-what-on-earth-is-my-mouth-doing-oh-my god probably sounded deep to them. "wow. she like, so has it, about you know, school, and Lemmings and stuff that, of course, isn't gay, and world peace." These knuckle dragging low-browed dorks wouldn't get an idea bulb if you glued one to their heads; these examples of horrible inbreeding among field mice and soccer balls are the ones who will be on the road in a few years killing innocent bystanders due to the complete lack of understanding of A) Physics and B) Rain, other than the fact that their BFF drowned in it once looking up, which at least will cull the herd somewhat. They will be wandering about inside our nuclear power plants going "what happens if I push this, huh huh huh" and causing a core-dump, which they and the cockroaches who actually rewired their five synapses will survive.
What makes it worse was that every one of them was a girl. Two of them might even grow up to be pretty, and have children, unless they forget to text each other with the "Breathe in. Breathe out." mantra every day. Or we might get lucky and they won't understand the concept of procreation thanks to the failure to teach actual biology or human sexuality in schools courtesy of the modern-day Shaker movement occupying Washington who will wipe us out by prohibiting actual physical contact, which is, after all so gay. Amazingly not one of them was texting, although they were sitting side by side and thus at a distance from each other. Of course they were texting again the moment they walked down the stairs, and I at least had the pleasure of watching two of them bounce off each other since they were not actually looking, all their faculties being absorbed in the complex process of stringing a few consonants together in txt-spk, DYK, and one even got turned around backwards and walked half way back into the theatre, before gazing about in bovine stupidity and reversing her direction, most likely texting "OMG! IM AB LOST! WTF, WWY?"
Our retirement is in their hands. WASF. Oops, sorry. We. Are. So.......
Did I mention I liked the movie?
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Dead Motorcyclists causing accidents
Of course its a possibility:
"In a world where carpenters become kings, anything is possible".
Scenario A) A motorcyclist is riding through the night, intent on reaching home, his thoughts occupied with the impending birth of his child. Unexpectedly the defect in a minor capillary in his brain ruptures, killing him instantly. His hand spasms around the throttle and the motorcycle accelerates continuously until the inevitable crash. His wife discovers that his insurance company will not pay, citing an obscure clause in the policy. Afraid she will be unable to afford to raise a child on her sole income, she gives the child ( a girl )up for adoption. Years pass, and in a strange twist of fate her adopted daughter begins working for her now-successful as a clothing designer birth mother. They form a bond that neither fully understands, until a series of conversations and events leads them to uncover the true nature of their relation. A tearful and happy reunion ensues. (Lifetime channel version)
Scenario B)) A motorcyclist is riding through the night, intent on reaching home, his thoughts occupied with the impending birth of his child. Unexpectedly the defect in a minor capillary in his brain ruptures, killing him instantly. His hand spasms around the throttle and the motorcycle accelerates continuously until the inevitable crash. His wife discovers that his insurance company will not pay, citing an obscure clause in the policy. In despair and frustration, the mother descends into a world of drugs, alcohol and prostitution. Her daughter is nearly dragged down with her, but escapes by running away. She becomes a top-notch attorney, using an assumed identity. After a successful and very public case, her mother recognizes her and shows up, threatening to expose her if she does not pay her several hundred thousand dollars. The daughter strikes her across the face, and the mother falls and hits her head on a table, receiving a fatal injury. The daughter in desperation hides the body, hoping that her mother will never be missed. Sadly, the mother has actually been trying to turn her life around by working at a homeless shelter, and her absence is reported to the police. A days long investigation unravels the entire story (Without a Trace version, or the WE version if the daughter gets abused at any point)
Scenario C) A motorcyclist is riding through the night, intent on reaching home, his thoughts occupied with the impending birth of his child. Unexpectedly the defect in a minor capillary in his brain ruptures, killing him instantly. His hand spasms around the throttle and the motorcycle accelerates continuously until the inevitable crash. His wife discovers that his insurance company will not pay, citing an obscure clause in the policy. In the hospital days later, screams of panic and the sound of people frantically running can be heard in the delivery room, just as her child is being born. The doctors have just severed the umbilical cord and turned to see the cause of the commotion when the doors to the operating room burst open. Framed in the doorway is her dead husband, there to witness the birth. (Stephen King version)
Scenario D) ) A motorcyclist is riding through the night, intent on reaching home, his thoughts occupied with the impending birth of his child. Unexpectedly the defect in a minor capillary in his brain ruptures, killing him instantly. His hand spasms around the throttle and the motorcycle accelerates continuously until the inevitable crash. His wife discovers that his insurance company will not pay, citing an obscure clause in the policy. In a fury the pregnant mother goes on a killing spree, gunning down and eliminating in various unsavory manners the trail of underhanded, corrupt and greedy insurance people, culminating in a wild gun battle on the top floor of the corporate headquarters where she must fight her way through a maze of cubicles and offices, battling hordes of armed security guards to reach the company president. He also has a gun and badly wounds her but runs out of ammunition. Grabbing a katana off the wall, they continue to fight as she demonstrates her stunning martial arts skills. He finally gains the upper hand, but while monologuing he fails to notice she has found a letter opener on the floor. She stabs him in the groin as he raises the sword, and then kicks him hard enough to send him through the plate glass window, falling 10 stories and impaling himself on a streetlight below. (Quentin Tarantino version)
Scenario E) ) A motorcyclist is riding through the night, intent on reaching Nirvana, his thoughts occupied with the color scheme for penguins. Unexpectedly the defect in a minor capillary in his brain becomes a breadfruit, killing him instantly. His hand spasms around the throttle and the motorcycle accelerates continuously until it hits a giant cream pie. His wife discovers that his insurance company will not pay, citing existentialism and large fries. She gives birth to a wombat, who learns to tap dance and sing, causing the people of Earth to all convert to Buddhism and wear flowers and shredded newspapers as clothing (Eugene Ionesco version)
Scenario F) ) A motorcyclist is riding through the night, intent on reaching home, his thoughts occupied with the impending birth of his child. Sadly, Dick Cheney is out hunting and shoots him by mistake, as the black leather and helmet cause him to think the rider is a deer. Cheney is fined for not having a motorcycle permit, and goes on to become the next president, having secured the vote of the right wing entirely for eliminating an obviously liberal/radical/hippie-scum/biker, who was probably gay anyway. (Reality version)
"In a world where carpenters become kings, anything is possible".
Scenario A) A motorcyclist is riding through the night, intent on reaching home, his thoughts occupied with the impending birth of his child. Unexpectedly the defect in a minor capillary in his brain ruptures, killing him instantly. His hand spasms around the throttle and the motorcycle accelerates continuously until the inevitable crash. His wife discovers that his insurance company will not pay, citing an obscure clause in the policy. Afraid she will be unable to afford to raise a child on her sole income, she gives the child ( a girl )up for adoption. Years pass, and in a strange twist of fate her adopted daughter begins working for her now-successful as a clothing designer birth mother. They form a bond that neither fully understands, until a series of conversations and events leads them to uncover the true nature of their relation. A tearful and happy reunion ensues. (Lifetime channel version)
Scenario B)) A motorcyclist is riding through the night, intent on reaching home, his thoughts occupied with the impending birth of his child. Unexpectedly the defect in a minor capillary in his brain ruptures, killing him instantly. His hand spasms around the throttle and the motorcycle accelerates continuously until the inevitable crash. His wife discovers that his insurance company will not pay, citing an obscure clause in the policy. In despair and frustration, the mother descends into a world of drugs, alcohol and prostitution. Her daughter is nearly dragged down with her, but escapes by running away. She becomes a top-notch attorney, using an assumed identity. After a successful and very public case, her mother recognizes her and shows up, threatening to expose her if she does not pay her several hundred thousand dollars. The daughter strikes her across the face, and the mother falls and hits her head on a table, receiving a fatal injury. The daughter in desperation hides the body, hoping that her mother will never be missed. Sadly, the mother has actually been trying to turn her life around by working at a homeless shelter, and her absence is reported to the police. A days long investigation unravels the entire story (Without a Trace version, or the WE version if the daughter gets abused at any point)
Scenario C) A motorcyclist is riding through the night, intent on reaching home, his thoughts occupied with the impending birth of his child. Unexpectedly the defect in a minor capillary in his brain ruptures, killing him instantly. His hand spasms around the throttle and the motorcycle accelerates continuously until the inevitable crash. His wife discovers that his insurance company will not pay, citing an obscure clause in the policy. In the hospital days later, screams of panic and the sound of people frantically running can be heard in the delivery room, just as her child is being born. The doctors have just severed the umbilical cord and turned to see the cause of the commotion when the doors to the operating room burst open. Framed in the doorway is her dead husband, there to witness the birth. (Stephen King version)
Scenario D) ) A motorcyclist is riding through the night, intent on reaching home, his thoughts occupied with the impending birth of his child. Unexpectedly the defect in a minor capillary in his brain ruptures, killing him instantly. His hand spasms around the throttle and the motorcycle accelerates continuously until the inevitable crash. His wife discovers that his insurance company will not pay, citing an obscure clause in the policy. In a fury the pregnant mother goes on a killing spree, gunning down and eliminating in various unsavory manners the trail of underhanded, corrupt and greedy insurance people, culminating in a wild gun battle on the top floor of the corporate headquarters where she must fight her way through a maze of cubicles and offices, battling hordes of armed security guards to reach the company president. He also has a gun and badly wounds her but runs out of ammunition. Grabbing a katana off the wall, they continue to fight as she demonstrates her stunning martial arts skills. He finally gains the upper hand, but while monologuing he fails to notice she has found a letter opener on the floor. She stabs him in the groin as he raises the sword, and then kicks him hard enough to send him through the plate glass window, falling 10 stories and impaling himself on a streetlight below. (Quentin Tarantino version)
Scenario E) ) A motorcyclist is riding through the night, intent on reaching Nirvana, his thoughts occupied with the color scheme for penguins. Unexpectedly the defect in a minor capillary in his brain becomes a breadfruit, killing him instantly. His hand spasms around the throttle and the motorcycle accelerates continuously until it hits a giant cream pie. His wife discovers that his insurance company will not pay, citing existentialism and large fries. She gives birth to a wombat, who learns to tap dance and sing, causing the people of Earth to all convert to Buddhism and wear flowers and shredded newspapers as clothing (Eugene Ionesco version)
Scenario F) ) A motorcyclist is riding through the night, intent on reaching home, his thoughts occupied with the impending birth of his child. Sadly, Dick Cheney is out hunting and shoots him by mistake, as the black leather and helmet cause him to think the rider is a deer. Cheney is fined for not having a motorcycle permit, and goes on to become the next president, having secured the vote of the right wing entirely for eliminating an obviously liberal/radical/hippie-scum/biker, who was probably gay anyway. (Reality version)
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
It's the end of the world as we know it....
Today I saw an email from Ron, talking about cancelling his World of Warcraft account.
In a panic I ran outside and looked at the horizon. Hmmm. No images of giant horsemen. No ponies either.
There were no mushroom clouds forming.
The rain was just rainy, there seemed to be no animals mixed in. If there were any animals, how big would they be? Very small. I went back to sleep.
I checked the speeling of "tiger" on the internet. Nope, not spelled with a "y" now.
I looked at the sentence above, but "speeling" was just my typo, not an actual change, nor was I channeling Ron suddenly.
I looked quickly again at my car; it was still a Mustang, not a Prius.
My co-workers were not chanting "Cthulhu ftaghn!"
No one was rushing about frantically screaming "Fuck! Nyarlathotep! Run!" or even just"Fuck! Run!"
Baffled, I looked for more subtle changes. My hair was still long. I still thought Rumsfeld, Bush, Cheney, all of Homeland Security, and close to half the Congress and Senate were jerks, or highly paid low grade corrupt morons. The Celtic knot on my necklace had not changed to a cross, I was still wearing all black.... oops, the underwear is dark blue, but that was what I put on this morning, so that was OK..... the socks are still black. After checking my DNA, I was still carrying one X and one Y chromosome.
It then occurred to me Ron might be joking. This was, of course, slightly more probable than the end of the world coming. We did, after all, only watch one movie the other night.
In a panic I ran outside and looked at the horizon. Hmmm. No images of giant horsemen. No ponies either.
There were no mushroom clouds forming.
The rain was just rainy, there seemed to be no animals mixed in. If there were any animals, how big would they be? Very small. I went back to sleep.
I checked the speeling of "tiger" on the internet. Nope, not spelled with a "y" now.
I looked at the sentence above, but "speeling" was just my typo, not an actual change, nor was I channeling Ron suddenly.
I looked quickly again at my car; it was still a Mustang, not a Prius.
My co-workers were not chanting "Cthulhu ftaghn!"
No one was rushing about frantically screaming "Fuck! Nyarlathotep! Run!" or even just"Fuck! Run!"
Baffled, I looked for more subtle changes. My hair was still long. I still thought Rumsfeld, Bush, Cheney, all of Homeland Security, and close to half the Congress and Senate were jerks, or highly paid low grade corrupt morons. The Celtic knot on my necklace had not changed to a cross, I was still wearing all black.... oops, the underwear is dark blue, but that was what I put on this morning, so that was OK..... the socks are still black. After checking my DNA, I was still carrying one X and one Y chromosome.
It then occurred to me Ron might be joking. This was, of course, slightly more probable than the end of the world coming. We did, after all, only watch one movie the other night.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Things I should not do
1) Bungee jump. Why subject the remainder of my hair to the yank of gravity at the apex point of the jump? All the rest of the damn things would probably go flying out like feathers off Daffy, and I would look like Telly Savalas. Boy, was that NOT one of the goals I had....
2) Rent movies just because women I think are pretty are in them. "Last Sentinel" is a very good example of this. Forget the fact that Katee Sackhoff (Starbuck from "Battlestar Galactica) is not only talented, but pretty. Forget the fact that on the DVD cover she has a gun. This was a bad choice. I should blind myself for having watched it. When the only redeeming factor in a movie is that there is a very drawn-out scene with her body double (shot from behind) taking a topless sponge bath.... I couldn't get my moneys worth even if I looped that and played nothing else for the remaining 60 minutes of the run time. Echhhh. I had to throw the DVD player away afterwards, so there was no chance of the other electronics getting infected.
A note for famous martial arts people. The fact some person holds a national title in martial arts, like the supposed "star" of Last Sentinel, Don The Dragon Wilson, does not mean they can act. Bruce Lee was an exception. Maybe Jackie Chan. The use of the word Artist in the title Martial Artist indicates the dedication and work required; it has no correlation to, say "Performance Artist" or any other acting skill. Don, stick to kicking things. You look very nice when you fight, and your mouth is shut. Steven Segal, please stop. The balding/fat/sensitive/pony-tail/ guy who can also fight is my bailiwick. You make plenty of money already, stop jumping my gig. Jean-Claude, you too. Take roles in things like "Alien vs Predator" where you can hop around in a drippy suit and have ADR add cool growling. First, it's more intelligible than your own accent (Ahnold speaks clearer!) and second won't strain your skills. Chuck, stick to commercials for exercise stuff. Kevin Coster emotes more than you do. OK, maybe not. On a scale of 1 to 10, rocks are a solid 2, you get a 4. Kevin ties with the rocks, only because he is mobile.
2) Rent movies just because women I think are pretty are in them. "Last Sentinel" is a very good example of this. Forget the fact that Katee Sackhoff (Starbuck from "Battlestar Galactica) is not only talented, but pretty. Forget the fact that on the DVD cover she has a gun. This was a bad choice. I should blind myself for having watched it. When the only redeeming factor in a movie is that there is a very drawn-out scene with her body double (shot from behind) taking a topless sponge bath.... I couldn't get my moneys worth even if I looped that and played nothing else for the remaining 60 minutes of the run time. Echhhh. I had to throw the DVD player away afterwards, so there was no chance of the other electronics getting infected.
A note for famous martial arts people. The fact some person holds a national title in martial arts, like the supposed "star" of Last Sentinel, Don The Dragon Wilson, does not mean they can act. Bruce Lee was an exception. Maybe Jackie Chan. The use of the word Artist in the title Martial Artist indicates the dedication and work required; it has no correlation to, say "Performance Artist" or any other acting skill. Don, stick to kicking things. You look very nice when you fight, and your mouth is shut. Steven Segal, please stop. The balding/fat/sensitive/pony-tail/ guy who can also fight is my bailiwick. You make plenty of money already, stop jumping my gig. Jean-Claude, you too. Take roles in things like "Alien vs Predator" where you can hop around in a drippy suit and have ADR add cool growling. First, it's more intelligible than your own accent (Ahnold speaks clearer!) and second won't strain your skills. Chuck, stick to commercials for exercise stuff. Kevin Coster emotes more than you do. OK, maybe not. On a scale of 1 to 10, rocks are a solid 2, you get a 4. Kevin ties with the rocks, only because he is mobile.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
Playoffs thoughts
I watched the playoffs Saturday and Sunday. Sort of. It's hard to watch a team that made it to the Wild Card slot behave like they don't believe they should have made it that far; watching two teams you are favoring play like the 49ers staff are coaching them isn't really fun. It's more like some slow weird torture, like having to endlessly file things, only to have them pop back out in some Sisyphean (??? Is that a word??) Maybe Sisyphusean? Funnier if I don't look it up. Besides, it's my blog. I'll make up words when I want to.
Monigamy: completely faithful to more than one person at a time. ( I stole that. )
Frigididity: the condition of being so cold you double parts of words (stole that too.)
Hairsuit: filing charges against your follicles for desertion.
I at least have one team left in contention, since San Diego managed to wake up and play in the third quarter. Sadly, I think they are going to lose to the Colts, unless that game was an eye-opener for the team. Regardless, I think the Colts are the better to choice to beat the Patriots, unless somehow Green Bay takes the Pats down first. After that, I would in all honesty have to choose the Cowboys, simply because T.O. is a match (almost) for Randy Moss, and is playing finally with no BS. Then the Chargers, then the Giants.
Sigh. To think I might have to wind up rooting for Dallas or New York.... guess I might as well vote Republican, cut my hair, and join the Catholic church while I am at it. They say change is good. I wonder if I can trade in all my Sisters of Mercy and Bauhaus CD's for Tammy Wynette and Toby Keith?
Monigamy: completely faithful to more than one person at a time. ( I stole that. )
Frigididity: the condition of being so cold you double parts of words (stole that too.)
Hairsuit: filing charges against your follicles for desertion.
I at least have one team left in contention, since San Diego managed to wake up and play in the third quarter. Sadly, I think they are going to lose to the Colts, unless that game was an eye-opener for the team. Regardless, I think the Colts are the better to choice to beat the Patriots, unless somehow Green Bay takes the Pats down first. After that, I would in all honesty have to choose the Cowboys, simply because T.O. is a match (almost) for Randy Moss, and is playing finally with no BS. Then the Chargers, then the Giants.
Sigh. To think I might have to wind up rooting for Dallas or New York.... guess I might as well vote Republican, cut my hair, and join the Catholic church while I am at it. They say change is good. I wonder if I can trade in all my Sisters of Mercy and Bauhaus CD's for Tammy Wynette and Toby Keith?
Sunday, January 6, 2008
There's something you don't see every day Chauncey
Barney the dinosaur blundering about in the dark.
Barney the dinosaur tearing his head off. Not that I don't think that was a good thing. Just sort of weird.
"I love you, you love me.... Aggghhh! Goodbye cruel world!" riiiippppp!
Elmo running past muttering "shit shit shit."
Bert running about in a frenzy (OK, that part is typical) yelling "Where is my hat! Where is that god damned cowboy hat! Fuck, I hate that hat!"
Ernie looking at you upside down, because his head is flipped over backward while he stands in front of a fan with cold air blowing down his neck.
Tina Turners legs. Can some one explain to me how she can have a seventy year old face, and seventeen year old legs? Christina Aguilera's legs aren't that nice.
Carlos Santana asking if you want him to grab you anything while he is at Starbucks.
A Stegosaurus staring at you from inside a semi trailer.
Barney the dinosaur tearing his head off. Not that I don't think that was a good thing. Just sort of weird.
"I love you, you love me.... Aggghhh! Goodbye cruel world!" riiiippppp!
Elmo running past muttering "shit shit shit."
Bert running about in a frenzy (OK, that part is typical) yelling "Where is my hat! Where is that god damned cowboy hat! Fuck, I hate that hat!"
Ernie looking at you upside down, because his head is flipped over backward while he stands in front of a fan with cold air blowing down his neck.
Tina Turners legs. Can some one explain to me how she can have a seventy year old face, and seventeen year old legs? Christina Aguilera's legs aren't that nice.
Carlos Santana asking if you want him to grab you anything while he is at Starbucks.
A Stegosaurus staring at you from inside a semi trailer.
Driving with the Disengaged
Hmmm... a theme for my posts. "Blank with Blank". Yeah. That will either get very old very fast, or I will waste hours of my life searching for clever little titles. And/or not.
I really do enjoy driving. Especially now. I also enjoy the people whose world is always sunny and clear, those die-hard optimists who bring joy to the world about them. They are easy to spot; they are the ones driving with no lights in pouring rain. Today I had several opportunities to meet some of them, and to let them know I wanted to join their ranks, if even for a moment, by turning my own lights off and on. Sadly, most of them wanted to remain aloof and ignore my pleas. A few were kind enough to let me know they were friendly, by joining my gloomy world and turning their lights on too. There were even two who stopped to ask me what I wanted:
"Is there something wrong Scott?"
"No, you just don't have your lights on."
"Well, it's daytime..."
"I know, but it's raining. Like, really hard."
"Oh, is it? I hadn't noticed. Thanks so much for telling me!" vrooooom, and off they go. Goodbye, little happy person..... BOOM.
Oops. They blew up. How sad. But the light was pretty; I hope they thought so too.
I shall enshrine them, along with those remarkable people who can either see in the dark, or are able to use echo-location to drive at night.
"Ma'am, your lights are off!"
"Really? I didn't notice!"
"Yeah. That's why you had to drive so slow, and the world seemed so black, and you couldn't see anything inside the car, like your dashboard.... glad I could be of help."
That Boy Scout training really does stick with you. Well, time to go; I'm going to see if I can find some drivers I can demonstrate the pretty blinking dash lights for, that go left or right. That should be really easy, I'll just look for BMW's.
I really do enjoy driving. Especially now. I also enjoy the people whose world is always sunny and clear, those die-hard optimists who bring joy to the world about them. They are easy to spot; they are the ones driving with no lights in pouring rain. Today I had several opportunities to meet some of them, and to let them know I wanted to join their ranks, if even for a moment, by turning my own lights off and on. Sadly, most of them wanted to remain aloof and ignore my pleas. A few were kind enough to let me know they were friendly, by joining my gloomy world and turning their lights on too. There were even two who stopped to ask me what I wanted:
"Is there something wrong Scott?"
"No, you just don't have your lights on."
"Well, it's daytime..."
"I know, but it's raining. Like, really hard."
"Oh, is it? I hadn't noticed. Thanks so much for telling me!" vrooooom, and off they go. Goodbye, little happy person..... BOOM.
Oops. They blew up. How sad. But the light was pretty; I hope they thought so too.
I shall enshrine them, along with those remarkable people who can either see in the dark, or are able to use echo-location to drive at night.
"Ma'am, your lights are off!"
"Really? I didn't notice!"
"Yeah. That's why you had to drive so slow, and the world seemed so black, and you couldn't see anything inside the car, like your dashboard.... glad I could be of help."
That Boy Scout training really does stick with you. Well, time to go; I'm going to see if I can find some drivers I can demonstrate the pretty blinking dash lights for, that go left or right. That should be really easy, I'll just look for BMW's.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
Handy obscure terms
For those who read this stuff ( all five of you so far...) a few terms to make future post less impenetrable; like all specific jobs, there is a lot of jargon associated with rock and theatre.
Roadbox: A (usually) wheeled container, made of some combination of wood/steel/plastic/aluminum/fiberglass. Designed to hold cables, lights, speakers, guitars, tools, or anything else you might need.
Loader: People who stay inside a truck and do nothing but stack or arrange the roadboxes as they come back in, or unstack and shove them out when they come out.
Load in / Load out: Load in is bringing all the stuff in for the show and assembling it; load out is (duh) the reverse.
Back Line: The musical gear for bands such as keyboards, drum kits, guitars, hollow logs, trash can lids.... whatever. Can also include an odd assortment of stuff, such as stuffed animals, music stands, and portable bars...
Steel: All the wire rope cable used in rigging. Why not call it wire rope? Who knows...
Rigging: Hanging of pretty much anything above the ground. Next time at a show, look up. See the two or three tons of truss, lights, sound and video dangling above you? Thats rigging.
Gakk: Pretty much anything that is pointless/icky/unidentified or a pain in the ass. It covers things like the stuff you find stuck to your shoes (mostly tape bits and confetti) during and after a show, to the assorted stuff some bands have on the stage, like stuffed toys, underwear thrown from the audience, and Britney Spears talent. (oops).
You might have noticed these are not in alphabetical order. Tough. You want a dictionary, or a blog page? I'll probably add to this list periodically. Or not. Whichever I find funnier. What the hell does a cheeseburger have to do with building a stage or scaffold? Tune in tomorrow! (hint; it ain't food...)
Roadbox: A (usually) wheeled container, made of some combination of wood/steel/plastic/aluminum/fiberglass. Designed to hold cables, lights, speakers, guitars, tools, or anything else you might need.
Loader: People who stay inside a truck and do nothing but stack or arrange the roadboxes as they come back in, or unstack and shove them out when they come out.
Load in / Load out: Load in is bringing all the stuff in for the show and assembling it; load out is (duh) the reverse.
Back Line: The musical gear for bands such as keyboards, drum kits, guitars, hollow logs, trash can lids.... whatever. Can also include an odd assortment of stuff, such as stuffed animals, music stands, and portable bars...
Steel: All the wire rope cable used in rigging. Why not call it wire rope? Who knows...
Rigging: Hanging of pretty much anything above the ground. Next time at a show, look up. See the two or three tons of truss, lights, sound and video dangling above you? Thats rigging.
Gakk: Pretty much anything that is pointless/icky/unidentified or a pain in the ass. It covers things like the stuff you find stuck to your shoes (mostly tape bits and confetti) during and after a show, to the assorted stuff some bands have on the stage, like stuffed toys, underwear thrown from the audience, and Britney Spears talent. (oops).
You might have noticed these are not in alphabetical order. Tough. You want a dictionary, or a blog page? I'll probably add to this list periodically. Or not. Whichever I find funnier. What the hell does a cheeseburger have to do with building a stage or scaffold? Tune in tomorrow! (hint; it ain't food...)
Silly rock bands
OK, right off I am going to deny this has anything to do with age; I think I would have thought this was silly when I was 18. I can't really remember back that far, I admit, but........ whatever.
Over the last six months I have worked on a lot of shows with newer bands, like Maroon 5 and All American Rejects, as well as some of the older bands, like Clapton and Dave Matthews. Recently I worked on two bands I like but had not yet seen; Evanessence and Fall Out Boy. The second guitar player for Evanessence was the first one that made me think "ummm, that looks dumb...".
For starters, I don't think dreads are really a good option on anything except scary Sci-fi monsters; they are definitely a poor choice for heavyset, short, cherub-faced white guys. The heavy goth eyeliner really was not enough of an offset, IMO. (gr) What made him look extra dippy was that on every single song he would reach a bridge or a solo, and he would stop moving aimlessly about in small arcs, then flip all his hair forward so it was hanging over the guitar, and play bent over like a limp marionette, while flailing at the guitar. Once he finished his little bit, back would go the hair, and he would once again move slowly back and forth like a manatee on reds. Ever so often he would wander back to the speaker stack and lean his head against it. What, like, you can't hear the music?
The next night it was the lead guitar for Fall Out Boy. Again, I think perhaps not the best look for white guys is the white guy Afro; then again I thought they looked pretty silly on black people too, sooooo.......
(oh, and I get special dispensation on criticizing other peoples hair choices folks; those of us who have traitor-bastard-wimp follicles spend a LOT of time looking at those more hirsute, and thinking "well, at least its HAIR.... we are trained observers)
Now this guy was tall, skinny, and actually fairly muscular. While he probably weighed 60 lbs less than Mr. goshifiwasapredatorandsevenfeettallwouldIlookcoolorwhat, I think he could have taken him easily. Whatever. So here is Mr. Puffball, hopping about frenetically and racing about on the stage. Think of what would happen if a dark brown Q-Tip went nuts. Made Pete Townsend look sedentary. That part was fine. However at various points in songs he would reach a crescendo of energy, and begin snapping his head up and down at about twice the tempo of the music. It was so fast I was surprised I didn't hear sounds, like a sheet snapping in the wind. "whapwhapwhapwhap....". Visually, all I could think of was what one of those little drinking ducks would look like if its water had been laced with speed or crystal meth at the very moment it became possesed by a demon who discovered it had no ability to walk..... "THE CUP IS MINE!!!!!! WAIT! I HAVE NO LEGS!!!!!! GRRRRRRRR"
So after this long dissertration, here is the question: Did our guitar heroes look this dippy when they were younger? I just don't remember any of the bands, even during the big-hair band era, looking that silly. Except for maybe Twisted Sister and Poison who would all head-bob together. But did they do it every song? Guess I'll have to pull out a bunch of old concert footage and see......
Over the last six months I have worked on a lot of shows with newer bands, like Maroon 5 and All American Rejects, as well as some of the older bands, like Clapton and Dave Matthews. Recently I worked on two bands I like but had not yet seen; Evanessence and Fall Out Boy. The second guitar player for Evanessence was the first one that made me think "ummm, that looks dumb...".
For starters, I don't think dreads are really a good option on anything except scary Sci-fi monsters; they are definitely a poor choice for heavyset, short, cherub-faced white guys. The heavy goth eyeliner really was not enough of an offset, IMO. (gr) What made him look extra dippy was that on every single song he would reach a bridge or a solo, and he would stop moving aimlessly about in small arcs, then flip all his hair forward so it was hanging over the guitar, and play bent over like a limp marionette, while flailing at the guitar. Once he finished his little bit, back would go the hair, and he would once again move slowly back and forth like a manatee on reds. Ever so often he would wander back to the speaker stack and lean his head against it. What, like, you can't hear the music?
The next night it was the lead guitar for Fall Out Boy. Again, I think perhaps not the best look for white guys is the white guy Afro; then again I thought they looked pretty silly on black people too, sooooo.......
(oh, and I get special dispensation on criticizing other peoples hair choices folks; those of us who have traitor-bastard-wimp follicles spend a LOT of time looking at those more hirsute, and thinking "well, at least its HAIR.... we are trained observers)
Now this guy was tall, skinny, and actually fairly muscular. While he probably weighed 60 lbs less than Mr. goshifiwasapredatorandsevenfeettallwouldIlookcoolorwhat, I think he could have taken him easily. Whatever. So here is Mr. Puffball, hopping about frenetically and racing about on the stage. Think of what would happen if a dark brown Q-Tip went nuts. Made Pete Townsend look sedentary. That part was fine. However at various points in songs he would reach a crescendo of energy, and begin snapping his head up and down at about twice the tempo of the music. It was so fast I was surprised I didn't hear sounds, like a sheet snapping in the wind. "whapwhapwhapwhap....". Visually, all I could think of was what one of those little drinking ducks would look like if its water had been laced with speed or crystal meth at the very moment it became possesed by a demon who discovered it had no ability to walk..... "THE CUP IS MINE!!!!!! WAIT! I HAVE NO LEGS!!!!!! GRRRRRRRR"
So after this long dissertration, here is the question: Did our guitar heroes look this dippy when they were younger? I just don't remember any of the bands, even during the big-hair band era, looking that silly. Except for maybe Twisted Sister and Poison who would all head-bob together. But did they do it every song? Guess I'll have to pull out a bunch of old concert footage and see......
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