Work/election post.

I'm here at my new job as the election results trickle in. The trainer is there scratching his head, though he does that a lot anyway. So that's not really about the whole election things. Anyway, need to go read some stuff.

Summer's Over

Autumn is finally here, the long lazy glorious summer is over. So too my break from writing. I've told myself in quite stern terms to get back to it, I don't always listen to myself as I can be a bit of a nag, but I just need to make sure I understand.
It's so hard getting things through to the people of today.

Picture Perfect

One of the more mysterious things about the charms of the president of our company was related to me by our former HR director, Susan. A few years ago now, an employee came over to Susan in HR to voice their concern over another employee in their department, and this other employees ”actions”.

Susan took the employee into the HR conference room where she felt safe to explain her concern to Susan:
“She has a picture on her desk.”
“A picture?” Susan asked.
“Yes, a picture.”
“I see, is there something wrong with this picture? Perhaps an underdressed model or something?” Susan inquired.
“No, nothing like that, it’s a picture of her and Les (the president) at the Christmas party.”
“I see, a photograph of her, and Les, at the Christmas party, and this is on her desk?” Susan reiterated, to make sure she had a full grasp of the complaint.
“Yes, and what I want to know if what are you going to do about it?”
A little taken aback, Susan continued, “Do? I’m not quite sure what the problem is. It’s a photograph taken at the office Christmas party. It doesn’t sound like it’s offensive or violates any HR guideline. Is there another issue here, has something else happened?”
“But it’s facing out!”
“Out?” Susan asked.”Yes! OUT!” The employee announced, becoming more enraged the further she got into her complaint, “She doesn’t have the picture facing her, she has placed the picture so it’s facing outwards, so everyone can see she had her picture taken with the President of the company at the Christmas party. She’s just showing off and I don’t like it!”
“Would you like me to see if Les can take a picture with you?” Susan offered.
“No! I just want her to face her picture in. I don’t want to see her showing off how ‘buddy buddy’ she is with the President - I don’t want to have to see that everyday when I come to work.”
I don’t recall how Susan diffused this situation, though I do remember seeing the photograph, and now that Susan mentioned it, it was still facing out….

Le râteau

I can remember being thoroughly impressed when I found out that Susan had worked for non-other than Martha Stewart herself. Perhaps from that moment forward Susan shone with an inner light not quite seen before, whatever the case, here was a great chance to find out what the real Martha Stewart was like.

Susan related several stories, the most memorable being the gardener and the cats. Susan was outside on a crisp New England morning, new to her position, eagerly waiting for the show to begin filming. Susan waited with interest as Martha called over one of her Mexican assistant gardeners and requested that he bring her “le râteau” for the next shot.

Perhaps all of Martha’s gardeners are required to speak French, however, Susan hadn’t known this when screening people to work for Ms. Stewart and this poor fellow spoke fluent Spanish and a smattering of English, but no French.

Susan watched as the gardener blinked a few times, then obligingly ran off to fetch whatever Martha had requested. Susan, not speaking French either was wondering what Ms. Stewart had asked he bring her, perhaps a kettle, maybe a garden gnome or possibly a modicum of potpourri to sprinkle on the ground.

The man ran back to Martha with a shovel in tow, which he presented to her, rather like a peasant approaching a haughty queen of old with a gift to appease the gentry. Well, Martha exploded, yelling “I clearly asked for le râteau and here you come with la pelle! Are you an idiot? Don’t you know what le râteau is? Because this ISN’T IT!” Here was where Susan began honing her HR skills that would serve her so well at CSA.

After smoothing over the situation, a harried Susan recalled how they then went inside for an interior shot, Martha’s famous long haired Himalayan cats were carefully positioned by the set designer on the sofa next to her in an artful arrangement. This piece of the show had Martha extolling the virtues of cats and how to take care of the long haired breed.
The moment “cut” was yelled, Martha shoved the nearest cat from the sofa and was demanding the rest of the animals be removed from her furniture, and where was the cleaner with that damn “le chiffon”?

Sandie Shaw

Sandie Shaw has always been pretty special to me - before Kylie, before Dannii, before Mariah, there was Sandie! I really love her website.

Sandie Shaw was a sixties singer, she has an amazing life outlook that really inspires me. I love to read her newsletters about what's going on in her life - I've even written to her & she's written me back!

Sandie has a voice like no one else, and perhaps it could be said, introduced me to the wonder of the solo female artist.

Anyway, check her out, she's one amazing human being.

Does your mother....?

I don't recall.

I had the misfortune to catch part of a Full House rerun the other night. I’d clicked the channel, sat down with my burrito bowl from Chipotle & couldn’t get up once the show started.

But, the episode did get me thinking, where are all the good amnesia plots these days? This used to be a staple of shows in the 70’s, 80’s & 90’s. A crack on the head & BAMN, you’ve forgotten everything.

I always wanted to experience this as a kid. Not that I’d run into things in the hope of knocking myself out, (as this seemed to be the only thing that needed to happen to fall victim to the illness that robs - amnesia.)

Still, I always wondered, would I be a whole new me should I be so lucky as to lose my memory? Perhaps I’d be reinvented as a more kindly child, well liked with adults looking on with great concern thinking what a strong 7 year old with no memory I was.

Which brings me back to Full House, Michelle (played by the monkey-like Olson twins) fell from her horse. I was hoping for death, or paralysis on what could then be correctly termed as a “very special” episode, but regrettably she only lost her memory. I mean not even a broken bone.

Still, to my mind losing the memory of Bob Saget as your father would be a good thing.
Anyway, the rest of the cast all rallied around & sang to Michelle (either Monkey-Kate or Ape Olson, hard to tell) to jog her memory. My favorite part was seeing actress Jodi Sweetin all grown up at 13, being a sort of bitch on screen to Michelle. Acting or realty coming through? Hard to tell…

But I believe that Entertainment Tonight or Everybody Loves Raymond should employ the old amnesia trick, with the stars getting knocked in the head & forgetting who & what they are. That’s TV gold people, TV gold.

Taken To Task

Mr. John Carpenter took me to task for not posting anything, so I need to get off my duff & write some more.

Hence this short but sweet post. There are other stories & ideas for me to work out in prose, but with my wrapping of a film & call backs for another I haven't carved out the time like I should have for some additional writing. Bad D, bad, bad, D!

Yes, perhaps there are hints there of stories to come, from the field of entertainment....

Sweet.

Oh, and ladies, John is single....

Never Wrong Wong

Christy Wong – at my job, Christy joined the company some years back now. A friend of a friend, she arrived about the same time as PorkChop (see earlier posts), they had a, um, friendly rivalry going. Both were hired the same week, both got promotions the same day (Christy got hers 2 minutes before PC, a fact she lorded over him for as long as she worked there). She was a hard worker (in the beginning), had amazingly red hair, porcelain skin, she was a large girl with a marriage arranged by the Internet.
While at work, she used to speak with a lisp around people in authority, I’m guessing to make herself seem cute & wide eyed.
Anyway, one lunch break she & PC were down in the employee lunch room, discussing things, as you do. Christy could never admit to being wrong about anything. In fact, she was so incredible about coming up with excuses a new term was born – “WongTonging” – this came to mean any fantastic reason as to why something, anything at all, wasn’t your fault.
Sometimes PC would set her up to fail, just so he could go over & hear her WongTong.
That days lunch conversation had turned to the differences between men & women. Christy earnestly explained that men & women’s elbows were different, and that if a man & woman stood with their backs against a wall, a woman could lift up a chair while a man, try though he might, could not.
Well, never one to let a challenge go by, or one to let a chance to prove Christy wrong in front of others, PC immediately said he was sure he could lift a chair while standing against a wall. He promptly got up & did just that.
This of course, meant war.
Christy couldn’t let this go, so she immediately began a series of WongTongs – “No! that’s right, if you’re facing the wall, bent over, with the top of your head touching the wall, a woman can lift a chair but a man can’t.”
PC of course debunked this right away, by turning to the wall, putting his large round head to it & lifting the chair.
“No, no, no – um, wait, yes, that’s right, if you’re facing away from the wall, standing on one foot bending so the top of your head is on the wall a man can’t lift that, that’s right, now I remember.” Christy exclaimed, lisp starting to slip.
Quite the crowd had gathered, and all expectantly turned & watched, as PC, a malevolent gleam in his eyes, as he turned, assumed the position & hoisted the chair into the air.
Christy, a little bead of sweat on her pale brow ran up, grabbed the chair placed one foot on the wall, bent over the chair & said
“No, now I remember, one foot on the ground, one on the wall & if you lift really quickly” well this is the point where she frantically lifted the chair with such force she whacked herself in the forehead.
Hurriedly dropping the chair, grabbing her throbbing skull which now had a red brand standing out from her porcelain skin from where the top of the chair had made contact, sobbed “That’s not it, no, that’s not it.”

Later that afternoon she explained she was going to talk with her mother, who would remember what the difference was.

We never heard about this fabled difference again…

I'll give you something to cry about

I used to love to roller skate as a child, I had requested said skates one year & Father Christmas heard my plea and I unwrapped them that year in the summer of '79 - green plastic with sparkily yellow oversized wheels. Fan-bloody-tastic! Not too good for going around our street in New Zealand - it was unpaved gravel - this isn't to say I didn't try, but after being brought back to the house by the neighbor with small stones firmly lodged in my hands and shins, blood oozing around the puncture wounds where I'd fallen after the gravel locked my wheels, I was forbidden from trying to roller skate on unpaved ground.
My parents were divorced, so my brother and I used to travel by train to visit our Mum every other weekend. During the summer, we'd be with her for 3 of the 6 week holiday. After a pleasant train ride, we were in sunny Paraparaumu, on the Kapiti coast of New Zealand.
Across the road from our Mum's house was the neighbors, they happened to have a daughter, Fiona who was around our age.
Well, as happens during the summer you become fast friends, Fiona was actually closer to my brother in age so she was sometimes a little short on patience with me. As I had my nice new roller skates for the summer vacation (it is NZ remember!) we decided to go to the local roller rink to try out our moves.
Now the local roller rink in Paraparaumu was an outside affair, concrete, with one end crimped in lovely waves so skaters could catch a little air doing jumps and leaps.
I was no where near a leaper, and for the first 20 minutes or so was quite content to circle the flat end of the rink staying far away from the rippled concrete at the rinks other end.
Fiona and my brother decided a game of tag was in order, and as two isn't much to play tag with, I was duly invited into the "big league". I was a better roller skater than my brother, but being older he could get up more steam, plus when he was mad he'd knock me to the floor anyway. I wasn't "it", Fiona had tagged my brother and he had me in his sights. I began heading towards the "bad lands" (the lovely waves of concrete) in the hopes of losing my brother in one of the folds. I executed a turn, unexpectedly changed direction and began to build up speed as I neared the first crest of a wave - a.i.r. - bump, down into the low part of the wave. I hear my brother shouting that he's coming after me and is going to kick my ass once he gets hold of me, MORE SPEED JIM, MORE SPEED! Flush with the success of the first jump I'm sure I can execute a second. I make it to the top, zoom into the air not realizing this wave has a steeper landing incline than the first, I tumble in the air and land on my left wrist.
Pain, unbelievable f*&k*ng pain. I'm crying, my brother and Fiona arrive looking disgusted that their game of tag has been interrupted by my, obviously to them, minor injury. Now, neither of them was a doctor, but being 18 months older they felt it was their duty to tell me to shut up as I was fine.
I wanted to leave, to call Mum and have her pick us up early to take us back. I was informed we'd only been there 30 minutes, so I was to shut up, stop crying and go sit by the side of the rink until they were ready to go.
What was a boy to do?
I duly sat and waited - then, what was to appear? Mana from heaven is what! By some unknown 6th mother sense, my Mum pulled up to the rink. I went over, tear stained face, wrist cradled in the other hand and got into the back seat of the blessed vehicle. A disgusted brother and Fiona climbed in as well and off we went for ice cream.
That night, still complaining about my wrist, I was told to go to bed and that I'd feel better in the morning.
I tossed and turned, trying to cry into my pillow so as not to disturb my family around me with the pain in my arm. Finally, after a fitful night dawn arrived and I got up. My mother was looking paticularly cross, along with my brother. When asked if she was ok, my Mum replied "No, your moaning kept me up all night." I thought this particularly unfair, as I'd been trying to moan into my pillow all night, apparently I needn't have bothered with the hot face in the fluffy pillow, I could have wailed all night into the cool open air.
During breakfast I was again told I was ok, and that to prove that I was just milking this I was to be taken to the doctor that afternoon. This was apparently supposed to shut me up and stop me crying wolf, or some such other perverse logic.
We arrived at the doctors office, and after an x-ray the doctor informed my family that I had a green stick fracture that needed to be set right away.
How sweet guilt can be, when your own mother has told you to shut up because nothing is wrong and then to have her, and your mean ass brother corrected by someone with a degree is SO satisfying.

Boba Me This

Mmm Mmmm Good

I remember as a kid reading about Mrs. Pepperpot. One of my favorite memories from that book was the description of "pepper" soup. I've always been a fan of hot food, Indian curry is a favorite of mine. So hearing about a soup made from pepper sounded wonderful! I remember when I was living in Brunei spotting Pepperpot Soup for sale - well, I had to have it! My Dad dutifully purchased it for me, I'd add extra pepper & wolf it down, sweat beading on my forehead from the extra spice I'd added. I was in child heaven, in a way, reinacting a scene from a childhood book.
Well, in the years that followed we left Brunei & moved about, finally ending up in San Diego, California. I'd checked stores now again for Pepperpot soup on the West Coast & never found it. Still, in the back of my mind that delightful hot tasting soup resided, wanting to be found again.
About a year ago I was on vacation in New York, and I was out shopping with a friend. We went to the corner market by his house in Brooklyn, & would you believe it, PEPPERPOT soup was on the shelf. Well, I decided right away that I'd love that for dinner, I bought two cans then & there! I couldn't wait to get it back to the house to heat it up; maybe I'd make some toast with butter to dip in the peppery contents of my bowl, maybe I'd just guzzle the contents down & come back for more right away - I didn't know, I didn't care, I just wanted my bowl right away!
On the stove I watched as the carrots and potatoes swam in the orange broth, almost drooling at the prospect of my peppery dinner. I added some additional pepper, anticipating the beads of perspiration that I would be sweating in a few more minutes. HEAT darn it, HEAT!
As I was settling in to enjoy, my friend asked what was in the damn thing. I smartly answered "pepper!", to which he laughed. So, getting up & walking to the counter, grabbing the can I began to read the ingredients with the purpose of firmly putting him in his place.
Rather than the first ingredient being pepper, carrots, water or even potatoes the first thing I read almost had me hurling right then & there, partly from the ingredient, mostly I think from a childhood memory shattering right then & there in front of me - to the gales of laughter of my uncaring friend I'd read "Beef Tripe".
Sometimes it's just better not knowing...

Trailer Post

Nothing to important to relate,but if you'd like to see a trailer from the movie I was in go ahead & click here!

Walk, don't run

I used to love water parks. A new one had opened in Singapore, “The Big Splash”. In my 6-year-old memory, the water slides tower to the heavens, a rainbow of graceful plastic slides majestically curving down to a myriad of pools. Tide pools, wave pools, hot pools, the people squealing with delight as the air rushed by their faces as they zoomed to the waters embrace at the bottom of the ride.

Well, I had never seen anything so amazing in all my life. To top this off, there were official “slushies” being sold throughout the park. Back in New Zealand there wasn’t (at the time) anything so wonderful as crushed frozen ice blended with syrup by the fine people from coca cola - this was quite possibly the worlds perfect beverage – to a 6 year old. If memory serves, I’d been told not to run, but the sun, the water, the prospect of slushies had all gone to my head that day.

My father had promised both my brother and me a slushy, Jason, my brother was off doing something cool that 8 year olds do that 6 year olds can’t possibly fathom. Apparently at 8 you had an image that your younger brother would ruin. I was sure I’d seen him in the wave pool, and my father said that once we found Jason we could have that slushy.

Well, off I went, sprinting as fast as my 6-year-old legs would take me. When you see those signs by the side of the pool saying don’t run, believe them. As I was steaming along the immaculately kept grass inset with round paving stones I lost my footing, fell and cracked my right knee open.

I was carried to 1st aid where my father joined me with my very annoyed brother. (This was always my brothers reaction whenever I was sick or injured - severe annoyance, as though I'd done it on purpose just to irritate him. I broke my arm once when I was roller skating with him and a neighbor, he made me sit at the side of the rink until they were done skating rather than call my mother to come pick us up early.) I remember sobbing “I don’t want a slushy anymore.” Even in the midst of pain, with a crimson tide streaming from my knee that slushy was still on my mind.

The medic informed my father that I needed to go to hospital for stitches. My father never handles the sight of blood well, and being naturally pale he turns almost translucent, as his blood, firmly enclosed in his body, rushes from all his extremities giving him a pale glow.

He’d made friends with a taxi driver, Rasu, in Singapore, and as it was rush hour he called Rasu to pick us up. This was apparently going to be a lot quicker than going by ambulance, what with it being the Singapore rush hour and all.

Anyway, we arrived at the hospital, and after the nurses had made sure it wasn’t my Dad that needed treatment but rather me, I was whisked away into the operating room. I was given a local anesthetic around my knee as the doctors put things to right and sewed me up.

Now, the thing that remains clearest in my mind is the nurse holding my hand turning to me and saying “Be a brave boy, you like superheroes don’t you? If it hurts just yell out the name of your favorite superhero!” Then she yelled “Superman!” really loudly to demonstrate that it was quite ok to yell in the OR, and maybe to show that the yell wouldn’t affect the surgeon at all.

Even at 6 I had some sense of propriety, and I began to laugh really hard as all I could think was that I was NOT going to yell “Wonder Woman” in the middle of the OR.

Cry for help.

At my current work place, there is a certain cache attached to where you sit. In my old department, we were in a lovely corner of the building on the second story, clear glass looking out onto brilliantly green trees, the blue California sky poking through the tree tops. My manager, Ann Marie even had a sky light over her desk, providing a dazzling sun beam during the summer months, and a rhythmic rat a tat tat during the brief rainy season. We even had roof drains that created mock Hawaiian water falls among the trees during this rainy period, slate grey skies replacing the blue and the wind gently bent the leafy green tops towards the windows as the water running down the panes blurred everything into a Monet relief.

Our lovely sojourn in the greenhouse corner of the office was cut short when the Sales department decided they wanted more space. Ann Marie, a true medical marvel as she was a woman with no spine, didn’t have the wherewithal to stand up to the formidable PC in his request to oust our fine department from its cozy corner.

In fact, she came to us and explained that as a Catholic, she felt it was her place to take the lesser portion in office seating arrangements as we’d had such a lovely space for so long.

Now, this is all very well and good, but I don’t think she should have been relegating her entire department to the far flung reaches of the office as she was afraid to rock the boat. PC has no qualms about rocking the boat so a few people fall over board, he does it just so he can have more room to put up his feet.

Ann Marie was trying to spin how great the new move was going to be. We were to move into the former cubby occupied by the Sales department. A small section of the company, right by the door, a veritable fish bowl.

Ann Marie’s big plan to market this move to the department was to decorate everything in white; white table clothes on the central meeting table, white pots for pot plants, white picture frames on desks – a nice sterile work environment that would do a dentists office proud.

Now, not being one to stay quiet at the best of times, and realizing there was nothing I could do to change this (short of dressing as Ann Marie for the day and trying to confuse the executive team with a new found spine) I resorted to sarcastic suggestions cunningly hidden as helpful ideas.

Quickly warming to the subject I proposed white gauze hung from the ceiling, white hurricane shutters on our three small windows and perhaps even a white stand alone door frame with white doorbell to play “A Whiter Shade Of Pale” when someone wanted to enter the department. Perhaps even a white ceiling fan to complete what I was now contemplating, a Somerset Maugham /tropical island feeling department.

Needless to say I didn’t get my doorframe, fan or hurricane shutters, I didn’t even get my gauze – however, I did get my actual target – an absolute lack of white around my desk.

When I informed my New Zealand mother of Ann Marie’s plans, she began asking for her number, as she was certain that the white environment was a subtle cry for help.

Say What?!?

My step-mother was taking my 4 year old nephew to the San Diego Wild Animal Park last week. His 2 year old sister was going in to have some fillings & caps put in, so this was a special treat to make sure he was nice and distracted from his sisters impending pain.

He was popped into his car seat in the back of the car and is a really delightful child to travel with as he often amuses himself with toys or his own imaginings.

As they were getting off the 78 East and onto the 15 South heading towards the park, there was a car ahead of my step mothers. The poor woman in the car ahead seemed to be having trouble deciding if she wanted to go at the speed limit or several miles below it, and she couldn’t seem to pick which lane she wanted to be in, veering from one to the other, never leaving enough space to safely go around. Well, my step mother was getting more and more frustrated with each passing mile, and finally let out an exasperated “HEY IDIOT! Make up your mind where you want to go!!” at the car ahead.

About 3 seconds later a pitiful voice from the back seat said “Well Grandma, I kinda wanted to go to the wild animal park…”

...& I like snatch...

I just love all the little language differences that crop up when English isn’t someone’s first language. A while back, when people used to say folks were talking “smack” about you, a friend from France heard the term & thought she had it down. She decided to use her new lingo when we were having a chat with some other folks and things got a bit heated - the lovely French lass said she didn’t want to hear people going around talking snap about her. So close, yet so far…

I was in my friends car as we all drove to see Shrek 2, and he was playing a song by the A*Teens, “Perfect Match”. Well, one line of this sugary pop confection is, and I kid you not, “& I like Snatch.” To be fair, it’s a song of comparisons and the full lyric is “You like Grease & I like Snatch” (delivered sincerely with angelic vocals by the boys of the band), so they’re contrasting those two films – however, it still didn’t stop us from giggling away like 12 year olds, & we’ve been repeating the line ad nauseam forgetting that some of our other friends don’t listen to pop & are quite shocked to hear this.

Of course, Snatch isn’t slang in quite a few other places, but I’m thinking that’s probably the line that will prevent Clear Channel from broadcasting the tune on the airwaves over here.

Now go talk some snap.

I really love your lisp...

I was at the gym, working out. This is where I curse my polite new Zealand upbringing. A guy wheels past in his wheel chair, and smiles. Being a nice person, I smile back and go on with my set.

He stops, wheels back, performs a 180 and is now facing me, sitting down. He says “hi”, and I, in return, as you do, said “hi” back. Well, pleasantry ensues, and I’m not sure where to look, so I maintain eye contact, and try to keep the conversation light while exercising, which is no mean feat while lifting heavy weights.

I then heard, perhaps, the most offensive pick up line I’ve *E-V-E-R* heard. “I really love your lisp.” This, I’m sure, was meant in a sweet way. But for me, it just brings to mind sound bites of Cindy Brady saying things like “Missssssta Dietmyer, Issssss jussssssst dropped my ball in your yard.” & “Hey Marssssssha, wait up for me pleassssssse.”

Now, if this had been anyone else, my riot act side would have come out. New Zealanders, while polite, also have a natural tendency towards sarcasm, and I’ve been known to cut people down at 30 feet – BUT – none of those folks have had a handicapped sign hanging from their rear view mirror. So I ended up allowing him to roll me to my car.

I guess the lesson here is, next time, they can be missing an appendage & I’ll let them have it.

100% butter

Mothers, we wouldn’t be here without them. I was just thinking about a visit from my Mum from a year or so ago.

As I’ve gotten older and have been purchasing my own groceries, I’ve tended towards the more natural/100% whole food type items. When I buy juice I like 100% juice products. I don’t buy soda (to which my friends can testify, much to their annoyance when they’re at my house), and I normally purchase a vegan spread.

My Mum is really old school when it comes to food, and is sure that everything everywhere should cost what it does in New Zealand. She is often pleasantly surprised by some of the items for sale in the US, and has told me on three separate occasions (in person, in writing & a late midnight call) that if I’m running low on cash, for just 99 cents I can get a wonderful baked potato from Wendy’s – a nutritious meal at an unbelievable steal.

We were shopping for her stay with me at Trader Joes. We couldn’t purchase the bread there as it was “too expensive.” She didn’t understand why I wanted to purchase milk from cows not treated with bovine growth formula. Then I was mentioning the spread that I purchase, but said that we’d get something different for her she exclaimed that the butter here looked sick. (Admittedly, New Zealand butter is a vibrant bright yellow when compared to the pale , lackluster yellow you find here.)

So, I picked up a Swedish whipped butter spread, which I thought had a nice yellow butter pictured on the label. She grabbed it from my hands & I thought I may have picked a winner, however this was not to be, Instead she flips it over & exclaims “OH NO! We’re not purchasing this, the main ingredient is water! I’m couldn’t pay over $2 for a spread that’s made from water.”

We left, without bread, without butter, but with me wishing I’d just done the shopping before she arrived.

You don't know me but...

I was at the San Diego airport waiting for a friends flight to arrive. At the airport, folks that are arriving land and alight from the craft on the 2nd story of the terminal, as they approach baggage claim you see them walking through a glass covered corridor until they reach the down escalator which delivers the folks to the arms of all the relatives gathered there to greet them. Or into the arms of the greeter/driver assigned to meet them.

One such greeter had a sign with the name “SAKURA NAKAMORA” printed in large block letters. He prominently featured his sign when any unattended Asian woman made the decent from the glass corridor.

A cute Asian girl arrived at the baggage claim level, looked around for her friends and then stood to one side obviously waiting for her friends to show up. I see greeters eyes swivel towards her, he waggles his sign trying to catch her attention. She notices the sign and lets her eyes slide past him, then begins “obviously” looking for her no show companions - body language saying the kind of thing you do when you’re out by your self at a club – “my friends are supposed to be here”, “hmm, is that the time? Maybe they’re late, but I’m not here alone.”

Greeter looks back up at the folks coming through the corridor and down the escalator, and, I’m guessing that as he saw no Asians coming his way pushes him to begin taking small doll steps towards the only unattached Asian woman he can spot in the airport.

By this time I’m enthralled, Greeter hasn’t said a-n-y-t-h-i-n-g, but it’s obvious he thinks the girl is Ms. Nakamora, while it’s clear to me that she is going out of her way to non-verbally tell him she isn’t.

Greeter’s sidling steps finally brought him right up to the girl, and then he shakes his sign again, wiggling it from side to side, I’m not sure why he thought this would help, but, the girl turns to him, looks him in the eye & says “No.” Then she marches off to the other side of the escalator to wait for her friends.

I wonder if Ms. Nakamura ever arrived...

Hot travel tips.

Ok, my friend PC works in the Travel Insurance industry. In fact, his actual title is “Director of Direct Marketing & Sales”, in addition to this, he’s also a Certified Travel Agent.

Now, having such an esteemed title, agent certification, and position not only includes great responsibility, but great opportunities as well. One such opportunity presented itself last year, when he was invited to be the “celebrity speaker” on an Internet radio show regarding travel.

The first sign of a problem was when they listed him on their website with the title of “Dr” David Craychee. Things went down hill from there, my favorite part though is the following – in the final moments of the show, the host asked “Dr. Craychee” for some good advice travelers could use when they travel.

Dr. David, after only a moments hesitation, goes on to recommend the following: “When you’re traveling alone and ordering room service for breakfast, don’t order just one meal, order two! That way, if people are looking at the orders left out for room service they think two people are staying in the room, not just one, plus if it’s a business trip you could expense it to the company.”

This, dear readers was the advice of a Certified Travel Agent, Director of Direct Marketing and Sales and sometimes know-it-all. Not advice about making sure you have a packing list, photograph the belongings you suitcase in case you need to file an insurance claim if they’re damaged or stolen while on your trip, not obtain timers for your lights while you’re away, not even have your mail picked up if you’re not having it stopped. No, none of these, not even the famous Jennifer Saunders line “You can never have enough hats, gloves and shoes”, but “eat for two & expense it to your company.”

Are there are a lot of people that circulate through hotel rooms looking at room service orders that make this sort of deception necessary? Would this really work? I think it just goes to show, that even if you see CTA after your travel agents name, it doesn’t necessarily mean that they know what they’re doing.

My ultimate hope is that Dr. PorkChop will one day compile all of his helpful hints like this in one large volume, perhaps updated on a quarterly basis so we can all benefit from his travel advice. What else might be in there? When making dinner reservations on your trip, make them for a party of four if you’re traveling alone so that the maitre d doesn’t think you’re a total friendless loser. If you’re traveling to a snowy city, set up an appointment for a Brazilian wax the week before, so you can feel tropical the whole time you’re in the cold!

I hate modern

Just back from a dance recital - gotta support ya friends, but it did bring me to the realization that I'm not a huge fan of modern dance!

Whay funny is...

I was noticing on one of the "news" websites an article that had the headline posing the question - "what makes something funny?"
An interesting question, as it sparked a memory for me - I remembered (while I was driving today) that when I was about 6 or 7 my brother and I used to collapse in fits of giggles when we'd turn on the windscreen wipers while the car was off, so that when our Dad got in & turned on the car they'd start up. I mean really, what's funny about that now? But back then, there was almost nothing funnier than windscreen wipers starting when they shouldn't. Then again, I guess my humor hasn't progressed too much...

Learning something new, everyday...

Something came to mind that I thought I’d share, as Dena (www.outshined.com) commented that she really enjoyed the PorkChop story.
Many years ago now, in a world not as cynical as today, Dena, PC (see the previous post) & I were driving to help a friend move out of Riverside. Or was it Fallbrook? I forget, but the point being, those are both places you’d want to move from if you lived there. So, we’re in Dena’s red car on our way to said friends (in Fallside/Riverbrook) discussing things, as people do.
This might have been the time that Dena revealed she’d traded the gold fillings in her teeth for 2nd row BackStreet Boys tickets in Las Vegas, I don’t recall, but I do recall the following…
PC, for some strange reason, has always been a great admirer of the more salient assets of the female figure - commented to me that Dena had “quite big tits.”
Dena had a small car, candy apple red, no AC, and that San Diego summer day was hotter than usual so the windows were down and the air was ripping through the cars innards as we traversed up the 15 at 90 MPH.
In something not unlike a special effect from the original Exorcist, Dena turns her head right round on her neck, glowers and with a voice which might have made Satan tremble (as it started low and terrifying until it built to a roar at the end of her statement) said “I - am - NOT - A - DITZ!!!”
Needless to say, I was speechless, and a mite frightened, as Dena was no longer looking at the road, but trying to skewer us through with her vision. Visions of us plowing off the 15 into Lawrence Welk scattering old people before us was a big possibility at that moment.
PC quickly mentioned that he hadn’t actually called her a ditz, rather, had said she had big tits.
Well, it was as though you’d handed a five year old a lollypop behind his mothers back, as apparently this was quite ok. Quick as a summer shower Dena, now pleased as punch, turned her attention back to road with a beaming smile, saying, “OH! That’s ok then.”
Which goes to show, some folks would rather have big tits than ever be thought of as a ditz.

PorkChop *NOT* DOC

Here's a muleish friend's blog - http://doctalkrocks.blogspot.com/ - check it out. He may try to be rebranding himself as DOC, but he'll always be PorkChop to me.
You see, many years ago now, while he was a Customer Service Rep at Office Depot, living in Escondido - the day dawned clear, sunny and warm.
PorkChop (PC) looked out on the shiny morning & decided it would be a good day to meander into work, forgoing the car & doing something not only for his body, but for the environment as well.
So, off he sets, from his small, one room, kitchen/toilet/bedroom/livingroom combined studio apartment on that hot Escondido morning. Perhaps birds flew by chirping their welcome to the bubbly PC as he bopped his way to Office Depot. As he came to the main road he saw that the little white light man was still showing on the big black pole, blinking to be sure, but he thought he'd have ample time to make the few feet from one side of the road to the other.
Taking that fateful step, PC took his ample figure into the crosswalk, walking - not quickly - to the other side of the road. {Not unlike all those chickens that insist on crossing roads - as at this juncture in his life, PC could be safely referred to as "chicken" or a 'twink(ie)".}
Well, as all things change, so did the little man and the light, the man was now red & the light for the oncoming traffic was green. Still enjoying his morning stroll, PC didn't hurry a step, but kept with his own slow steady pace to the other side of the road.
A man, perhaps in his mid 30's, in a truck, maybe good looking, maybe not, the records on this are a little spotty, but this is known for a fact - the man does roll down his window & yells, & I quote "SPEED IT UP PORKCHOP!!!"
Well, not used to cat calls, (you've seen his picture in his blog, so this is understandable) PC was scared out of his reverie contemplating what's for lunch & ran panting the last few feet to the other side of the road. The day ruined, perhaps, a little sadder & older than before.
So, that's the story of how he came to be known as PorkChop. So, don't let him tell you he's DOC, you look him in the eye & say "You'll always be PorkChop to me."

Healthy Post

Just back from the gym - hip hop class to be exact. I enjoy that special feeling that only dancing with people better than you can give, you know, the what the hell, I can't move like that - ever - feeling.
Anyway, I worked out the body, now I'm doing some spot training with the fingers while importing Wilson Phillips into iTunes, things really couldn't get much better now could they, the pleasant harmonies of Chynna, Carnie & Wendy while typing on a balmy summer night. Could be a San Diego promotional commercial couldn't it?

Well I never!

I was finally able to post a picture, a lot harder than it looks folks when you're not too technically savvy. This of course means for the past 20 minutes I've been doing non-work related internet exploring, so I must now, sadly go into a flurry of work to make up for my apparent slackfullness.

It's my first time...

It's been a while since I've been able to say that. Woo hoo, the DOC has convinced me to try this out.