Mandarins are special people food

“Mandarins are special people food. When we have guests come over, we want to be able to go to the pantry and know that there is a tin of mandarins in there.”

I can remember my stepmother being very empathic about this. She was furious that she'd found an empty tin of mandarins in the recyling.

With three teenagers at home, my parents had begun shopping at Price-Costco, buying the family groceries in bulk. The station wagon would pull into the driveway and they'd call my siblings and me out to the garage to help begin carting in cases of more green beans than anyone would want to eat in a lifetime as far as I could see. They'd gone overboard with French’s dried onions, canned peas, raisins and the aforementioned tinned mandarins in light syrup.

Not even extra fancy mandarins mind you, or mandarins packed in juice. Just your regular, run of the mill, light syrup mandarins.

Now, I have never, ever, ever, seen my parents serve a dish containing mandarins to guests that just “pop over”. A vodka tonic or other refeshment - yes. Tasty nibbly crackers with aged cheese and olives, yes, but mandarins? Tin opened and plopped into a bowl? No. Never. Not once. My Dad hasn’t in my recollection ever presented a mock Chinese stir-fry with mandarins to people that just happen to visit. He’s whipped up Indian chicken vindaloo, marinated beef satay, embezzlers purses, spinakopita, roast beef with roast vegetables, Boeuf Wellington with homemade horseradish. All of these items have been served to folks that have visited, but, none of these dishes contain mandarins.

Which is why it was curious that the parents of a family on a budget would be so up in arms that one of their teenagers had eaten a tin of fruit that cost under a dollar, way less than a dollar when you factor in that they were buying pallets worth of the same thing. A true low cost meal.

When I moved out, the first thing I bought when I went the grocery store was tinned mandarins. Drunk with new found freedom and purchasing power they were the first item opened when I got home and I ate them all - straight from the tin. I even left the empty tin on the counter for a few days.

So, if you happen to drop by, while mandarins are special people food you won’t find them here. After several months of gourging myself on the things, I can't stomach them now. I do however like knowing that I can get them whenever I want. So, if you do happen to drop my, how about some capers instead?

Wanna taste of the ladies?

Cleaning up my apartment, and I came across what should be really be a prior crime shot. A picture of how I saw my brother for the 1st 13 years of my life.

Fist raised, coming towards me for some "excersise", or "rough housing" as my step-mother put it.

Note the rings, and the nice snap buttons on his blue shirt. I had one in brown...

These boots were made for walkin…

A sentence to be wary of in any on line profile is “I like cowboy boots.” Take it from me.

It was one of those rare, rainy California weekends. The kind of indoor day that drives me to the net to pass the time. It so happened that I’d been chatting online, back and forth with a guy via email for a while. Will and I had gotten to the point of exchanging numbers and were around to the point of actually speaking on the phone.

You can tell a lot from a person by their voice. Someone might be able to maintain a fun face behind their email program, but it’s a lot harder to hide being a dud when you’re on the phone. From our conversation, all seemed normal and nice. Will and I shared musical tastes, we were around the same age, had comparable senses of humor - these are all good things to have in common.

So after an hour or so of chatting on the phone I agreed to drive on over, we could watch a bit of television, chat in person, maybe head out for a coffee or something.

Upon arrival, Will meets me on the landing in jeans, boots, a white t-shirt. He ushers me into his apartment where a Seinfeld rerun is just beginning. All normal there. He offers me some bottled water, and then asks “Do you like cowboy boots?”

Now, this is not a question I generally get, or, truth be told, expect. I often get where are you from, how long have you been growing your hair, do you pay taxes, are you legal, that sort of thing.

Thinking fast I explain that I don’t “own” any cowboy boots, but, I have in fact worn them on stage for several shows I’ve been in. Truthfully I only remember wearing them in Annie Get Your Gun, but I probably wore them in another production at some point.

My answer seems to please Will. He follows his first question up with “Would I feel embarrassed wearing them in public.” A little strange, but, I answered, that, no, I don’t think I would be.

Now, while I found it strange, the question caused me to have a sort of out of body experience. I was suddenly caught in a vision of all the “Help Desk”/Technical support assistance guys I’ve known at previous jobs. I could see the guys wearing cowboy boots with their acid wash jeans, old heavy metal rock concert t-shirts from the 1980s that they haven’t been able to give up tucked in and belted tight. The Scorpions logo stretched across an ever-expanding waistline.

I really need to learn to say “yes”.

Anyway, Will was delighted with my answer, and, he ran into the bedroom and returns with 3 pairs of cowboy boots; camel brown, black, and taupe. Will then asked me to put on the pair that I liked best.

Which is how I came to find myself on his couch, bottled water in hand and a pair of tight fitting black cowboy boots watching Seinfeld, desperate for the show to end so I can put my nice Rockport blue shoes back on and leave.

I don't cry at weddings

As a rule, I don't cry at weddings. Weddings don't normally move me one way or another. I can understand the emotion being them - two people so in love, saying they'll spend the rest of their respective forevers together, blah, blah, blah - but, I just don't connect. I guess I just don't believe in forevers anymore.

Perhaps it's due to my parents divorce happening when I was so young. I don't remember them ever being together. My brother and I were one of the few children growing up with divorced parents in New Zealand, so I may have had a jaded outlook on the entire marriage affair. I mean, if it (it being divorce) could happen with my parents, then it, meant people change, and, what's todays' truth isn't necessarily tomorrows' truth.

So, seeing people up in front of others talking about their undying love has always seemed a little, well, hollow.

I can remember my Dad's remarriage. I was mad. Mad as hell. In my defense, I was 9. And, AND! I had never met the woman he was marrying. I didn't even know my Dad was seeing someone! We,( "we" being my brother, my Dad & I) were living in Brunei at the time.

For the school holidays my brother and I had been visiting my Mum in New Zealand. Surprisingly my Dad met the Air New Zealand flight my brother and I were on in Singapore. Ok, hold onto your hats - this was 1981, and kids flew alone all the time. I normally got to hand out the sweets at the end of the flight being a "help" to the airstewardesses. In any event, my Dad had me walking to Kindergarden when I was 4 years old. So, (working on) intercontinental flights was nothing.

Anyway, we didn't end up back in Brunei. My brother and I were hauled into a cramped phone booth in Changi International Airport in Singapore, we had a receiver thrust into our hands and we were made to listen to some American chick with a really weird accent tell us how excited she was, that she couldn't wait to meet us and become our "Mom".

It's still a sore point to my step mother that in her wedding pictures I have a look that can peel paint at 15 paces. Well, it's 1981, so I think she should be pleased I have an artistic look on my face rather than having a bad perm (which my Dad had) and shoulder pads (which she had). Still, they're not my wedding photos so I guess a little peevishness on her part is forgivable.

My brother got married in the late 1990's. The boy that had hanged my soft toys from my bedroom ceiling, mummified my Wonder Woman doll, strapped me to a tree and whipped me with holly, tried to suffocate me, got me drunk, kept me from seeking medical help when I had a fractured arm, complained that he didn't get a slurpee when I'd split my knee open, did drugs scott free while I was suspected of being an addict, shot small animals and skinned them, the boy that had administered daily beatings to me, got married.

Somewhere, the boy had become a man while we weren't together. He'd found a woman to temper him, and married her. The same violent child had been remade as an urbane man burst into tears seeing his soon to be wife walk down the aisle towards him.

Still - no tears from me there. Dry as a bone.

Though I almost did come tears at being made to watch their wedding video under duress. Thank goodness it was only the "highlights" and not the whole damn thing. I had to be there for the live event for heaven's sake. We're only on this earth for a short time, and your time shouldn't be taken up with watching someone else get dressed up and walk down an aisle on telly.

Which brings me to last Sunday. My friend Megan got married in San Diego, to a man she's loved for years. I began cajoling her once she broke up with the "love of her life" when we were both coworkers. I'd helped prod her towards this new man, this wonderful guy, that unfortunately wasn't gay, Well, if I couldn't have him, someone I loved should.

She's feisty, funny, smart, strong, caring, witty, locquacious, loving and Megan posses a beautiful soul.

So, seeing her get married was the 1st time I think I've experienced what marriage is truly about. Megan was married in San Diego, at the Catamaran Hotel, on October 9th, 2005 right on the beach.

As she appeared on a balcony overlooking the sand and surf, the sun highlighted her dress, making an aura around her. She descended the steps glowing, looking remarkablt like an earth goddess of old - tears held in her eyes as she made her way down the aisle on her fathers arm. Megan had eyes only for Jim, which was probably for the best. She even forgot which hand to place the ring on when the time came.

But, as I sat watching the ceremony I was surprised to fell wetness on my cheeks. Well, rules are made to be broken.

I was crying at a wedding, and it was quite ok with me.

That's the natural look?

Agent hunting is hard work. I have an agent at the moment, but of course, you’re always looking for the next step up until you’re with a top tier agency.

Along the way you’re sure to meet up with some, well, questionable folks.

I had a call a couple of months back now, from an agents assistant who’d seen my headshot and asked if I’d come in for a meeting with the head of their commercial division. Sounded great to me, so muggins said yes!

Well, to be fair, I submit myself on a daily basis, and with my day job I sometimes forget everything I’ve submitted for. And, it’s not unheard of to be called in for a job based on your headshot.

Anyway, the call turned out to be a cattle call for the agency in question. The audition was to memorize some copy (a photo copy of a loan ad for the guys, and a moisturizer magazine ad for the girls) and then do a read for the head of the commercial division. I’m not sure how you head yourself, being the only commercial agent on staff, but there you go. Melissa, the head of the commercial division headed herself.

They’re actually a small to mid size agency, they have a name, they’re not in the top 10 by any means, but, they’re bigger than the agency I’m currently with.

So I gave my reading of the “copy”, and was told that I did a great reading. Then, Melissa asked if I was currently signed to an agency. I explained that yes, I was. To which she replied, “Then what the hell are you doing here?” I mentioned that they’d contacted me, and asked me to come in.

Well, we chatted for a bit, she wanted to know if I skateboarded, I don’t, but, she asked that I contact her in a week if I was still interested. I left quite pleased, having successfully auditioned for a short film earlier that week.

I was still very interested, until I started receiving the agency emails.

Now my current head shots are theatrical, rather than commercial. Melissa wanted me to get some new commercial head shots done which is not unheard of. She also included a list of photographers that the agency recommends, and asked to be contacted prior to booking the shoot. Part of their contract required their final sign off on any photographer.

Well, all the photographers that were recommended were a tad on the expensive side. And while Melissa was touting how wonderful they were, I couldn’t help thinking that I was looking at proof sheets from the 1970’s. The majority of submissions are done on line these days, yet, they also recommended a printer for getting pictures run off.



I couldn’t see myself getting any photos done with the recommended lot, so talked with my good friend Elena (who has some superb headshots, both commercial & theatrical) and made an appointment with her guy – for less than 1/2 the price of what was on Melissa’s recommendation list.



Well, Melissa said no, I couldn’t use this guy, and that I need to pick someone from her list to make sure I “didn’t get the wrong shots”, as she didn’t want me to “throw away my money”.

To which I replied “it appears that the recommended photographers are rather expensive for the service they’re performing. Do you receive a commission or finders fee for referring clients to them?”

Melissa wouldn’t answer this question, but, she DID direct me to another photographer, not on the main list, which she thought might be a better fit.



Needless to say, I didn’t end up signing with her after that!