“Has anyone ever told you that you look like Kevin Spacey?”
That’s what I got told yesterday when I was at work at Famima. A couple walks in, and the guy lays that one on me. He didn’t even have the courtesy to say “a young Kevin Spacey” – just that (to him) I look like “Kevin Spacey.” And apparently people should have told me this.
I ordered them out of the store.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
What Not To Wear
Cold is as cold feels. Or something like that. It’s “winter” here in Los Angeles. We’ve been in the midst of Santa Ana winds, and the temperatures have been a “chill” 75 degrees Fahrenheit (25 Celsius). Admittedly, over the summer we were in the 90’s (30’s C). Still, it’s not THAT cold.
However, Californian’s love the look of winter; folks are out and about in scarves, woolly hats, thick jackets, and gloves. Basically steadfastly refusing to admit it’s just not that cold. It’s winter according to the calendar, so the winter wardrobe needs to get an airing.
I was treated to the other end of the spectrum last week when I went to Seattle for the week. There temperatures were in the low 40’s (around 4 – 6 Celsius.) Now, while I was there, Seattle was treated to sunshine. So, it was REALLY cold, but sunny – which is when I was exposed to native Seattleans in their thick woolly winter jackets, shorts and running shoes.
My legs were aching in agony for these folks. It’s one thing to put on hats and gloves when you’re in the 70’s, but, to put on shiny above the knee basketball shorts & sporty shoes to celebrate the sun in a blind refusal of just how bloody cold it is, is just plain crazy.
However, Californian’s love the look of winter; folks are out and about in scarves, woolly hats, thick jackets, and gloves. Basically steadfastly refusing to admit it’s just not that cold. It’s winter according to the calendar, so the winter wardrobe needs to get an airing.
I was treated to the other end of the spectrum last week when I went to Seattle for the week. There temperatures were in the low 40’s (around 4 – 6 Celsius.) Now, while I was there, Seattle was treated to sunshine. So, it was REALLY cold, but sunny – which is when I was exposed to native Seattleans in their thick woolly winter jackets, shorts and running shoes.
My legs were aching in agony for these folks. It’s one thing to put on hats and gloves when you’re in the 70’s, but, to put on shiny above the knee basketball shorts & sporty shoes to celebrate the sun in a blind refusal of just how bloody cold it is, is just plain crazy.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Gimme a “Y”
I love the fact that my Mum text messages. She’s in her 60’s, and likes to email, surf the net (at her local library) and now she’s gotten into the whole cell phone SMS revolution.
The thing that I don’t love is reading her texts. As my brother puts it, she texts like she is charged by the letter, with an extra surcharge for vowels.
The most recent example:
“early lunch @ choc fish. driving honda jazz 4 test. rtcle free weather ok. xs”
Ok – breaking that down.
Early lunch @ choc fish – this is fine, she had an early lunch at the Chocolate Fish (a restaurant in Wellington)
Driving honda jazz 4 test – got it, a test drive of the Honda Jazz.
xs – kisses, got it
The thing that has me stumped is “rtcle free weather ok”
Is that “article free weather ok”? – well, that makes no sense...
Perhaps “reticule free weather ok” – I guess that could make sense; she has no small fabric purse from the 18th century, so she’s “reticule free”, and “the weather is ok”. Still, that doesn’t seem like something you’d text someone. “I have no 200 year old article on me right now.” It’s not even something I’d say to someone face to face. “No reticules on me today.”
I guess it’s just a mystery that I shall leave unsolved. A cold case to crack at a later date.
The thing that I don’t love is reading her texts. As my brother puts it, she texts like she is charged by the letter, with an extra surcharge for vowels.
The most recent example:
“early lunch @ choc fish. driving honda jazz 4 test. rtcle free weather ok. xs”
Ok – breaking that down.
Early lunch @ choc fish – this is fine, she had an early lunch at the Chocolate Fish (a restaurant in Wellington)
Driving honda jazz 4 test – got it, a test drive of the Honda Jazz.
xs – kisses, got it
The thing that has me stumped is “rtcle free weather ok”
Is that “article free weather ok”? – well, that makes no sense...
Perhaps “reticule free weather ok” – I guess that could make sense; she has no small fabric purse from the 18th century, so she’s “reticule free”, and “the weather is ok”. Still, that doesn’t seem like something you’d text someone. “I have no 200 year old article on me right now.” It’s not even something I’d say to someone face to face. “No reticules on me today.”
I guess it’s just a mystery that I shall leave unsolved. A cold case to crack at a later date.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
I guess I DO get this all the time
I guess I never look like myself. I have a “face” face; people see someone else’s face rather than my own. This being the case, maybe I should contact the CIA and get a job as an undercover agent – as like McCavity the Mystery Cat – I’m not there.
This time I was out to dinner and the waitress said:
“Excuse me, you must get this ALL the time, but you exactly like my friend Scott Lowell. Ted on Queer As Folk – wow, it’s uncanny. Sorry, I just had to say that.”
I’m never quite sure how to respond to things like this. I hadn’t in fact seen Queer As Folk, I don’t get that “all the time”. I just smiled graciously and thanked her, as she genuinely believed this to be a supreme compliment.
Then I got home.
Thanks to our good friends at IMDB I see that Scott is a good 7 years older than me. And while there is a passing resemblance – if you’re drunk and don’t have your (strong) prescription glasses on/a contact fell out – I’m not sure “exactly” is the best adjective to describe the situation of how much we look alike.
Though a quick highly unscientific poll of work peeps got me a list of responses along these lines:
“Yes, you do look like him.”
“A little bit, yes.”
“Not an exact match, but yeah, you do.”
At least one of them had the grace to say that he looks 10 – 15 years older than me…
I think I shall have to begin a list of people I look like in LA. And thinking about it, I guess I do get this sort of thing all the time. It's just the male that I look like that changes every time.
If we're going to be retooling my life and I'm recast, like another Darrin the Dick York me can easily be replaced with no one really the wiser to the change.
This time I was out to dinner and the waitress said:
“Excuse me, you must get this ALL the time, but you exactly like my friend Scott Lowell. Ted on Queer As Folk – wow, it’s uncanny. Sorry, I just had to say that.”
I’m never quite sure how to respond to things like this. I hadn’t in fact seen Queer As Folk, I don’t get that “all the time”. I just smiled graciously and thanked her, as she genuinely believed this to be a supreme compliment.
Then I got home.
Thanks to our good friends at IMDB I see that Scott is a good 7 years older than me. And while there is a passing resemblance – if you’re drunk and don’t have your (strong) prescription glasses on/a contact fell out – I’m not sure “exactly” is the best adjective to describe the situation of how much we look alike.
Though a quick highly unscientific poll of work peeps got me a list of responses along these lines:
“Yes, you do look like him.”
“A little bit, yes.”
“Not an exact match, but yeah, you do.”
At least one of them had the grace to say that he looks 10 – 15 years older than me…
I think I shall have to begin a list of people I look like in LA. And thinking about it, I guess I do get this sort of thing all the time. It's just the male that I look like that changes every time.
If we're going to be retooling my life and I'm recast, like another Darrin the Dick York me can easily be replaced with no one really the wiser to the change.
Sunday, November 04, 2007
Glaucoma
My grandmother passed away this past week. This got me to thinking about times we shared together, and some I’d like to share.
On my last trip to New Zealand my grandmother, Nan, asked me if I’d ever tried marijuana. Nan suffered from glaucoma. She had a friend Gwyneth, who was in her 80’s. Gwyneth was married; her husband’s name is Colin. Now Colin had done some research on the Internet and discovered that marijuana was good for glaucoma. Being an avid gardener and a good friend, Gwyneth procured some marijuana seeds and she’d been able to grow them on her Bay of Plenty section.
On their last trip to visit Nan, Gwyneth and Colin had taken some, I guess you’d call it “primo stash” to Khandallah; where at a dinner party of the over 80 set they’d all shared it - as Nan put it "like a peace pipe” being passed around.
I can just picture Nan and her WWII generation friends all trying marijuana for the first time.
After relating this, (relatively) shocking story to me, Nan got up and pulled out her left over stash from the party. She’d explained that she asked an uncle to try it with her, but he was “too chicken”. I’ve never done any sort of drug, and wasn’t about to start now. Though I know members of my family that do partake, in fact I call their home “The House of Hashish”. Nan was very pleased to hear this, as she didn’t want to smoke it alone.
Anyway, in Nan’s little plastic baggy were about 8 fat doobies. She explained she was very worried having them in the house, as she didn’t want to be “raided”. The scandal that would cause in Khandallah! She talked about transferring the illicit medicinal drug to said House of Hashish where she could enjoy it in like minded company.
I have to admit, I was very proud of her; having researched and then tried an alternative treatment to help her eyes, all in her late 80’s.
Nan was never one to shy away from adventure. She back packed across Europe in her 40’s, had traveled around the world in her 50’s, 60’s & 70's – she was the living embodiment letting all her knew her know there’s really no reason to not continue living life to the fullest, no matter what your age.
On my last trip to New Zealand my grandmother, Nan, asked me if I’d ever tried marijuana. Nan suffered from glaucoma. She had a friend Gwyneth, who was in her 80’s. Gwyneth was married; her husband’s name is Colin. Now Colin had done some research on the Internet and discovered that marijuana was good for glaucoma. Being an avid gardener and a good friend, Gwyneth procured some marijuana seeds and she’d been able to grow them on her Bay of Plenty section.
On their last trip to visit Nan, Gwyneth and Colin had taken some, I guess you’d call it “primo stash” to Khandallah; where at a dinner party of the over 80 set they’d all shared it - as Nan put it "like a peace pipe” being passed around.
I can just picture Nan and her WWII generation friends all trying marijuana for the first time.
After relating this, (relatively) shocking story to me, Nan got up and pulled out her left over stash from the party. She’d explained that she asked an uncle to try it with her, but he was “too chicken”. I’ve never done any sort of drug, and wasn’t about to start now. Though I know members of my family that do partake, in fact I call their home “The House of Hashish”. Nan was very pleased to hear this, as she didn’t want to smoke it alone.
Anyway, in Nan’s little plastic baggy were about 8 fat doobies. She explained she was very worried having them in the house, as she didn’t want to be “raided”. The scandal that would cause in Khandallah! She talked about transferring the illicit medicinal drug to said House of Hashish where she could enjoy it in like minded company.
I have to admit, I was very proud of her; having researched and then tried an alternative treatment to help her eyes, all in her late 80’s.
Nan was never one to shy away from adventure. She back packed across Europe in her 40’s, had traveled around the world in her 50’s, 60’s & 70's – she was the living embodiment letting all her knew her know there’s really no reason to not continue living life to the fullest, no matter what your age.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Like looking in a mirror, a fun house mirror
I’m shopping at my local Trader Joes last week, right after the gym. I’ve just had a relatively long work out, so I’m still in shorts, t-shirt, I’ve got my glasses on and my hair is kinda flat and spiky from sweat (so I’m wanting a shower).
I get to the check out, and the cashier looks at me and then at the guy behind me and loudly exclaims, “Is he your brother?! Are you two related?! Wow, you two look A LOT alike!”
With a feeling of trepidation in my stomach, I slowly turn my head around to get a view of this doppelganger behind me; and it’s so much worse than I feared. The look-alike guy is:
a. yes, wearing glasses
b. yes, is wearing a white t-shirt
but he is also:
a. older than me (a lot older)
b. fatter than me (a lot fatter)
So, perhaps, in a parallel universe where I was born in the 60’s and not the 70’s, and I’d begun shoveling copious amounts of fried food into myself and exercising a hellava lot less than I currently do I’d be FINE with the comment.
But I’m not in that universe, and while I have just come from the gym, I don’t feel that just wearing glasses and a t-shirt makes someone look, and I quote, “a lot alike” end quote.
To make things just that bit worse, the guy chuckles and responds “Well I can’t help it these days when folks keep stealing my style”.
HIS STYLE!? Gym shorts, t-shirt and sweat stains are not, never have been, and never will be “my style”. And I certainly don’t think they should be anyone else’s. Other than perhaps long distance Olympic runners.
I’m not sure I’ll go back to that Trader Joes…
I get to the check out, and the cashier looks at me and then at the guy behind me and loudly exclaims, “Is he your brother?! Are you two related?! Wow, you two look A LOT alike!”
With a feeling of trepidation in my stomach, I slowly turn my head around to get a view of this doppelganger behind me; and it’s so much worse than I feared. The look-alike guy is:
a. yes, wearing glasses
b. yes, is wearing a white t-shirt
but he is also:
a. older than me (a lot older)
b. fatter than me (a lot fatter)
So, perhaps, in a parallel universe where I was born in the 60’s and not the 70’s, and I’d begun shoveling copious amounts of fried food into myself and exercising a hellava lot less than I currently do I’d be FINE with the comment.
But I’m not in that universe, and while I have just come from the gym, I don’t feel that just wearing glasses and a t-shirt makes someone look, and I quote, “a lot alike” end quote.
To make things just that bit worse, the guy chuckles and responds “Well I can’t help it these days when folks keep stealing my style”.
HIS STYLE!? Gym shorts, t-shirt and sweat stains are not, never have been, and never will be “my style”. And I certainly don’t think they should be anyone else’s. Other than perhaps long distance Olympic runners.
I’m not sure I’ll go back to that Trader Joes…
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Dear Diary
When my Dad remarried, I gained quite a few things. One, I gained a stepmother, and from her, a stepsister; from my stepsister I gained a diary. She’d had one given to her and hadn’t used it – so she gave it to me instead.
My initial entry in this book (of dreams) was in 1983 – and my last entry was in 1995.
Basically it covers my teenage years – I was a sporadic writer at best. (kinda like this blog.) Reading this historical document, um, several years later, is quite an experience. One that I’m about to share on stage.
I wish that I could say that in a drunken moment I auditioned for “Mortified” – but I was stone cold sober. This is an outfit that has folks read, present, show material that was created during formative teenage years. There are Mortified chapters across the U.S. and one opening in Sweden.
I’ll be going on stage and reading from my diary – to complete strangers. This doesn’t bother me at all.
What does bother me is that I mentioned this to friends at work, who are now all planning on coming to the show. I don’t mind baring all before folks I don’t know – but I’m not sure that I’m ready for my coworkers and friends to know the 13 year old D.
My initial entry in this book (of dreams) was in 1983 – and my last entry was in 1995.
Basically it covers my teenage years – I was a sporadic writer at best. (kinda like this blog.) Reading this historical document, um, several years later, is quite an experience. One that I’m about to share on stage.
I wish that I could say that in a drunken moment I auditioned for “Mortified” – but I was stone cold sober. This is an outfit that has folks read, present, show material that was created during formative teenage years. There are Mortified chapters across the U.S. and one opening in Sweden.
I’ll be going on stage and reading from my diary – to complete strangers. This doesn’t bother me at all.
What does bother me is that I mentioned this to friends at work, who are now all planning on coming to the show. I don’t mind baring all before folks I don’t know – but I’m not sure that I’m ready for my coworkers and friends to know the 13 year old D.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Pure Evil Bottled - Soju
In the future I will know I've had too much to drink when Soju starts to taste good.
Karaoke evening in Wellington with my brother & sister-in-law this week. We hired a private room at the Korean BBQ on Willis Street. Now Karaoke is more fun when a little tipsy - however, my first taste of Soju was an instant "Oh this is awful". After 3 hours (and I dread to think how many bottles and ill advised songs) Soju was GREAT!
Until we got up to leave and found that walking, and keeping down the evenings meal was no longer possible.
J & I could do one or the other, but not both in conjunction.
Soju = pure liquid evil
Karaoke evening in Wellington with my brother & sister-in-law this week. We hired a private room at the Korean BBQ on Willis Street. Now Karaoke is more fun when a little tipsy - however, my first taste of Soju was an instant "Oh this is awful". After 3 hours (and I dread to think how many bottles and ill advised songs) Soju was GREAT!
Until we got up to leave and found that walking, and keeping down the evenings meal was no longer possible.
J & I could do one or the other, but not both in conjunction.
Soju = pure liquid evil
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Criminal Intent
I'm driving with my Mum back into Wellington the other day. As we head towards Porirua we pull up behind a BMW.
Mum immediately comments that the car could be stolen. I ask what has drawn her to this conclusion.
"Well, the car is dirty. Normally a nice car is kept clean, but that one is really dirty. So, it's most likely that the vehicle has been stolen."
I really need to make sure my mother never sees my car. She'll be handing me over to America's Most Wanted For Crimes I Didn't Commit with unfailing logic like that.
Mum immediately comments that the car could be stolen. I ask what has drawn her to this conclusion.
"Well, the car is dirty. Normally a nice car is kept clean, but that one is really dirty. So, it's most likely that the vehicle has been stolen."
I really need to make sure my mother never sees my car. She'll be handing me over to America's Most Wanted For Crimes I Didn't Commit with unfailing logic like that.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
When wrong is right
Mother turns 10 minute drive into 30 minute tikitour of Wellington beaches.
Ms. G. Philips, mother of 4 sons, took a wrong turn on the way to 'The Chocolate Fish' in Scorching Bay, Wellington New Zealand on September 19, 2007.
While making a u-turn at a dead end on a hill in Wellington, Ms. Philips (after asking for directions) remarked "This is the right way to go" prior to making the next 4 lefts to get out of the hills and back down to the coast.
Ms. G. Philips, mother of 4 sons, took a wrong turn on the way to 'The Chocolate Fish' in Scorching Bay, Wellington New Zealand on September 19, 2007.
While making a u-turn at a dead end on a hill in Wellington, Ms. Philips (after asking for directions) remarked "This is the right way to go" prior to making the next 4 lefts to get out of the hills and back down to the coast.
I think your dipthong is hanging
I'm in New Zealand at the moment. I've had a rather good facility for various accents for as long as I can remember. Well, born in Oz, raised in NZ, lived in Brunei & the U.S., traveled to the U.K. - I've had a rather good dose of English in all it's various accents & disguises. Which makes the following all the more disturbing.
I answered the phone the other day at my brothers house, and the conversation went something like this:
"Good afternoon" - me
"Hi, is J there?" - dude on the other line
"No, I'm sorry he's not. Would you like to leave a message?" - me
"Sure - tell him that Noel from La *@##$$#Hc called. His loats are ready to be picked up." - dude that just id'd himself as Noel. (I was unable to catch the company he worked for...)
"Loats?" - me
"Yeah, loats. There's one box of loats, and they're ready to be picked up." Noel
"A box, of 'loats' are ready to be picked up." - (very uncertain) me
"Yeah, his loats, that's right. Cheers mate." - Noel
I'd repeated the mysterious word as I had heard it to him and after I got off the phone, "loats, loats, loats...." and I still had NO idea what loats were. Now, J, my brother is building some houses. This means it's quite possible that this is some new building thing I hadn't heard of before.
J came home & I gave him the message. Unfortunately J didn't know any Noel, and had never heard of loats either. As I hadn't gotten a number or the name of the business he was a little stumped.
Over the next hour or so he figured it out.
It was Noah, from Wellington Light & Electric who'd called, and his lights were ready to be picked up.
I answered the phone the other day at my brothers house, and the conversation went something like this:
"Good afternoon" - me
"Hi, is J there?" - dude on the other line
"No, I'm sorry he's not. Would you like to leave a message?" - me
"Sure - tell him that Noel from La *@##$$#Hc called. His loats are ready to be picked up." - dude that just id'd himself as Noel. (I was unable to catch the company he worked for...)
"Loats?" - me
"Yeah, loats. There's one box of loats, and they're ready to be picked up." Noel
"A box, of 'loats' are ready to be picked up." - (very uncertain) me
"Yeah, his loats, that's right. Cheers mate." - Noel
I'd repeated the mysterious word as I had heard it to him and after I got off the phone, "loats, loats, loats...." and I still had NO idea what loats were. Now, J, my brother is building some houses. This means it's quite possible that this is some new building thing I hadn't heard of before.
J came home & I gave him the message. Unfortunately J didn't know any Noel, and had never heard of loats either. As I hadn't gotten a number or the name of the business he was a little stumped.
Over the next hour or so he figured it out.
It was Noah, from Wellington Light & Electric who'd called, and his lights were ready to be picked up.
Monday, September 03, 2007
Miss Marple, you're needed
I heard a scratching sound this evening, coming from the vicinity of my back door. With the recent opossum trouble around my place I quickly paused my Miss Marple mystery on my mac and went to investigate.
Los Angeles is currently in the grip of a 7 day heat wave. I had been doing chores outside earlier today, and had been taking a bit of sun. About mid afternoon I’d run a cool bath and had submerged myself in the poor mans pool for half an hour. The nights are still muggy and tropical, so I’d left my water in the tub and was planning to throw some ice in there later on and get back in. That way I could go to bed cool for once this week.
One bad thing about living alone is that currently Miss Marple is in my Netflix queue, and watching murder mysteries alone at night causes mysterious scratchings coming from where they shouldn’t to end up sounding like murder or something just as ominous.
Anyway, I make it to the bedroom door, and see a massive puddle and trail leading from the bathroom towards the front door. Luckily there was no body, and no need of a spinster detective to solve what had happened.
My cat Artemis had decided he’d like to lie on the cool porcelain bathtub surface, so he’d jumped in my tub – not realizing that it was quite full of cold water. The scathing had been him frantically clawing at the smooth porcelain surface in order to lift himself out of the water. Finally gaining a purchase he’d flung himself out of the tub, and was trying (unsuccessfully) to walk with a quiet dignity to the front door. His little legs, normally so fluffy were quite bedraggled as was his fine puffy tail. His staggering water-logged gait made him seem a bit like an old drunk man, vainly trying to walk a straight line for an officer when he’s being arrested for disorderly conduct. The puddle trail zig zagged as he’d made his way to the door where he was sitting waiting to be let outside. For all the world trying to make it look as though this had been his master plan all along.
I don’t think he liked me laughing at his misfortune.
I'm betting it's cold comfort to him that I had intended to give him a bath today, anyway I bet he’s cooler than he’s been all week.
The crime scene
Through the kitchen
One pissed off cat
Los Angeles is currently in the grip of a 7 day heat wave. I had been doing chores outside earlier today, and had been taking a bit of sun. About mid afternoon I’d run a cool bath and had submerged myself in the poor mans pool for half an hour. The nights are still muggy and tropical, so I’d left my water in the tub and was planning to throw some ice in there later on and get back in. That way I could go to bed cool for once this week.
One bad thing about living alone is that currently Miss Marple is in my Netflix queue, and watching murder mysteries alone at night causes mysterious scratchings coming from where they shouldn’t to end up sounding like murder or something just as ominous.
Anyway, I make it to the bedroom door, and see a massive puddle and trail leading from the bathroom towards the front door. Luckily there was no body, and no need of a spinster detective to solve what had happened.
My cat Artemis had decided he’d like to lie on the cool porcelain bathtub surface, so he’d jumped in my tub – not realizing that it was quite full of cold water. The scathing had been him frantically clawing at the smooth porcelain surface in order to lift himself out of the water. Finally gaining a purchase he’d flung himself out of the tub, and was trying (unsuccessfully) to walk with a quiet dignity to the front door. His little legs, normally so fluffy were quite bedraggled as was his fine puffy tail. His staggering water-logged gait made him seem a bit like an old drunk man, vainly trying to walk a straight line for an officer when he’s being arrested for disorderly conduct. The puddle trail zig zagged as he’d made his way to the door where he was sitting waiting to be let outside. For all the world trying to make it look as though this had been his master plan all along.
I don’t think he liked me laughing at his misfortune.
I'm betting it's cold comfort to him that I had intended to give him a bath today, anyway I bet he’s cooler than he’s been all week.
The crime scene
Through the kitchen
One pissed off cat
Friday, August 24, 2007
Thursday, August 09, 2007
When will it be saved? WHEN?
Ok - I know what this story from CNN is about, but I really think they should have done a better job with the cropping of this picture. It really makes Greg Letiecq look like he's campaigning for something else...
Sunday, August 05, 2007
The Call Is Coming From Inside The House
My cats are getting up there in years. They’re over 12 years old now; I have the feeling that they might be getting a bit senile.
About a week or so ago, they began defecating outside the litter box, and generally making a mess around the house. Well, the solution to this was to put them outside when I wasn’t home and overnight when I was in bed.
They’re old, but still quick. I have had them banned from my bedroom now for longer than this total house ban when I’m not home. I had left my bedroom door open one evening as I was going back and forth from the living room, and of course they always want to go in a room where they’re not allowed. As I return to my bedroom, my black cat Luna looks up, caught red handed in my room. She nimbly jumps over this weeks washing piles (sorted into delicates, white and dark colours) and speeds out the door. As I step to where she was I notice fresh poo.
Well, I was furious.
The litter box is clean, and accessible. I haven’t changed my schedule, their food, so I was very unclear why they were acting this way. I grabbed both cats and rather like Dino and Fred from the Flintstones launched them out the front door.
That night at around 3am I was waked by a “crunch, crunch, crunch” sound. As it’s summer, and hot, my windows are open. Noise travels a long way at night, so I thought it might have been some cat outside munching away on food left for strays by various neighbors. As I tried to settle back down to sleep, the “crunch, crunch, crunch” continued.
Had I left the door open? Was there a hole in the window screens that the cats had definitely climbed through to take their “rightful place” inside the house? Cause it seriously sounded like it was coming from within my house.
I got up and went into the kitchen and turned on the light. There, on the seat happily feasting on cat food was a baby opossum. This was the nasty thing that had been besmirching the good name of cats the world over. This was the evil creature that had been pooing and peeing with such abandon wherever it wanted. This was Satan’s spawn that Luna had been trying to warn me about in her trip into my forbidden room.
Seeing the light come on, the opossum hissed, jumped off the chair and ran under the sink. So began my next hour. Me, armed with my broom and various other objects trying to corner the opossum and get it back outside where it belongs. The opossum using its natural defenses of smells and nimbleness to escape under the old heavy stove trying to stay in what it considered its new home.
I finally had to get some sleep, but got up again after about 3 hours to try again. By this time, the opossum had retired to the lounge, where it had been climbing shelves, rearranging knick-knacks and tabletop items to suit opossum esthetics.
I located the evil looking thing at the bottom of my bookcase. I moved my couch giving it a straight line to the door, and opened the front door nice and wide. Then I grabbed my broom and vacuum for round two.
My cats hate the vacuum, and always head outside when they even see me grab it. I turned it on, and the opossum was no exception – but rather than going outside it squeezed itself under the bookcase.
The broom followed giving the opossum a sharp series of smacks each time I was able to locate it. Finally the punishment grew too much and it ran out from it’s refuge and up the side table leg. I managed to whack in on the head and it fell to the ground. I quickly flipped the broom around and began sweeping the spiteful thing towards the door. Just as I had it at the door it dodged a particularly fierce sweep that would have had it sailing out the door and it sped back inside to the kitchen and underneath the stove.
I had to get to work, so I informed my landlord, who:
A. laughed & laughed
B. said he’d help me move the stove that evening
We missed each other that evening – and the next morning there was more opossum opoo in the lounge.
When I returned home that evening, my landlord informed me that he had heard noises from my apartment that day, had gone in, and the opossum had decided it’s last redecoration of knickknacks hadn’t been quite right, so it was shelf climbing again. He’d swept it outside, and had hopefully scared it so much that it wouldn’t come back.
But, like some horror movie, that evening when I returned home, there sitting on my deck were the mother opossum and her two baby pups, waiting; just waiting for a door to open so they could scurry inside.
I slipped past the evil trio, grabbed a basin full of water and doused the lot of them. Then I grabbed my broom and sent them scurrying off the deck with sharp smacks to their hindquarters.
Yesterday afternoon, the baby devil opossum was back on my deck, and as I opened my door it ran towards it. My broom is now stored by my door and I grabbed it to smack it away – however it spotted the bristles heading its way and ran into the laundry room instead.
Well, if nothing else I owe my cats’ chicken dinners for a week. I’ve now begun disinfecting my entire house. It was in cupboards, under bookcases and my piano. Just everywhere – Luna has decided she doesn’t want to come back in the house, and she’s not convinced it’s opossum free.
As for me, it’s now constant vigilance my friends, constant vigilance.
About a week or so ago, they began defecating outside the litter box, and generally making a mess around the house. Well, the solution to this was to put them outside when I wasn’t home and overnight when I was in bed.
They’re old, but still quick. I have had them banned from my bedroom now for longer than this total house ban when I’m not home. I had left my bedroom door open one evening as I was going back and forth from the living room, and of course they always want to go in a room where they’re not allowed. As I return to my bedroom, my black cat Luna looks up, caught red handed in my room. She nimbly jumps over this weeks washing piles (sorted into delicates, white and dark colours) and speeds out the door. As I step to where she was I notice fresh poo.
Well, I was furious.
The litter box is clean, and accessible. I haven’t changed my schedule, their food, so I was very unclear why they were acting this way. I grabbed both cats and rather like Dino and Fred from the Flintstones launched them out the front door.
That night at around 3am I was waked by a “crunch, crunch, crunch” sound. As it’s summer, and hot, my windows are open. Noise travels a long way at night, so I thought it might have been some cat outside munching away on food left for strays by various neighbors. As I tried to settle back down to sleep, the “crunch, crunch, crunch” continued.
Had I left the door open? Was there a hole in the window screens that the cats had definitely climbed through to take their “rightful place” inside the house? Cause it seriously sounded like it was coming from within my house.
I got up and went into the kitchen and turned on the light. There, on the seat happily feasting on cat food was a baby opossum. This was the nasty thing that had been besmirching the good name of cats the world over. This was the evil creature that had been pooing and peeing with such abandon wherever it wanted. This was Satan’s spawn that Luna had been trying to warn me about in her trip into my forbidden room.
Seeing the light come on, the opossum hissed, jumped off the chair and ran under the sink. So began my next hour. Me, armed with my broom and various other objects trying to corner the opossum and get it back outside where it belongs. The opossum using its natural defenses of smells and nimbleness to escape under the old heavy stove trying to stay in what it considered its new home.
I finally had to get some sleep, but got up again after about 3 hours to try again. By this time, the opossum had retired to the lounge, where it had been climbing shelves, rearranging knick-knacks and tabletop items to suit opossum esthetics.
I located the evil looking thing at the bottom of my bookcase. I moved my couch giving it a straight line to the door, and opened the front door nice and wide. Then I grabbed my broom and vacuum for round two.
My cats hate the vacuum, and always head outside when they even see me grab it. I turned it on, and the opossum was no exception – but rather than going outside it squeezed itself under the bookcase.
The broom followed giving the opossum a sharp series of smacks each time I was able to locate it. Finally the punishment grew too much and it ran out from it’s refuge and up the side table leg. I managed to whack in on the head and it fell to the ground. I quickly flipped the broom around and began sweeping the spiteful thing towards the door. Just as I had it at the door it dodged a particularly fierce sweep that would have had it sailing out the door and it sped back inside to the kitchen and underneath the stove.
I had to get to work, so I informed my landlord, who:
A. laughed & laughed
B. said he’d help me move the stove that evening
We missed each other that evening – and the next morning there was more opossum opoo in the lounge.
When I returned home that evening, my landlord informed me that he had heard noises from my apartment that day, had gone in, and the opossum had decided it’s last redecoration of knickknacks hadn’t been quite right, so it was shelf climbing again. He’d swept it outside, and had hopefully scared it so much that it wouldn’t come back.
But, like some horror movie, that evening when I returned home, there sitting on my deck were the mother opossum and her two baby pups, waiting; just waiting for a door to open so they could scurry inside.
I slipped past the evil trio, grabbed a basin full of water and doused the lot of them. Then I grabbed my broom and sent them scurrying off the deck with sharp smacks to their hindquarters.
Yesterday afternoon, the baby devil opossum was back on my deck, and as I opened my door it ran towards it. My broom is now stored by my door and I grabbed it to smack it away – however it spotted the bristles heading its way and ran into the laundry room instead.
Well, if nothing else I owe my cats’ chicken dinners for a week. I’ve now begun disinfecting my entire house. It was in cupboards, under bookcases and my piano. Just everywhere – Luna has decided she doesn’t want to come back in the house, and she’s not convinced it’s opossum free.
As for me, it’s now constant vigilance my friends, constant vigilance.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Birthday Riches
When my brother and I were young, one of the highlights of the year was our respective birthdays. The party, the cake, the presents – but, what we looked forward to at 5 and 6 years old was the money.
Our grandparents gave us a dollar for every year we turned older. $7 for turning 7 years old, $6 for turning 6. GRAND!
We used to have discussions before, during and after our birthdays, counting our riches – and speculating on turning 100, NO – wait, 150. This was a sure fire way to make money and get rich. All we had to do was just keep having birthdays, and, if the trend of getting a dollar extra every year continued there was no end to the amount of money we’d be bringing in on a yearly basis.
To my six-year-old self, $150 was more than enough to live on for, well who knew how long $150 would last. Kbars were 10c at the local dairy, sherbet was 25c, and comics were 75c. So, that was – hmm, carry the 1 – well, it was a lot. A lot more money than I usually had. I knew counting to 150 took a long time, so it surely was a lot of money. Every year, just more and more money pouring in.
My grandfather passed away in the early 1990’s.
The one flaw in the plan that the child in me failed to see was that things never stay the same. People aren’t always with you, that what you have today isn’t necessarily what you’ll have tomorrow. Well, the other flaw was I wouldn’t always be living at home not paying rent and being fed for free. But I’m pretty sure that’s a secondary flaw.
Still, a dollar for EVERY year – just think about turning 500…
Our grandparents gave us a dollar for every year we turned older. $7 for turning 7 years old, $6 for turning 6. GRAND!
We used to have discussions before, during and after our birthdays, counting our riches – and speculating on turning 100, NO – wait, 150. This was a sure fire way to make money and get rich. All we had to do was just keep having birthdays, and, if the trend of getting a dollar extra every year continued there was no end to the amount of money we’d be bringing in on a yearly basis.
To my six-year-old self, $150 was more than enough to live on for, well who knew how long $150 would last. Kbars were 10c at the local dairy, sherbet was 25c, and comics were 75c. So, that was – hmm, carry the 1 – well, it was a lot. A lot more money than I usually had. I knew counting to 150 took a long time, so it surely was a lot of money. Every year, just more and more money pouring in.
My grandfather passed away in the early 1990’s.
The one flaw in the plan that the child in me failed to see was that things never stay the same. People aren’t always with you, that what you have today isn’t necessarily what you’ll have tomorrow. Well, the other flaw was I wouldn’t always be living at home not paying rent and being fed for free. But I’m pretty sure that’s a secondary flaw.
Still, a dollar for EVERY year – just think about turning 500…
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Message from Ashley
I woke up the other day and checked my email. I know, probably a bit sad, but it’s a habit now. Roll out of bed and on over to the computer; I click my nice gmail widgit and it tells me if I’ve received any new mail whilst I've been away from the computer.
I've always loved getting mail, physical or virtual - so I really like to see if I’ve received any missives from my various friends and family around the globe while I've been asleep. I mean they've had hours and hours to message me while I've been out with the sandman.
Anyway, the other morning my little blue message notifyer informed me that I had a new message from Ashley, on my MySpace page. Well, I only know one Ashely, she's in my improv troupe. I didn’t exactly recall adding her as a friend on my MySpace account, but we are in an improv troupe together, and we did have a show coming up. A rather big show in fact, where we were also going to be performing some originally sketch comedy. I'd written some material for the show, so perhaps something had come up regarding that.
Keep in mind it's the wee small hours of the morning, and as such I wasn’t that surprised to be receiving a message from her – though she does have my direct email, so it was a little curious as to why she’d be emailing me indirectly rather than directly.
Well, I brought up a new browser and diligently logged onto MySpace and saw the “NEW MESSAGES” icon. I went ahead and clicked this - which is when I received quite an eyeful for first thing in the morning.
Turns out it was THIS Ashley that was messaging me:
Not THIS Ashely:
I mean there’s anything wrong with either Ashley, but Ashley1 had a slightly different message for me than I was expecting at 6:30 in the morning.
Apparently Ashley1 wants me to respond to her outside email, she's got some really great pictures to share with me, but she "hardly ever" checks her MySpace account. Which is curious to me, I mean she logged on and took the time to message me....
I've always loved getting mail, physical or virtual - so I really like to see if I’ve received any missives from my various friends and family around the globe while I've been asleep. I mean they've had hours and hours to message me while I've been out with the sandman.
Anyway, the other morning my little blue message notifyer informed me that I had a new message from Ashley, on my MySpace page. Well, I only know one Ashely, she's in my improv troupe. I didn’t exactly recall adding her as a friend on my MySpace account, but we are in an improv troupe together, and we did have a show coming up. A rather big show in fact, where we were also going to be performing some originally sketch comedy. I'd written some material for the show, so perhaps something had come up regarding that.
Keep in mind it's the wee small hours of the morning, and as such I wasn’t that surprised to be receiving a message from her – though she does have my direct email, so it was a little curious as to why she’d be emailing me indirectly rather than directly.
Well, I brought up a new browser and diligently logged onto MySpace and saw the “NEW MESSAGES” icon. I went ahead and clicked this - which is when I received quite an eyeful for first thing in the morning.
Turns out it was THIS Ashley that was messaging me:
Not THIS Ashely:
I mean there’s anything wrong with either Ashley, but Ashley1 had a slightly different message for me than I was expecting at 6:30 in the morning.
Apparently Ashley1 wants me to respond to her outside email, she's got some really great pictures to share with me, but she "hardly ever" checks her MySpace account. Which is curious to me, I mean she logged on and took the time to message me....
Friday, June 22, 2007
I want it now, not later
I like the fact that the local sandwich place/coffee shop near work in Pasadena has espressos late.
Though as they actually shut pretty early, perhaps “late” is a relative term.
I mean COME ON - didn't *someone* at the sign place say "hey guys, this isn't how you spell latté"?
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
I'm on the phone!
There’s a new kid at work. Work being my second job, and “new” in a relative sense; he’s been with the company for about 2 or 3 weeks now. So he’s newer than me, but he’s not so new as not to know what to do.
We were closing the store, and as the evening hours climbed ever higher, his output got ever slower. Until by the end of the night, I really wanted to do something like smack him, or poke, or anything – just to get him moving.
I was wondering if he was the slowest worker I’d ever had the misfortune to be working with, until I remember an old Toys R Us colleague – who TRU paid to do nothing, literally.
This was back in the earlyish 90’s, and our TRU store had just got itself a new hands-free telephone answering system. It came with two phone packs, employees would wear these – a nice headset, and while you were working on the floor you could take calls. This was especially great for stock checks on the fly, when a customer HAD to know if you had one of the new Cabbage Patch Picnic Time kids in, or how many Megazords were left in stock.
The arrival was precipitous, as it was Christmas time, and the phones lines were red hot with inquiries and parents searching for the must have toy. Miranda was an Indian girl, she was hired during the Christmas rush – the managers weren’t too familiar with the new headsets – but wanted to get them out right away to relieve some of the hold time potential customers were experiencing. Miranda volunteered to wear one of the sets on her shifts.
Miranda could then be seen walking the aisles, purposefully looking for items and talking into the headset. You could hear her tell callers how many Pink Power Ranger figures were left in stock, what Super Soakers were available. Miranda was clearly on the phone, so customers actually in the store were never able to stop her and ask for assistance, as she was clearly already assisting someone else – on her headset phone.
If someone was wily enough to ask a question in-between her sporadic speech into the headset, she make her way to the stock room for a quick check of an item that we were out of on the floor – but would helpfully send the customer to the front desk for more assistance as she disappeared into the cavernous “employees only” back stock room.
This was her regular routine for a few weeks leading up to Christmas, and about this time we got a new manager in the regular TRU managerial rotation. This manager happened to notice that Miranda’s headset was never turned on – in the back.
So all those phone calls hadn’t really been phone calls at all. Miranda had been coming in for 8 – 12 hours a day (with overtime) and just been wandering the store, talking out loud to herself. She’d been taking breaks, her lunches, and then heading back out for more....talking to herself.
I was impressed with her ingenuity – the amount of time to actually come up with these one sided communications was well played. But, I can’t help thinking that it would have been more interesting to actually take the phone calls.
We were closing the store, and as the evening hours climbed ever higher, his output got ever slower. Until by the end of the night, I really wanted to do something like smack him, or poke, or anything – just to get him moving.
I was wondering if he was the slowest worker I’d ever had the misfortune to be working with, until I remember an old Toys R Us colleague – who TRU paid to do nothing, literally.
This was back in the earlyish 90’s, and our TRU store had just got itself a new hands-free telephone answering system. It came with two phone packs, employees would wear these – a nice headset, and while you were working on the floor you could take calls. This was especially great for stock checks on the fly, when a customer HAD to know if you had one of the new Cabbage Patch Picnic Time kids in, or how many Megazords were left in stock.
The arrival was precipitous, as it was Christmas time, and the phones lines were red hot with inquiries and parents searching for the must have toy. Miranda was an Indian girl, she was hired during the Christmas rush – the managers weren’t too familiar with the new headsets – but wanted to get them out right away to relieve some of the hold time potential customers were experiencing. Miranda volunteered to wear one of the sets on her shifts.
Miranda could then be seen walking the aisles, purposefully looking for items and talking into the headset. You could hear her tell callers how many Pink Power Ranger figures were left in stock, what Super Soakers were available. Miranda was clearly on the phone, so customers actually in the store were never able to stop her and ask for assistance, as she was clearly already assisting someone else – on her headset phone.
If someone was wily enough to ask a question in-between her sporadic speech into the headset, she make her way to the stock room for a quick check of an item that we were out of on the floor – but would helpfully send the customer to the front desk for more assistance as she disappeared into the cavernous “employees only” back stock room.
This was her regular routine for a few weeks leading up to Christmas, and about this time we got a new manager in the regular TRU managerial rotation. This manager happened to notice that Miranda’s headset was never turned on – in the back.
So all those phone calls hadn’t really been phone calls at all. Miranda had been coming in for 8 – 12 hours a day (with overtime) and just been wandering the store, talking out loud to herself. She’d been taking breaks, her lunches, and then heading back out for more....talking to herself.
I was impressed with her ingenuity – the amount of time to actually come up with these one sided communications was well played. But, I can’t help thinking that it would have been more interesting to actually take the phone calls.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Yum Cha!
I don’t know if I find this funny, worrisome, or just sad.
I enjoy Dim Sum, or “Yum Cha”, depending on which part of the world you’re in. I will try new things, but am still too western in my thinking to get down with chicken feet – and my dislike of tripe makes me stay away from the beef tripe when it rolls by in a little steaming silver cart. And I get worried about silly things like, will the waitress think I’m stupid, what if I don’t pronounce the dish correctly when I order it – anyway, I get through this and order. Generally I’m with friends, sometimes with someone that speaks Chinese, sometimes not. But every time I’ve had a delicious meal, and I always want a lotus/sesame ball.
So, when I was with friends this evening and heard the following I didn’t know what to think.
Rog and his wife went for a Chinese meal this past weekend in Chinatown in LA. Their favorite place was closed, so they went upstairs to the Dim Sum place.
They knew what Dim Sum is, but didn’t “know” what it was. He explained they were expecting a menu, so after sitting down and having the lady arrive with a cart offering the steaming dumpling she had within the cart, they were thrown for a loop. Hence, they waved her on, the next lady was approaching, they looked at each other, said “no” (to each other in the way that couples have), and left. In the space of about 30 seconds.
Then, I was asked by Amanda where I’d gone on my vacation. I said Thailand. The rest of the conversation went like this:
Amanda:
OH! Have you been to Thailand before?
Me:
No, but now I have!
Amanda:
Did you like it?
Me:
YES! IT was AMAZING! Great people, great food, it was just awesome. I loved it! I would really love to go back.
Amanda:
So, did you meet any nice Taiwanese guys on your trip?
Me:
......Yes...... I did, in Taiwan. I also met some super nice Thai guys in Thailand. That’s where I went, Thailand.
Anyway…..
I’m not sure which interaction disturbs me more, and I’m not sure if I’m mad at myself for being disturbed. I have SO confused people and places before; I’ve also been worried about new experiences. Then again, the new experiences worries have generally been in a country I’m visiting rather than the one I was born and live in.
However, these are people that can vote in this country that I’m currently living in, and have some very definite views on immigration and other subjects.
I enjoy Dim Sum, or “Yum Cha”, depending on which part of the world you’re in. I will try new things, but am still too western in my thinking to get down with chicken feet – and my dislike of tripe makes me stay away from the beef tripe when it rolls by in a little steaming silver cart. And I get worried about silly things like, will the waitress think I’m stupid, what if I don’t pronounce the dish correctly when I order it – anyway, I get through this and order. Generally I’m with friends, sometimes with someone that speaks Chinese, sometimes not. But every time I’ve had a delicious meal, and I always want a lotus/sesame ball.
So, when I was with friends this evening and heard the following I didn’t know what to think.
Rog and his wife went for a Chinese meal this past weekend in Chinatown in LA. Their favorite place was closed, so they went upstairs to the Dim Sum place.
They knew what Dim Sum is, but didn’t “know” what it was. He explained they were expecting a menu, so after sitting down and having the lady arrive with a cart offering the steaming dumpling she had within the cart, they were thrown for a loop. Hence, they waved her on, the next lady was approaching, they looked at each other, said “no” (to each other in the way that couples have), and left. In the space of about 30 seconds.
Then, I was asked by Amanda where I’d gone on my vacation. I said Thailand. The rest of the conversation went like this:
Amanda:
OH! Have you been to Thailand before?
Me:
No, but now I have!
Amanda:
Did you like it?
Me:
YES! IT was AMAZING! Great people, great food, it was just awesome. I loved it! I would really love to go back.
Amanda:
So, did you meet any nice Taiwanese guys on your trip?
Me:
......Yes...... I did, in Taiwan. I also met some super nice Thai guys in Thailand. That’s where I went, Thailand.
Anyway…..
I’m not sure which interaction disturbs me more, and I’m not sure if I’m mad at myself for being disturbed. I have SO confused people and places before; I’ve also been worried about new experiences. Then again, the new experiences worries have generally been in a country I’m visiting rather than the one I was born and live in.
However, these are people that can vote in this country that I’m currently living in, and have some very definite views on immigration and other subjects.
Oasis
I felt as though I’d been transported to Egypt yesterday. Walking with coworkers down to Famima!! for an afternoon coffee, we cut through the Vroman’s parking lot in Pasadena.
Then, appearing like a mirage in front of us, a woman emerged from the bookstore and walked past our group – stopping me in my tracks - literally.
It was a hot, sunny afternoon, she was wearing tan, Capri knee length shorts, reminiscent of an Egyptian desert – and in the midst of all this “sand” was a very large camel toe.
As she walked away from us, (ostensibly to her car) Vroman’s bag in one hand, purse in the other we had clear VPL.
There are some things I just don’t expect to see in an independent bookstore parking lot. And there are some things we should never have to see anywhere.
This fits both categories.
Then, appearing like a mirage in front of us, a woman emerged from the bookstore and walked past our group – stopping me in my tracks - literally.
It was a hot, sunny afternoon, she was wearing tan, Capri knee length shorts, reminiscent of an Egyptian desert – and in the midst of all this “sand” was a very large camel toe.
As she walked away from us, (ostensibly to her car) Vroman’s bag in one hand, purse in the other we had clear VPL.
There are some things I just don’t expect to see in an independent bookstore parking lot. And there are some things we should never have to see anywhere.
This fits both categories.
Monday, June 11, 2007
So fugly it hurts
OMG
I can not stop reading this site. I am having to have the very painful silent laughter at my desk at work while waiting for my next project to arrive.
Acerbic, sweet, insightful, informative and just plain funny.
READ!
http://gofugyourself.typepad.com/
I can not stop reading this site. I am having to have the very painful silent laughter at my desk at work while waiting for my next project to arrive.
Acerbic, sweet, insightful, informative and just plain funny.
READ!
http://gofugyourself.typepad.com/
Deux cafés s'il vous plait monsieur
I was in Target this afternoon picking up some Father’s Day cards, cat food, etc – and as I was selecting my items a woman with her screaming toddler were slowly perusing the same aisles.
The toddler looked to be about a year and a half old, and was screaming/wailing/crying up a storm. His mother was attempting some half hearted “calming down” techniques as she searched for what ever it was she needed.
I marveled at her forbearance, and her ability to block out piercing sound. This brought to mind a trip to the mall I made just prior to heading over to Thailand. I was in need of some new shorts, and wanted to stop by the mall to see what Guess had on offer.
As I entered the Galleria via one of their department store main entrances, I happened upon an 8 year old rather chubby child – he was on his knees sobbing, tears running down his round red face, and he was being dragged towards the door by his father.
Now part of what impressed me here was the father’s strength. The father was a short Mexican man, and his son was rather generously proportioned – the father was having very stern words with his son in Spanish as he step, by slow step dragged his crying son across the slick floor towards the doors.
The son replied in English to everything his father was saying in Spanish – saying how he’d be good, how he was so sorry, that he’d never do it again, and could they please, please, PLEASE stay, he didn’t want to go.
This is the second part of what impressed me. That while the parents may not have instilled in their son a proper sense of decorum of how to comport oneself when appearing in public, they’d done an awfully good job with languages. The crying boys bilingualism was in full force as he understood what his father said and answered in English – it brought to mind one of those immersion language courses where you’re only allowed to speak the language you’re learning. And I thought, once you’ve learnt two languages, it’s only a hop skip & a jump to learning three or even four. This kid could be some sort of translator, or diplomat or who knows what else if he keeps this up. Well, now wasn’t really the proper time to go over to the father and say how impressed I was with the two of them.
As I made my way across the store to head into the mall proper, the sounds of the sobbing tantrum growing fainter and fainter I only half hearted wondered what the incident was that made the father want to eject his son from the store. I regretted not continuing with my language studies when I was younger – as I only know smatterings of French, Spanish, Mandarin, Japanese, Thai & ASL. I’m more fluent in ASL than anything else other than perhaps French. Never having been to France, I may not be as good in French as ASL – as I can really only ask “if there is a bus for the swimming pool” and “how much is that” along with other niceties in French. “Deux cafés s'il vous plait monsieur.”
Anyway, I was heading for Thailand, and I needed those shorts – now, where’s a mall map when you need one?
The toddler looked to be about a year and a half old, and was screaming/wailing/crying up a storm. His mother was attempting some half hearted “calming down” techniques as she searched for what ever it was she needed.
I marveled at her forbearance, and her ability to block out piercing sound. This brought to mind a trip to the mall I made just prior to heading over to Thailand. I was in need of some new shorts, and wanted to stop by the mall to see what Guess had on offer.
As I entered the Galleria via one of their department store main entrances, I happened upon an 8 year old rather chubby child – he was on his knees sobbing, tears running down his round red face, and he was being dragged towards the door by his father.
Now part of what impressed me here was the father’s strength. The father was a short Mexican man, and his son was rather generously proportioned – the father was having very stern words with his son in Spanish as he step, by slow step dragged his crying son across the slick floor towards the doors.
The son replied in English to everything his father was saying in Spanish – saying how he’d be good, how he was so sorry, that he’d never do it again, and could they please, please, PLEASE stay, he didn’t want to go.
This is the second part of what impressed me. That while the parents may not have instilled in their son a proper sense of decorum of how to comport oneself when appearing in public, they’d done an awfully good job with languages. The crying boys bilingualism was in full force as he understood what his father said and answered in English – it brought to mind one of those immersion language courses where you’re only allowed to speak the language you’re learning. And I thought, once you’ve learnt two languages, it’s only a hop skip & a jump to learning three or even four. This kid could be some sort of translator, or diplomat or who knows what else if he keeps this up. Well, now wasn’t really the proper time to go over to the father and say how impressed I was with the two of them.
As I made my way across the store to head into the mall proper, the sounds of the sobbing tantrum growing fainter and fainter I only half hearted wondered what the incident was that made the father want to eject his son from the store. I regretted not continuing with my language studies when I was younger – as I only know smatterings of French, Spanish, Mandarin, Japanese, Thai & ASL. I’m more fluent in ASL than anything else other than perhaps French. Never having been to France, I may not be as good in French as ASL – as I can really only ask “if there is a bus for the swimming pool” and “how much is that” along with other niceties in French. “Deux cafés s'il vous plait monsieur.”
Anyway, I was heading for Thailand, and I needed those shorts – now, where’s a mall map when you need one?
Main Course
Years ago now, in one of my English courses in college I remember reading a short story about a young protagonist whose life changed over one summer. In part of the story, the character developed a “signature scent” (something Celine Dion, Jennifer Lopez & Britney Spears have all done) at the behest of one the other characters in the story.
I liked the idea so much, that I began, back then to mull the thought over. When Garden Botanika stores were around, you could go in and mix and match in your own (semi) private “parfumery” – concocting enticing and mysterious scents to your hearts – well, at least your wallets content.
I knew I wanted something summery, warm, tropical – so I settled on something with hints of coconut and vanilla. I’ve been wearing it now for years, and it’s also a pretty good indicator of whether I’ll get on with someone. Those that don’t like it, are normally people I don’t get on with. The reaction from others has normally been somewhat uniform – with folks telling me that it’s light, not overpowering, that the scent inspires memories of summertime’s past, lazy days on the beach, tanning in the sun, or that it’s reminiscent of the scent of a fine cigar smoked by a favorite grandfather.
At least until I got to Thailand.
I was out for coffee and chit chatting with my friend Chai, and his friends. A tropical monsoonal downpour was happening, so we were safely ensconced in the coffee establishment – lightning overhead, thunder crashing – a young boy was frightened but excited by the storm, his older brother walked over to him and put his arm around him as they both watched the rain coming down in sheets – momentarily catching the city of Bangkok illuminated by the brief burst of lightening.
Anyway, the storm cleared, and we finished our drinks and then all made our way to our respective cars – Chai and I had to almost paddle through a new “river” created by the deluge of rain. His car was up to its undercarriage in water. As he went to get in his car, I said goodbye to the friends and would soon be off to my hotel.
Later Chai and I were talking, and he was laughing saying his friends said I smelled like coconut. He’d assured them I didn’t smell of coconut – but, he thought he’d better ask me just to be sure. I said that, yes, I do have a cologne and part of it has a coconut undertone. Too which he just laughed.
Chai began explaining that he’d NEVER heard of anyone using coconut in a cologne before – especially in Thailand where coconut is a staple of cooking.
So, while overseas my custom scent is “exotic, beachy and summery”, in Bangkok I apparently smell merely of that night’s main course. Or perhaps I’m a sous chef who’s just come from the kitchen without having had time to shower before going out.
I liked the idea so much, that I began, back then to mull the thought over. When Garden Botanika stores were around, you could go in and mix and match in your own (semi) private “parfumery” – concocting enticing and mysterious scents to your hearts – well, at least your wallets content.
I knew I wanted something summery, warm, tropical – so I settled on something with hints of coconut and vanilla. I’ve been wearing it now for years, and it’s also a pretty good indicator of whether I’ll get on with someone. Those that don’t like it, are normally people I don’t get on with. The reaction from others has normally been somewhat uniform – with folks telling me that it’s light, not overpowering, that the scent inspires memories of summertime’s past, lazy days on the beach, tanning in the sun, or that it’s reminiscent of the scent of a fine cigar smoked by a favorite grandfather.
At least until I got to Thailand.
I was out for coffee and chit chatting with my friend Chai, and his friends. A tropical monsoonal downpour was happening, so we were safely ensconced in the coffee establishment – lightning overhead, thunder crashing – a young boy was frightened but excited by the storm, his older brother walked over to him and put his arm around him as they both watched the rain coming down in sheets – momentarily catching the city of Bangkok illuminated by the brief burst of lightening.
Anyway, the storm cleared, and we finished our drinks and then all made our way to our respective cars – Chai and I had to almost paddle through a new “river” created by the deluge of rain. His car was up to its undercarriage in water. As he went to get in his car, I said goodbye to the friends and would soon be off to my hotel.
Later Chai and I were talking, and he was laughing saying his friends said I smelled like coconut. He’d assured them I didn’t smell of coconut – but, he thought he’d better ask me just to be sure. I said that, yes, I do have a cologne and part of it has a coconut undertone. Too which he just laughed.
Chai began explaining that he’d NEVER heard of anyone using coconut in a cologne before – especially in Thailand where coconut is a staple of cooking.
So, while overseas my custom scent is “exotic, beachy and summery”, in Bangkok I apparently smell merely of that night’s main course. Or perhaps I’m a sous chef who’s just come from the kitchen without having had time to shower before going out.
Monday, June 04, 2007
Number One Factory!
I learned some Thai prior to my Thailand trip. I thought it only wise to be able to say “thank you”, “hello”, “how much is this” and a few other choice phrases such as “this is delicious” and “I don’t want that” in Thai on my vacation.
By the end of my trip, I ended up feeling that I just hadn’t learned enough Thai. I say this because of my last “scam” experience in Bangkok.
Now let me just say that I had heard all about the “number one factory/jewelry” scam in Thailand from travel books and the Internet. So when I was approached by a tuktuk driver within hours of hitting the street on my first day in Bangkok I was too intrigued NOT to go.
Which is how I found myself visiting the temple of the standing Buddha and another Buddha temple for the low low price of 30 bhat. The tuktuk driver assured me that as it was a special holiday time in Thailand he would get a gas coupon from the government if I’d just spend 10 minutes in a “number one factory” in Bangkok. I could “Get nice suit, look good!”
He had such a toothsome grin and an appealing earnestness to his salesmanship that I actually began to believe that I might want to get a suit made for me at this “number one factory”. That is until the arrival at said “number one factory”. It wasn’t a factory, or at least, what I’d consider to be a factory. More a shop. A small shop, boasting material. It was run by an Indian gentleman and his "silent type" Thai assistant. As I said, it was small, rather cramped and filled to the brim with really ugly silk prints, tightly wrapped up in bolts. Nothing I’d ever want to buy, even when drunk.
So, I asked about the “free gas coupon”, much to the disappointment of the owner. He mumbled something about “yes, yes, coupon” and I left. This upset my tuktuk driver, as he said I hadn’t spent 10 minutes inside. I was feeling pleased I’d managed to last upwards of 3 minutes. Then my tuktuk man said that he had an “even BETTER number one factory to go to, much larger”. And off we went, bobbing and weaving among the Bangkok traffic. Sweat rolling down my back, as I tightly gripped the metal bars in the tuktuk to prevent me from flying out into the road and being run over by thousands of cars.
I said I didn’t really need to see another factory, and just how much was this “gas coupon” anyway? I’d PAY him for the gas coupon, and he can just take me back to the hotel. Well, he wasn’t having any of that, and we went by a 2nd “factory”/store. One through the doorway I made myself take slow measured steps, slowly counting off the seconds in my head to get up to the required “10 minutes” so my driver would get his coupon and then take me home. I was immediately set upon by another Indian gent, who again began to extol the virtues of the suit they’d make me.
I explained I didn’t want, nor need a suit, but did they have any t-shirts. They did, and I managed to knock them down from 1,500 bhat to 1,000 bhat – which I now know is still WAY to expensive. After 9 minutes in this place, I really wanted out. Plus I had a whole other building to walk through, and I knew I’d more than passed my 10 minute mark.
The 2nd building was pay dirt – it was a rabbit warren over 3 stories – and here was where I was offered my authentic “jewelry”. As I wandered about, having the virtues of cubic zirconium explained to me I was able to see other chagrined tourists being led through the same building. While I was finding the whole thing extremely amusing, these poor folks apparently hadn’t known what they were letting themselves in for – and they were NOT amused.
On the 3rd floor, an old Thai woman was really pushing me towards a suit she’d make for me and “Armani cuts” were her specialty. As I left and was guided through other areas stocked with knick knacks I might like to buy I stopped in the final room to look at (relatively) cheap souvenirs.
I managed to impress my Thai “hostess” by asking for the price of certain objects in Thai. “Ohhh, you speak Thai” she gushed, and actually gave me a “normal” price on one of the knick knacks. Feeling more warmly towards her than the suit lady, I paid the 100 bhat for a souvenir for my nephew and went on my way back to the tuktuk driver, who apparently feeling somewhat bad offered to take me around to some more places prior to the hotel. I declined and asked to JUST be taken back to the hotel – no need to stop at factories, number one or otherwise.
Which brings me back to my last scam. I was at the mall on my 2nd to last day in Bangkok, and was killing a few hours until my glasses would be ready. Glasses I’d ordered the day before – and for only $150 US would be ready at 5pm.
This was at the Silom center. I was just wandering looking at shops, food stalls and people. I’d noticed this Thai guy ahead of me a few times, and he’d positioned himself at the top of the escalator. I got off, smiled a greeting and kept walking. He obviously summed up his courage and then came up to me and said gushed “hello” in English.
I returned the greeting and we walked together for a bit away from the escalator making very small talk. “What’s your name”, “how are you”, things of that nature.
I wasn’t sure if he was wanting to chat, have a date, or something more. That is until I was able to make out, “come with me”, and “number one factory”. Well, by this time in Bangkok, I was hot, tired, and had no desire to tell more Indian gents that I really didn’t need a suit made, even if “Armani cuts” were their specialty.
I wanted to be able to express this to my new friend, but my Thai vocabulary was less than a 2 year olds – so all I could say was “I don’t want that” and “thank you”.
My new friend also had limited English, but he was able to get out a heartbroken “you don’t like me” when I told him “Mai ow” (I don’t want that). He looked SO distraught, and was very upset – I quickly said that “he was adorable”, and “it’s not that I didn’t like him” it was more that I didn’t want to visit any more “factories”, be they “number one” or not.
But he couldn’t understand me, and I couldn’t understand him – and this is why I’d wished I had the time to learn more Thai.
The fact that someone took the time to try and learn enough of my language to pull one over on me, was just so, well, nice. He was so nice about trying to get me to go with him to this factory that I still have a little sadness that this guy thinks I didn’t like him, which is why I wouldn’t go to see his factory, when it wasn’t that at all.
I guess there’s always next time. Who knows, by then I truly may need to have a suit, with a nice Armani cut or I may learn enough Thai to let my erstwhile scammer know that I like him, just not his scheme.
By the end of my trip, I ended up feeling that I just hadn’t learned enough Thai. I say this because of my last “scam” experience in Bangkok.
Now let me just say that I had heard all about the “number one factory/jewelry” scam in Thailand from travel books and the Internet. So when I was approached by a tuktuk driver within hours of hitting the street on my first day in Bangkok I was too intrigued NOT to go.
Which is how I found myself visiting the temple of the standing Buddha and another Buddha temple for the low low price of 30 bhat. The tuktuk driver assured me that as it was a special holiday time in Thailand he would get a gas coupon from the government if I’d just spend 10 minutes in a “number one factory” in Bangkok. I could “Get nice suit, look good!”
He had such a toothsome grin and an appealing earnestness to his salesmanship that I actually began to believe that I might want to get a suit made for me at this “number one factory”. That is until the arrival at said “number one factory”. It wasn’t a factory, or at least, what I’d consider to be a factory. More a shop. A small shop, boasting material. It was run by an Indian gentleman and his "silent type" Thai assistant. As I said, it was small, rather cramped and filled to the brim with really ugly silk prints, tightly wrapped up in bolts. Nothing I’d ever want to buy, even when drunk.
So, I asked about the “free gas coupon”, much to the disappointment of the owner. He mumbled something about “yes, yes, coupon” and I left. This upset my tuktuk driver, as he said I hadn’t spent 10 minutes inside. I was feeling pleased I’d managed to last upwards of 3 minutes. Then my tuktuk man said that he had an “even BETTER number one factory to go to, much larger”. And off we went, bobbing and weaving among the Bangkok traffic. Sweat rolling down my back, as I tightly gripped the metal bars in the tuktuk to prevent me from flying out into the road and being run over by thousands of cars.
I said I didn’t really need to see another factory, and just how much was this “gas coupon” anyway? I’d PAY him for the gas coupon, and he can just take me back to the hotel. Well, he wasn’t having any of that, and we went by a 2nd “factory”/store. One through the doorway I made myself take slow measured steps, slowly counting off the seconds in my head to get up to the required “10 minutes” so my driver would get his coupon and then take me home. I was immediately set upon by another Indian gent, who again began to extol the virtues of the suit they’d make me.
I explained I didn’t want, nor need a suit, but did they have any t-shirts. They did, and I managed to knock them down from 1,500 bhat to 1,000 bhat – which I now know is still WAY to expensive. After 9 minutes in this place, I really wanted out. Plus I had a whole other building to walk through, and I knew I’d more than passed my 10 minute mark.
The 2nd building was pay dirt – it was a rabbit warren over 3 stories – and here was where I was offered my authentic “jewelry”. As I wandered about, having the virtues of cubic zirconium explained to me I was able to see other chagrined tourists being led through the same building. While I was finding the whole thing extremely amusing, these poor folks apparently hadn’t known what they were letting themselves in for – and they were NOT amused.
On the 3rd floor, an old Thai woman was really pushing me towards a suit she’d make for me and “Armani cuts” were her specialty. As I left and was guided through other areas stocked with knick knacks I might like to buy I stopped in the final room to look at (relatively) cheap souvenirs.
I managed to impress my Thai “hostess” by asking for the price of certain objects in Thai. “Ohhh, you speak Thai” she gushed, and actually gave me a “normal” price on one of the knick knacks. Feeling more warmly towards her than the suit lady, I paid the 100 bhat for a souvenir for my nephew and went on my way back to the tuktuk driver, who apparently feeling somewhat bad offered to take me around to some more places prior to the hotel. I declined and asked to JUST be taken back to the hotel – no need to stop at factories, number one or otherwise.
Which brings me back to my last scam. I was at the mall on my 2nd to last day in Bangkok, and was killing a few hours until my glasses would be ready. Glasses I’d ordered the day before – and for only $150 US would be ready at 5pm.
This was at the Silom center. I was just wandering looking at shops, food stalls and people. I’d noticed this Thai guy ahead of me a few times, and he’d positioned himself at the top of the escalator. I got off, smiled a greeting and kept walking. He obviously summed up his courage and then came up to me and said gushed “hello” in English.
I returned the greeting and we walked together for a bit away from the escalator making very small talk. “What’s your name”, “how are you”, things of that nature.
I wasn’t sure if he was wanting to chat, have a date, or something more. That is until I was able to make out, “come with me”, and “number one factory”. Well, by this time in Bangkok, I was hot, tired, and had no desire to tell more Indian gents that I really didn’t need a suit made, even if “Armani cuts” were their specialty.
I wanted to be able to express this to my new friend, but my Thai vocabulary was less than a 2 year olds – so all I could say was “I don’t want that” and “thank you”.
My new friend also had limited English, but he was able to get out a heartbroken “you don’t like me” when I told him “Mai ow” (I don’t want that). He looked SO distraught, and was very upset – I quickly said that “he was adorable”, and “it’s not that I didn’t like him” it was more that I didn’t want to visit any more “factories”, be they “number one” or not.
But he couldn’t understand me, and I couldn’t understand him – and this is why I’d wished I had the time to learn more Thai.
The fact that someone took the time to try and learn enough of my language to pull one over on me, was just so, well, nice. He was so nice about trying to get me to go with him to this factory that I still have a little sadness that this guy thinks I didn’t like him, which is why I wouldn’t go to see his factory, when it wasn’t that at all.
I guess there’s always next time. Who knows, by then I truly may need to have a suit, with a nice Armani cut or I may learn enough Thai to let my erstwhile scammer know that I like him, just not his scheme.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Mum shot
Whenever my Mum travels, I get what I’ve labeled the obligatory “Mum shot”.
This is a picture, taken by her, of herself, shot at a *very* close angle - normally at her final location or on the way to her final location. When I was younger I’d roll my eyes upon receipt of such a shot in the mail – "Dear oh dear, a picture of Mum, in a hotel room, up real close." Not too much in the background, as her face normally filled the screen. Or, it would be a shot of her with her bags.
Now, years later I kinda treasure these pictures from her. Mum, on her way to a new adventure – Mum against the world. Well, rather Mum AND the world. She’s never been against it, rather she has reveled in her travels; new places, new people, new foods, new cultures – the newness of traveling.
So, when I arrived in Thailand at 1:30am and found my hotel had forgotten to ask their staff to meet me at 2am I found myself wondering “What would Mum do?” - this is ky much like, “what would Jesus do”, but more practical.
Well, as it was very hot – I knew my Mum would want a travel wash, and I was by the river. This would mean she'd strip down, lower something to the waters below and cool off with the newly sodden material. Then, she'd change into something summery and either have a quick explore round or read a book or knock out a few letters. But, as I’m me, and not my Mum I decided not to have a naked wash on a Bangkok river deck - BUT I wanted to at least get out of my close toed shoes and socks – exchanging them for my sandals purchased in New Zealand the previous year. I thought I’ll have a proper wash in the morning, well, later in the morning when the staff arrives. I did however have a quick explore down the street, greeted the local cats, wrote in my travel diary & read a few chapters on my book.
This was followed by the thoughts, this is Bangkok, I’m opposite the Temple of Dawn, Wat Arun – what better way to greet my first day break in Bangkok than by watching the sun rise by the Temple of Dawn.
This is how I also found myself wanting to take a “Mum shot”. Me, at my hotel, by myself, bags in tow. Somehow I wasn't able to get my face to fill the screen, but I'm young, I've got years to learn what my mother has perfected on her travels.
This is a picture, taken by her, of herself, shot at a *very* close angle - normally at her final location or on the way to her final location. When I was younger I’d roll my eyes upon receipt of such a shot in the mail – "Dear oh dear, a picture of Mum, in a hotel room, up real close." Not too much in the background, as her face normally filled the screen. Or, it would be a shot of her with her bags.
Now, years later I kinda treasure these pictures from her. Mum, on her way to a new adventure – Mum against the world. Well, rather Mum AND the world. She’s never been against it, rather she has reveled in her travels; new places, new people, new foods, new cultures – the newness of traveling.
So, when I arrived in Thailand at 1:30am and found my hotel had forgotten to ask their staff to meet me at 2am I found myself wondering “What would Mum do?” - this is ky much like, “what would Jesus do”, but more practical.
Well, as it was very hot – I knew my Mum would want a travel wash, and I was by the river. This would mean she'd strip down, lower something to the waters below and cool off with the newly sodden material. Then, she'd change into something summery and either have a quick explore round or read a book or knock out a few letters. But, as I’m me, and not my Mum I decided not to have a naked wash on a Bangkok river deck - BUT I wanted to at least get out of my close toed shoes and socks – exchanging them for my sandals purchased in New Zealand the previous year. I thought I’ll have a proper wash in the morning, well, later in the morning when the staff arrives. I did however have a quick explore down the street, greeted the local cats, wrote in my travel diary & read a few chapters on my book.
This was followed by the thoughts, this is Bangkok, I’m opposite the Temple of Dawn, Wat Arun – what better way to greet my first day break in Bangkok than by watching the sun rise by the Temple of Dawn.
This is how I also found myself wanting to take a “Mum shot”. Me, at my hotel, by myself, bags in tow. Somehow I wasn't able to get my face to fill the screen, but I'm young, I've got years to learn what my mother has perfected on her travels.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Let's Get Physical
So, I’m working a 2nd job to help pay off debt more quickly. I know plenty of folks that are in the same boat. My 2nd job is part time, pays minimum wage – but there are some really fun people who work at the store. So, while the pay isn’t what I could get somewhere else, the coworkers, and the work itself isn’t bad.
I work for a premium Japanese convenience store in downtown Los Angeles. Movies stars & celebrities drop in, along with locals from the downtown region. I’ve been grifted in the store, and have made friends with some of my “regulars”.
As part of the hiring process, we were told we’d need an employment physical, the standard pee test in a cup sort of thing showing that you weren’t a drug user. For a place that pays minimum wage, they have really strict hiring standards. From physicals, to math tests, to background checks.
Anyway, I’d passed everything, and need to go for my physical prior to my probationary period expiring. Knowing that I’d have to pee in a cup later that afternoon, I’d drunk water at my regular job, and then had a nice large sports bottle of water in the car with me that I sipped as I drove the 30 miles in an hour and a half (Los Angeles traffic). By the time I arrived at the medical center in Redondo Beach I was really in need of the restroom.
I came in, filled out the paper work, and then was ushered into the back. Now this place isn’t a nice doctors office, it’s a transformed building that’s now serving as a sort of urgent care facility, but they also have a Dr. on staff to deal with company medicals.
As I head to the back, the nurse asks if I really want to work for this company. Which is kinda of a strange thing to ask, and I said, ‘we’ll, I have been working for them – it’s not so bad.’
“Oh” she answered as she finished taking down my weight. “Well, ok, come on in, we’ll need to do some back x-rays.”
Back x-rays??!!? My last physical hadn’t included a back x-ray.
I was told that the company wanted them done, so all of the folks went through it. Into the room, where she told me to remove my pants, my t-shirt could stay on and put on the robe, with the opening at the back. It was at this point that:
a. I wished I’d worn boxer briefs rather than just briefs today
b. I began composing my sternly worded phone call to my store manager who’d neglected to tell me I’d be “disrobing” for the physical
c. I was glad that though I wasn’t in boxer briefs, I was in new underwear that was cleanly laundered
After having to assist the nurse to find my belly button, and being turned over and x-rayed from several angles I was allowed to put my pants back on and follow the nurse to a room for the rest of the physical.
We passed boxes of latex gloves and I was sincerely hoping that there wasn’t yet another part to this physical that had not been mentioned to me.
The nurse then said we’d do the urine test and that she’d be right back with someone. The copious amount of water I’d consumed earlier now really needed to come out. It was at this point a young Hispanic male nurse came in and took me to the restroom, where he said he’d have to stay in there with me as this was a drug urine test. Meaning I couldn’t be trusted to pee on my own. Who knows what I might do. So he locked the door, and then like a bad hustler movie leaned against the wall, cocked one knee out while he rested his foot on the wall. I was pointed to the cups, asked me to write my name and then he just watched.
There is something really disconcerting about having to unbutton your fly, pull down your underwear, expose yourself and then pee in a cup. To make it worse, he added instructions, telling me that “filling it up halfway is ok”.
Like I might have wanted to overflow it, or reach back and take several of the cups and see just how many I could fill all the way to the top.
So, with this in mind, and my boy in hand I just couldn’t pee. For 45 seconds I just stood there, in front of the loo, cup in hand, looking down feeling his eyes on me as I’m not filling my cup to the requested halfway point. Not one drip, my bladder while completely full is in no way releasing any stream of pee.
Just as I’m about to say I can’t do this I remember my “yoga breath” from the classes I’ve been taking – “just breathe through a difficult situation”. Well, now’s a good a time as any to try this – as if I keep standing here, his eyes on the cup in one hand, penis in the other - one of us will have to ask each other for a number. And low and behold as I breathe I can pee – just a bit. I’m so thankful to get the thing quarter of the way full before the awareness of being watched kicks back in that I spill some urine down the side of the cup as I cover myself back up. Well, I thought it will have to do.
Yet another charming detail my manager had forgotten to mention. An audience as you urinate – how delightful. My phone rant just grew a little longer.
The rest of the physical was painlessly quick – check of the ears, throat, blood pressure – do you have allergies or family medical problems – then the Dr. showed me the door. I had to decline, asking if I could use the loo instead - as I really need to go now that no one was watching or telling me to fill something half way.
I work for a premium Japanese convenience store in downtown Los Angeles. Movies stars & celebrities drop in, along with locals from the downtown region. I’ve been grifted in the store, and have made friends with some of my “regulars”.
As part of the hiring process, we were told we’d need an employment physical, the standard pee test in a cup sort of thing showing that you weren’t a drug user. For a place that pays minimum wage, they have really strict hiring standards. From physicals, to math tests, to background checks.
Anyway, I’d passed everything, and need to go for my physical prior to my probationary period expiring. Knowing that I’d have to pee in a cup later that afternoon, I’d drunk water at my regular job, and then had a nice large sports bottle of water in the car with me that I sipped as I drove the 30 miles in an hour and a half (Los Angeles traffic). By the time I arrived at the medical center in Redondo Beach I was really in need of the restroom.
I came in, filled out the paper work, and then was ushered into the back. Now this place isn’t a nice doctors office, it’s a transformed building that’s now serving as a sort of urgent care facility, but they also have a Dr. on staff to deal with company medicals.
As I head to the back, the nurse asks if I really want to work for this company. Which is kinda of a strange thing to ask, and I said, ‘we’ll, I have been working for them – it’s not so bad.’
“Oh” she answered as she finished taking down my weight. “Well, ok, come on in, we’ll need to do some back x-rays.”
Back x-rays??!!? My last physical hadn’t included a back x-ray.
I was told that the company wanted them done, so all of the folks went through it. Into the room, where she told me to remove my pants, my t-shirt could stay on and put on the robe, with the opening at the back. It was at this point that:
a. I wished I’d worn boxer briefs rather than just briefs today
b. I began composing my sternly worded phone call to my store manager who’d neglected to tell me I’d be “disrobing” for the physical
c. I was glad that though I wasn’t in boxer briefs, I was in new underwear that was cleanly laundered
After having to assist the nurse to find my belly button, and being turned over and x-rayed from several angles I was allowed to put my pants back on and follow the nurse to a room for the rest of the physical.
We passed boxes of latex gloves and I was sincerely hoping that there wasn’t yet another part to this physical that had not been mentioned to me.
The nurse then said we’d do the urine test and that she’d be right back with someone. The copious amount of water I’d consumed earlier now really needed to come out. It was at this point a young Hispanic male nurse came in and took me to the restroom, where he said he’d have to stay in there with me as this was a drug urine test. Meaning I couldn’t be trusted to pee on my own. Who knows what I might do. So he locked the door, and then like a bad hustler movie leaned against the wall, cocked one knee out while he rested his foot on the wall. I was pointed to the cups, asked me to write my name and then he just watched.
There is something really disconcerting about having to unbutton your fly, pull down your underwear, expose yourself and then pee in a cup. To make it worse, he added instructions, telling me that “filling it up halfway is ok”.
Like I might have wanted to overflow it, or reach back and take several of the cups and see just how many I could fill all the way to the top.
So, with this in mind, and my boy in hand I just couldn’t pee. For 45 seconds I just stood there, in front of the loo, cup in hand, looking down feeling his eyes on me as I’m not filling my cup to the requested halfway point. Not one drip, my bladder while completely full is in no way releasing any stream of pee.
Just as I’m about to say I can’t do this I remember my “yoga breath” from the classes I’ve been taking – “just breathe through a difficult situation”. Well, now’s a good a time as any to try this – as if I keep standing here, his eyes on the cup in one hand, penis in the other - one of us will have to ask each other for a number. And low and behold as I breathe I can pee – just a bit. I’m so thankful to get the thing quarter of the way full before the awareness of being watched kicks back in that I spill some urine down the side of the cup as I cover myself back up. Well, I thought it will have to do.
Yet another charming detail my manager had forgotten to mention. An audience as you urinate – how delightful. My phone rant just grew a little longer.
The rest of the physical was painlessly quick – check of the ears, throat, blood pressure – do you have allergies or family medical problems – then the Dr. showed me the door. I had to decline, asking if I could use the loo instead - as I really need to go now that no one was watching or telling me to fill something half way.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Oh I LOVE you. YOU! Sorry, who are you?
I miss id'd a celebrity today.
The ultimate faux pas in name recognition.
Alex Borstein came into the store - most notably for me she of MadTV fame. I was ringing her up & had a recollection that I knew her face - see, that’s my problem - I'm brilliant with faces, it's the names that hang me up. I looked at her, she looked at me, she too recognized the recognition dawning on my face. (Probably at this point with something approaching fear. Something that only celebrities get - that foreknowledge that someone is going to say something, and it's probably not going to be good...)
The conversation went something like this:
“Are you from MadTV?”
“Yes.”
“Are you Mo (Gaffney)?”
“No - I’m the other one, I'm Alex.”
That's probably where I should have left it, but no, wanting to make up for the foot in mouth I continued:
“Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry!”
“It's ok.”
“You're the favorite one. People love your characters.”
“Umm, thanks.”
“Yeah at work we have MadTV on reruns, and people still love Ms. Swan.”
I MEAN WHAT WAS I THINKING? BUT NO, I DIDN'T STOP THERE:
“So, ah, what are you, um, do you teach any classes around here? Do you teach?”
“No, I don't like teaching.”
“Oh.... Well, here’s your change. Have a great evening.”
I still have that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach just thinking back on that conversation.
Still, at least I didn’t identify Vanessa Redgrave as Lynn Redgrave.
The ultimate faux pas in name recognition.
Alex Borstein came into the store - most notably for me she of MadTV fame. I was ringing her up & had a recollection that I knew her face - see, that’s my problem - I'm brilliant with faces, it's the names that hang me up. I looked at her, she looked at me, she too recognized the recognition dawning on my face. (Probably at this point with something approaching fear. Something that only celebrities get - that foreknowledge that someone is going to say something, and it's probably not going to be good...)
The conversation went something like this:
“Are you from MadTV?”
“Yes.”
“Are you Mo (Gaffney)?”
“No - I’m the other one, I'm Alex.”
That's probably where I should have left it, but no, wanting to make up for the foot in mouth I continued:
“Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry!”
“It's ok.”
“You're the favorite one. People love your characters.”
“Umm, thanks.”
“Yeah at work we have MadTV on reruns, and people still love Ms. Swan.”
I MEAN WHAT WAS I THINKING? BUT NO, I DIDN'T STOP THERE:
“So, ah, what are you, um, do you teach any classes around here? Do you teach?”
“No, I don't like teaching.”
“Oh.... Well, here’s your change. Have a great evening.”
I still have that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach just thinking back on that conversation.
Still, at least I didn’t identify Vanessa Redgrave as Lynn Redgrave.
Monday, April 09, 2007
Who’s that girl?
The other week at work, one of the guys brought in pictures of his baby. The kid wasn’t that cute when we last saw pix, but I will admit it is at a very adorable stage right now.
The girls on the team were “ooohing” and “ahhhhing” like there was no tomorrow. The squeals they emitted were treading into whistle tone territory.
Well I figured I’d bring in my old baby pix and see what sort of reaction I got. Both times I got “who’s that cute little girl?” and “who’s the girl in the red dress?” I felt like a Madonna song title.
I guess that the “onesie” corduroy outfit my Dad had made wasn’t that clear in the picture that it was a one piece pant overall – but I really don’t think it looks *that* much like a dress.
The girls on the team were “ooohing” and “ahhhhing” like there was no tomorrow. The squeals they emitted were treading into whistle tone territory.
Well I figured I’d bring in my old baby pix and see what sort of reaction I got. Both times I got “who’s that cute little girl?” and “who’s the girl in the red dress?” I felt like a Madonna song title.
I guess that the “onesie” corduroy outfit my Dad had made wasn’t that clear in the picture that it was a one piece pant overall – but I really don’t think it looks *that* much like a dress.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Weight Watching
It’s January in NYC 2003. One of the worst snow storm in years has hit and the city is hip deep in snow.
J & M (my brother & sister-in-law respectively) were out from NZ for Chrissy. We’d all traveled to NYC for a visit and were on our way back to Cali. M had free miles on United, while J & I were doing the Jet Blue thing. As such we were leaving from different terminals & M was flying out before hand (being on an earlier flight). So prior to heading over to the Jet Blue terminal at JFK we were seeing M off.
The snow had (finally) finished coming down – the air was so clear and crisp – our breath was billowing around our heads in steamy clouds. We’d gotten out of the taxi, bags in tow. As we neared the terminal doors, a black sedan and a black hummer pulled up to the sidewalk in front of the terminal doors.
M was immediately sure it was a celebrity – and wanted to stay out in the zeroish temperature to see just who was flying out from JFK that day. J not being the type to get particularly celebrity struck was not amused by this idea. Myself being somewhat the type to get celebrity struck elected to stand with M to see just who was in the vehicle.
After about 4 minutes, the sedan ejected a couple of very large men who walked back to the hummer, and one opened the door.
“It’s the Duchess of York!” M squealed. She had a better vantage point that I did to see just who was in the vehicle. J was suitably unimpressed and took himself off into the heated terminal. On the other hand M & I were beside ourselves – so we were quite content to wait in the cold until Her Grace alighted from the vehicle.
And what a production that was – from my vantage point I was able to first see a hand extend from the back seat with a purse held out – one of the large men took it and handed it to a smaller guy who’d exited from the other side of the vehicle. He then disappeared to the boot of the vehicale where additional bags were collecting themselves. Next one leg (ending in a very fashionable black boot) swung out, followed by its mate (also in the same fashionable black boot) – and then Sarah, Duchess of York exited the hummer.
I will say this – she is much prettier in person than you’d expect. Really.
The big burly guys were looking at M & me a bit askance, so when Ms. Ferguson was in front of me I said, “May I have your autograph?”
To which Fergie replied, “Yes you may, and it’s so nice to be asked.” I guess crude Americans use "can" rather than "may" - I'm thanking my NZ education at this point.
Now the only bit of paper I had on me was a free post card from Tower Records advertising Rice Krispies – Snap Crackle & Pop. The post card has bubble wrap on one side, for you to pop (snap & crackle) or send I guess.
Sarah turned it over – a look of perplexity across her face. I explained it was the only “paper” I had and offered my (nice) black ink pen. With a slight shake of her head she extended her hand, and thin point sharpe was placed into her open fingers. She didn’t even have to look – the men just knew.
As The Duchess was signing my postcard, M let her know she’d stayed up all night to watch her wedding – and it had inspired hers – and she just thought she was tremendous and a great role model.
Sarah was quite taken and asked if M was from Australia. M politely corrected her letting her know she was from New Zealand. Fergie was most apologetic and mentioned how much she enjoyed visiting New Zealand and wonderful the people were.
During their conversation my postcard had been signed and handed back to me – I think I mentioned that I thought she was fantastic or something equally banal – the pen had been returned to what everplace the security guys secret those things in and then in a whirl wind of commotion they were headed into the terminal. I guess I hadn’t been allowed to use my pen as it may have been poisoned, or I may have tried to hawk it on eBay.
In any event, I had my royally signed postcard.
M & I were quite taken by her service – she hadn’t had to even think about wanting something, the guys had it for her before she’d even had to ask.
As a lark M & I began to play princess (duchess) and server – it soon grew old.
Anyway, we joined J in the heated terminal and breathlessly related out royal experience. J wasn’t impressed, and this being post 9/11 herded both of us to the screening area where we’d need to separate from M.
We saw M up to the checkpoint, where the security guards pulled her aside. That’s when we heard from the VIP line Sarah, Duchess of York shout “Let her through, she harmless, she’s from New Zealand!”
I always knew I liked her.
J & M (my brother & sister-in-law respectively) were out from NZ for Chrissy. We’d all traveled to NYC for a visit and were on our way back to Cali. M had free miles on United, while J & I were doing the Jet Blue thing. As such we were leaving from different terminals & M was flying out before hand (being on an earlier flight). So prior to heading over to the Jet Blue terminal at JFK we were seeing M off.
The snow had (finally) finished coming down – the air was so clear and crisp – our breath was billowing around our heads in steamy clouds. We’d gotten out of the taxi, bags in tow. As we neared the terminal doors, a black sedan and a black hummer pulled up to the sidewalk in front of the terminal doors.
M was immediately sure it was a celebrity – and wanted to stay out in the zeroish temperature to see just who was flying out from JFK that day. J not being the type to get particularly celebrity struck was not amused by this idea. Myself being somewhat the type to get celebrity struck elected to stand with M to see just who was in the vehicle.
After about 4 minutes, the sedan ejected a couple of very large men who walked back to the hummer, and one opened the door.
“It’s the Duchess of York!” M squealed. She had a better vantage point that I did to see just who was in the vehicle. J was suitably unimpressed and took himself off into the heated terminal. On the other hand M & I were beside ourselves – so we were quite content to wait in the cold until Her Grace alighted from the vehicle.
And what a production that was – from my vantage point I was able to first see a hand extend from the back seat with a purse held out – one of the large men took it and handed it to a smaller guy who’d exited from the other side of the vehicle. He then disappeared to the boot of the vehicale where additional bags were collecting themselves. Next one leg (ending in a very fashionable black boot) swung out, followed by its mate (also in the same fashionable black boot) – and then Sarah, Duchess of York exited the hummer.
I will say this – she is much prettier in person than you’d expect. Really.
The big burly guys were looking at M & me a bit askance, so when Ms. Ferguson was in front of me I said, “May I have your autograph?”
To which Fergie replied, “Yes you may, and it’s so nice to be asked.” I guess crude Americans use "can" rather than "may" - I'm thanking my NZ education at this point.
Now the only bit of paper I had on me was a free post card from Tower Records advertising Rice Krispies – Snap Crackle & Pop. The post card has bubble wrap on one side, for you to pop (snap & crackle) or send I guess.
Sarah turned it over – a look of perplexity across her face. I explained it was the only “paper” I had and offered my (nice) black ink pen. With a slight shake of her head she extended her hand, and thin point sharpe was placed into her open fingers. She didn’t even have to look – the men just knew.
As The Duchess was signing my postcard, M let her know she’d stayed up all night to watch her wedding – and it had inspired hers – and she just thought she was tremendous and a great role model.
Sarah was quite taken and asked if M was from Australia. M politely corrected her letting her know she was from New Zealand. Fergie was most apologetic and mentioned how much she enjoyed visiting New Zealand and wonderful the people were.
During their conversation my postcard had been signed and handed back to me – I think I mentioned that I thought she was fantastic or something equally banal – the pen had been returned to what everplace the security guys secret those things in and then in a whirl wind of commotion they were headed into the terminal. I guess I hadn’t been allowed to use my pen as it may have been poisoned, or I may have tried to hawk it on eBay.
In any event, I had my royally signed postcard.
M & I were quite taken by her service – she hadn’t had to even think about wanting something, the guys had it for her before she’d even had to ask.
As a lark M & I began to play princess (duchess) and server – it soon grew old.
Anyway, we joined J in the heated terminal and breathlessly related out royal experience. J wasn’t impressed, and this being post 9/11 herded both of us to the screening area where we’d need to separate from M.
We saw M up to the checkpoint, where the security guards pulled her aside. That’s when we heard from the VIP line Sarah, Duchess of York shout “Let her through, she harmless, she’s from New Zealand!”
I always knew I liked her.
Biohazard
The world has a more global reach than ever these days, except apparently in New Zealand. My father was a pilot for Air New Zealand, and he would relate with a touch of frustration (and a touch of amusement) the story of foreign pilots landing in NZ saying that the local time and date was (for example) 7:15am, Monday August 3rd – 1962.
Time did catch up with Aotearoa – but I do like the fact that you can walk into a local New World grocery store and buy yourself some SARS.
SARS for only 94c - that's got to be a deal.
Time did catch up with Aotearoa – but I do like the fact that you can walk into a local New World grocery store and buy yourself some SARS.
SARS for only 94c - that's got to be a deal.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
A novel idea
I’ve been novelized. That is to say, I have inspired a character in a novel. I wonder if this how Little Orphan Annie felt. Did she see herself on the page when reading about herself and Daddy Warbucks? Were there situations she wished the writers had written from a different perspective?
A friend that’s a (published) writer has finished his new book, and one of the main characters is based on me. Yes, me.
I’ve been lucky enough to read the draft manuscript – and it’s quite a surreal experience seeing things you’ve said on the page. The situations you were in, laid out for all the world to read. Well, those who purchase the novel anyway.
Of course, as it is a novel there’s a fair amount of story telling going on. So let me say here and now – that despite what my friend PC may tell you, I have never been a porn star, not appeared in any porn movies. Nor am I planning to become a porn star. The reason I mention this is because my character in the book has a back story, and part of the back story was being a porn star in his early 20’s.
What that says about the writers’ perception of me, I don’t know. I guess what it comes down to is if you have a friend that’s a writer, don’t annoy them. I was thinking about this, and on one hand - OH MY GOD – and on the other hand, very flattering. (From a purely physical perspective of course.) ^_^ Male porn stars are renowned for their perfect physiques – well in gay male porn at least. In the straight world, not so much – but there you go. Thankfully my character was a gay male porn star in his youth, not an overweight nasty-ass porn star.
I wonder who will play me in the movie…..
A friend that’s a (published) writer has finished his new book, and one of the main characters is based on me. Yes, me.
I’ve been lucky enough to read the draft manuscript – and it’s quite a surreal experience seeing things you’ve said on the page. The situations you were in, laid out for all the world to read. Well, those who purchase the novel anyway.
Of course, as it is a novel there’s a fair amount of story telling going on. So let me say here and now – that despite what my friend PC may tell you, I have never been a porn star, not appeared in any porn movies. Nor am I planning to become a porn star. The reason I mention this is because my character in the book has a back story, and part of the back story was being a porn star in his early 20’s.
What that says about the writers’ perception of me, I don’t know. I guess what it comes down to is if you have a friend that’s a writer, don’t annoy them. I was thinking about this, and on one hand - OH MY GOD – and on the other hand, very flattering. (From a purely physical perspective of course.) ^_^ Male porn stars are renowned for their perfect physiques – well in gay male porn at least. In the straight world, not so much – but there you go. Thankfully my character was a gay male porn star in his youth, not an overweight nasty-ass porn star.
I wonder who will play me in the movie…..
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Accent grave `
Being from New Zealand, I’ve never considered myself to have an accent. I mean Americans do, the English, the French – well, most everyone has an accent – but people who have them never think of themselves as having one.
I received an e-mail from a friend of a friend from Canada visiting New Zealand – I loved it SO much I’m posting an except here.
Language
I never thought this would be a problem for us; in fact I thought we had a leg up on most people in this respect. But oh no, we’ve had our share of difficulties. One night early in our trip before we became fluent in Kiwi-speak, we spent about three minutes explaining to a waitress that
we needed more BREAD. Simple enough you would think; well think again. After a great deal of arm waving and raising of voices she finally exclaimed “Oh that’s more BRID you want!”. I should have anticipated the problem because I had noticed the day before an elocution-trained TV announcer saying “This is Winsday, the sivnth of Fibrary”. You get the picture - the letter e is almost
always pronounced as an I. Ixcillent! The trick is figuring out why the third e in this case does not become an I. There are many such ixceptions. But after a whole month we’ve gotten a pretty good handle on the local dialect and we get by most of the time without having to resort to shouting.
Distance/Time
All the trailheads have a sign with a time shown but never a distance. I don’t think kiwis realize how stupid this is. It takes a while to develop the conversion factor from kiwi walking time to walking time for other (regular) people. After considerable experimentation we’ve finally
got it figured out. For example on a recent walk which was marked as 4-6 hours here are the conversions:
Time for a kiwi walker* - 4 hours
Time for a very fit foreign walker - 6 hours
Time for a normal/average walker 2x4 = 8 hours
Approximate time for other walkers including the slightly overweight woman from Minnesota in all new LL Bean gear:
2x6 = 12 hours.
*Kiwi walkers can be easily identified. They are never shorter than 6ft 3in, weigh less than 11 stone (154lb) without their boots, and have about 0.005% BFI.
Incidentally they always say, as they are flying past you on the trail, something like “Keep it up mate, you’ll get there in good time.”
What they are really thinking though is “I feel sorry for you mate. You just don’t have the
genes to climb mountains.” It was no coincidence that Edmund Hilary was a kiwi!
INDEED!
IXILENT!
I received an e-mail from a friend of a friend from Canada visiting New Zealand – I loved it SO much I’m posting an except here.
Language
I never thought this would be a problem for us; in fact I thought we had a leg up on most people in this respect. But oh no, we’ve had our share of difficulties. One night early in our trip before we became fluent in Kiwi-speak, we spent about three minutes explaining to a waitress that
we needed more BREAD. Simple enough you would think; well think again. After a great deal of arm waving and raising of voices she finally exclaimed “Oh that’s more BRID you want!”. I should have anticipated the problem because I had noticed the day before an elocution-trained TV announcer saying “This is Winsday, the sivnth of Fibrary”. You get the picture - the letter e is almost
always pronounced as an I. Ixcillent! The trick is figuring out why the third e in this case does not become an I. There are many such ixceptions. But after a whole month we’ve gotten a pretty good handle on the local dialect and we get by most of the time without having to resort to shouting.
Distance/Time
All the trailheads have a sign with a time shown but never a distance. I don’t think kiwis realize how stupid this is. It takes a while to develop the conversion factor from kiwi walking time to walking time for other (regular) people. After considerable experimentation we’ve finally
got it figured out. For example on a recent walk which was marked as 4-6 hours here are the conversions:
Time for a kiwi walker* - 4 hours
Time for a very fit foreign walker - 6 hours
Time for a normal/average walker 2x4 = 8 hours
Approximate time for other walkers including the slightly overweight woman from Minnesota in all new LL Bean gear:
2x6 = 12 hours.
*Kiwi walkers can be easily identified. They are never shorter than 6ft 3in, weigh less than 11 stone (154lb) without their boots, and have about 0.005% BFI.
Incidentally they always say, as they are flying past you on the trail, something like “Keep it up mate, you’ll get there in good time.”
What they are really thinking though is “I feel sorry for you mate. You just don’t have the
genes to climb mountains.” It was no coincidence that Edmund Hilary was a kiwi!
INDEED!
IXILENT!
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
wht r u doing?
I’m not sure my mother gets what text messaging is all about. My brothers back in New Zealand got her a cell phone for her birthday. It’s finally been activated, and Mum really wanted to try out this "text messaging" she’s heard so much about.
As my number is the only cell number she knows, she began texting me. I responded to her (many) messages. (I hoped that she had added international texting to her plan or these quick text bursts could be really expensive.)
Anyway, a few days later I got a call from my mother asking if I’d received her texts. She was just calling to make sure they’d gotten through ok – I guess my replying to her wasn’t enough verification; she needed to hear as well as see the response.
Technology - making all our lives easier.
Except my mothers.
As my number is the only cell number she knows, she began texting me. I responded to her (many) messages. (I hoped that she had added international texting to her plan or these quick text bursts could be really expensive.)
Anyway, a few days later I got a call from my mother asking if I’d received her texts. She was just calling to make sure they’d gotten through ok – I guess my replying to her wasn’t enough verification; she needed to hear as well as see the response.
Technology - making all our lives easier.
Except my mothers.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
All that glitters isn't gold
Hmm, well, despite what people on QVC tell you, weight is no sign of true quality. My nice old man ring is FAKE. Not in the “hologram” sense of being fake, it is tangible after all, more in the “not real gold” sense.
Over lunch today my friend and I stopped by our local pawn shop. I felt a tad seedy going in and producing a ring – thank goodness for good support from friends. Anyway, I handed the “jewelry” over. The pawner took a look at it, got out his eye glass and did a quick scratch test. Not real gold, not real diamonds, just fools gold & cut glass – all for the bargain price of $65.
I offered it to my friend for her upcoming nuptials – it’s a ring with history after all. She said no. Ungrateful I say.
On the bright side, I do know what I’ll be taking to my next white elephant party, complete with certificate of in-authenticity.
Over lunch today my friend and I stopped by our local pawn shop. I felt a tad seedy going in and producing a ring – thank goodness for good support from friends. Anyway, I handed the “jewelry” over. The pawner took a look at it, got out his eye glass and did a quick scratch test. Not real gold, not real diamonds, just fools gold & cut glass – all for the bargain price of $65.
I offered it to my friend for her upcoming nuptials – it’s a ring with history after all. She said no. Ungrateful I say.
On the bright side, I do know what I’ll be taking to my next white elephant party, complete with certificate of in-authenticity.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
One ring shall rule them all
I lost $65 the other day; somewhat carelessly I hesitate to add. It went down like this.
I was at my 2nd job in downtown Los Angeles on Monday night. During the evening a tourist entered the store needing directions to a place on 5th street – we’re on 6th – so I walked him outside and pointed him in the correct direction.
As I re-entered the store, an old gentleman approached me with another question. He explained he’d locked his keys in his car, along with his wallet. AAA had sent a lock smith out who required that he get paid prior to opening the door. Old man of course couldn’t pay as his wallet was in the car. He then returned to his cell phone to speak with the AAA, again explaining where he was and what was happening with his Mercedes.
Anyway, he asked if he could borrow $65 to pay the “bumbling locksmith” that the Auto Club had sent, and he’d come right back – he even offered to pay a borrowing fee, and could I please help an old retired attorney out.
It smelled like a rat, it really did. But, I was also thinking of my own grandfather, and getting locked out of the car. I should have offered to go out to the guy & pay him myself – and then collect the money back from the old guy then & there. I should have also remembered that my grandfather wasn’t the type to lock himself out of his car. But I did none of those things; we had other customers, and I kinda figured that maybe I was wrong to be so distrusting of the older generation.
I ended up loaning, well, “giving him” I guess - the $65, which is how I ended up with an 18 carat gold old guy ring. The really chunky kind that I’d need at least another 60 or 70 years on me to wear with anything less than irony. He left it with me as collateral.
I think I’ll try and pawn it….
I was at my 2nd job in downtown Los Angeles on Monday night. During the evening a tourist entered the store needing directions to a place on 5th street – we’re on 6th – so I walked him outside and pointed him in the correct direction.
As I re-entered the store, an old gentleman approached me with another question. He explained he’d locked his keys in his car, along with his wallet. AAA had sent a lock smith out who required that he get paid prior to opening the door. Old man of course couldn’t pay as his wallet was in the car. He then returned to his cell phone to speak with the AAA, again explaining where he was and what was happening with his Mercedes.
Anyway, he asked if he could borrow $65 to pay the “bumbling locksmith” that the Auto Club had sent, and he’d come right back – he even offered to pay a borrowing fee, and could I please help an old retired attorney out.
It smelled like a rat, it really did. But, I was also thinking of my own grandfather, and getting locked out of the car. I should have offered to go out to the guy & pay him myself – and then collect the money back from the old guy then & there. I should have also remembered that my grandfather wasn’t the type to lock himself out of his car. But I did none of those things; we had other customers, and I kinda figured that maybe I was wrong to be so distrusting of the older generation.
I ended up loaning, well, “giving him” I guess - the $65, which is how I ended up with an 18 carat gold old guy ring. The really chunky kind that I’d need at least another 60 or 70 years on me to wear with anything less than irony. He left it with me as collateral.
I think I’ll try and pawn it….
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Sorry, what's your name?
Being the younger brother, I always had an "and" appended to my name when being introduced. I never got just “Darren”, it was always “Jason and Darren”.
My brother was very emphatic about being listed first – "no, it's Jason and Darren" whenever anyone mistakenly mentioned me before him. J took being first born son very seriously – we’re talking Ancient Asian Empire Dynasty, Curse of the Golden Flower brother trouble seriously. (Perhaps this explains his fondness for the novel Shōgun.) His pride of place in the family birth hierarchy was overwhelming. When asked about me, he’d reply something along the lines of “I’m the older brother. He’s my little brother.” Strangers would not have been amiss to think my name was actually “Andarren” from the way he carried on.
In any event, I have always been shorter than my brother, so I guess being the little brother was not only factual, it was literal.
One of my favorite home videos shows me at about 1year old, playing with a baby rattle quite happily. Along comes J, and seeing my happiness with the toy, decides it’s something he must have instead. So, he takes it. All documented right there on film. He just walks up to little baby brother me, Andarren, and swipes my rattle. What a two and a half year old wants with a rattle is beyond me, but there you go. Baby me of course, starts crying. J disappears from frame for a moment and comes back and dumps an orange in my lap.
An orange. I’ve never liked oranges – it probably stems from this documented event. I kept crying, and the video cuts off at this point. It probably showed my parents congratulating J on finding fruit in the house, and wasn’t he a healthy lad even at the wee age of two – all the while I’m left crying on the bed with a bloody orange. Ripe oranges don’t rattle. Now that I think about it, I didn’t even have a crib in that house. Or at least, none that you can see on the film clip.
When my Dad remarried, it became Jenny, Jason and Darren. And when my Mum had another son, it was Jason and Darren – with the littlest brother Daryl. Or, and THIS is Daryl. Daryl was suddenly moved up to guest star spot, while I was relegated to series regular, and not a popular cast member at that.
Case in point – in Singapore, J would be surrounded by people wanting to touch his toe headed locks for luck. People exclaimed over the blueness of his eyes, the golden color of his hair. While brown-haired-hazel-eyed me was left behind the crowd, waiting for the rockstar J to emerge from his throng of admirers so we could continue on to the Tiger Balm Gardens.
My brother was very emphatic about being listed first – "no, it's Jason and Darren" whenever anyone mistakenly mentioned me before him. J took being first born son very seriously – we’re talking Ancient Asian Empire Dynasty, Curse of the Golden Flower brother trouble seriously. (Perhaps this explains his fondness for the novel Shōgun.) His pride of place in the family birth hierarchy was overwhelming. When asked about me, he’d reply something along the lines of “I’m the older brother. He’s my little brother.” Strangers would not have been amiss to think my name was actually “Andarren” from the way he carried on.
In any event, I have always been shorter than my brother, so I guess being the little brother was not only factual, it was literal.
One of my favorite home videos shows me at about 1year old, playing with a baby rattle quite happily. Along comes J, and seeing my happiness with the toy, decides it’s something he must have instead. So, he takes it. All documented right there on film. He just walks up to little baby brother me, Andarren, and swipes my rattle. What a two and a half year old wants with a rattle is beyond me, but there you go. Baby me of course, starts crying. J disappears from frame for a moment and comes back and dumps an orange in my lap.
An orange. I’ve never liked oranges – it probably stems from this documented event. I kept crying, and the video cuts off at this point. It probably showed my parents congratulating J on finding fruit in the house, and wasn’t he a healthy lad even at the wee age of two – all the while I’m left crying on the bed with a bloody orange. Ripe oranges don’t rattle. Now that I think about it, I didn’t even have a crib in that house. Or at least, none that you can see on the film clip.
When my Dad remarried, it became Jenny, Jason and Darren. And when my Mum had another son, it was Jason and Darren – with the littlest brother Daryl. Or, and THIS is Daryl. Daryl was suddenly moved up to guest star spot, while I was relegated to series regular, and not a popular cast member at that.
Case in point – in Singapore, J would be surrounded by people wanting to touch his toe headed locks for luck. People exclaimed over the blueness of his eyes, the golden color of his hair. While brown-haired-hazel-eyed me was left behind the crowd, waiting for the rockstar J to emerge from his throng of admirers so we could continue on to the Tiger Balm Gardens.
Friday, February 02, 2007
I'll tell you what you want, what you really, really want
Picture it, the end of the go-go 90's, girl power is all the rage and Halloween is coming up – what are two friends to do? Well, if you're my friend PC & me, you gather 3 others and dress up as the Spice Girls for a Halloween romp.
During the Spice Girl revolution of 1997/1998 PC and I had spent many an hour driving to Los Angeles and back with the Spice’s debut album "Spice" blaring from the car speakers. I'd invariably take the parts of Posh and Scary, while PC would tackle Baby and Ginger and we'd share Sporty depending on who was singing when. Now and again we'd have heated discussions over just who was singing what part, and whether or not one of us had screwed up in singing a particular line.
Anyway, Halloween.
I was cast as Sporty, being a helluva lot more Sporty than PC or the three others PC had gathered to flesh out the group.
PC had a thing for Baby Spice, especially after I scored us near front row tickets during the Spice World tour. We got to see Baby practically push a kid off the stage when her "singing with children 'cause I'm so baby & nice" number was done. Baby even kicked one of the soft toys that was thrown on stage for her out of her way as she exited.
We arrived at the club, and standing inline as the famous fivesome, we were noticed, recognized and complimented. Our group effort even allowed to enter the club in a relatively quick fashion. The whole place had been decorated for Halloween, and as a special treat one of the upstairs rooms near a bar had been transformed into a lounge; the owners had even splashed out on plastic rubbery blow up furniture. You could lounge in an oversized blow up plastic chair, or sit with a couple of friends on a the inflatable rubber couch. The furniture was clear plastic, very thick and reinforced. What with the lighting, smoke, thumping music and alcohol the whole room was giving off a very cool vibe.
Now, what do five friends all dressed up on Halloween do at a dance club? Well, you continue what you started at home of course - you drink. I’m not sure how many times the phrase “Sporty needs another drink” passed my lips that evening, but there are sections of the evening that are still a little blurry for me.
I do remember “Baby” rolling up a sleeve of her baby-doll to secure a pack of cigarettes in place, ciggies purloined from some stranger in the club. This gave our Baby a unique sort of air; think a mix of BabySpice, hairy drag queen & the Fonze.
Baby had on fake nails, which she began popping off from the 2nd floor balcony down to the main dance floor at a later point in the evening. However, fairly early on, probably about 11:45ish we’d both collapsed on the main blow up plastic couch in the resting room – PC/Baby not used to having fake nails had inadvertently sat fake finger nails first and pierced the couch causing a slow leak. As the evening progressed and we made the rounds back to the room, the once firm, supportive couch collapsed into a pool of unusable clear rubber on the floor that people had to step around as they leaned against the wall. I don’t think there were cameras, and we were never asked to pay – so I think it’s an accident we walked away from with relative impunity.
Now as legend goes – well, the legend amongst my friends – I was hit on by a straight guy. This is the part I don’t believe, we happened to be at a gay club in San Diego – so it’s not too likely that it was a straight boy. In any event, I *do* remember chatting with the fellow who’d probably bought me a drink. Now, I looked somewhat like a girl – but I guess with club lighting, and a few drinks as the sailors say “any hull looks sound in the dark”.
I can recall his hand of my bared midriff, and that it wound its way up my torso slipping beneath the sports bra top for a quick squeeze – of what he found out was actually one half of a blue foam baseball. Yeah, Sporty Spice wasn't sporting a real spice rack.
Next is all rather vague, but I recall that somehow Scary was holding onto my legs, as the guy had me by the torso. Both were pulling me mightily in different directions - I was suspended above the floor in a pose much like something that the Chiquita Banana lady might do in a commercial hawking fresh fruit. Baby was drunkeningly laughing at the tug of war over Sporty and offering no help what so ever – Posh had already left with someone and Ginger was no where to be seen. So much for girl power.
Anyway, the relatively sober Scary had more strength than the masher – and I was pulled back to safety, or at least out of his arms.
In the years since, PC has held fast to his version of events, that Scary had saved my life. Or, at least saved me from a beating. I’m not so sure about that, but I do know I’m never dressing up as a Spice Girl ever again.
Oh yeah, we won a competition in the Official Spice Girls Fan Club dress up like a Spice Girl Competition.
During the Spice Girl revolution of 1997/1998 PC and I had spent many an hour driving to Los Angeles and back with the Spice’s debut album "Spice" blaring from the car speakers. I'd invariably take the parts of Posh and Scary, while PC would tackle Baby and Ginger and we'd share Sporty depending on who was singing when. Now and again we'd have heated discussions over just who was singing what part, and whether or not one of us had screwed up in singing a particular line.
Anyway, Halloween.
I was cast as Sporty, being a helluva lot more Sporty than PC or the three others PC had gathered to flesh out the group.
PC had a thing for Baby Spice, especially after I scored us near front row tickets during the Spice World tour. We got to see Baby practically push a kid off the stage when her "singing with children 'cause I'm so baby & nice" number was done. Baby even kicked one of the soft toys that was thrown on stage for her out of her way as she exited.
We arrived at the club, and standing inline as the famous fivesome, we were noticed, recognized and complimented. Our group effort even allowed to enter the club in a relatively quick fashion. The whole place had been decorated for Halloween, and as a special treat one of the upstairs rooms near a bar had been transformed into a lounge; the owners had even splashed out on plastic rubbery blow up furniture. You could lounge in an oversized blow up plastic chair, or sit with a couple of friends on a the inflatable rubber couch. The furniture was clear plastic, very thick and reinforced. What with the lighting, smoke, thumping music and alcohol the whole room was giving off a very cool vibe.
Now, what do five friends all dressed up on Halloween do at a dance club? Well, you continue what you started at home of course - you drink. I’m not sure how many times the phrase “Sporty needs another drink” passed my lips that evening, but there are sections of the evening that are still a little blurry for me.
I do remember “Baby” rolling up a sleeve of her baby-doll to secure a pack of cigarettes in place, ciggies purloined from some stranger in the club. This gave our Baby a unique sort of air; think a mix of BabySpice, hairy drag queen & the Fonze.
Baby had on fake nails, which she began popping off from the 2nd floor balcony down to the main dance floor at a later point in the evening. However, fairly early on, probably about 11:45ish we’d both collapsed on the main blow up plastic couch in the resting room – PC/Baby not used to having fake nails had inadvertently sat fake finger nails first and pierced the couch causing a slow leak. As the evening progressed and we made the rounds back to the room, the once firm, supportive couch collapsed into a pool of unusable clear rubber on the floor that people had to step around as they leaned against the wall. I don’t think there were cameras, and we were never asked to pay – so I think it’s an accident we walked away from with relative impunity.
Now as legend goes – well, the legend amongst my friends – I was hit on by a straight guy. This is the part I don’t believe, we happened to be at a gay club in San Diego – so it’s not too likely that it was a straight boy. In any event, I *do* remember chatting with the fellow who’d probably bought me a drink. Now, I looked somewhat like a girl – but I guess with club lighting, and a few drinks as the sailors say “any hull looks sound in the dark”.
I can recall his hand of my bared midriff, and that it wound its way up my torso slipping beneath the sports bra top for a quick squeeze – of what he found out was actually one half of a blue foam baseball. Yeah, Sporty Spice wasn't sporting a real spice rack.
Next is all rather vague, but I recall that somehow Scary was holding onto my legs, as the guy had me by the torso. Both were pulling me mightily in different directions - I was suspended above the floor in a pose much like something that the Chiquita Banana lady might do in a commercial hawking fresh fruit. Baby was drunkeningly laughing at the tug of war over Sporty and offering no help what so ever – Posh had already left with someone and Ginger was no where to be seen. So much for girl power.
Anyway, the relatively sober Scary had more strength than the masher – and I was pulled back to safety, or at least out of his arms.
In the years since, PC has held fast to his version of events, that Scary had saved my life. Or, at least saved me from a beating. I’m not so sure about that, but I do know I’m never dressing up as a Spice Girl ever again.
Oh yeah, we won a competition in the Official Spice Girls Fan Club dress up like a Spice Girl Competition.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
A butt out of the gutter
A butt out of the gutter.
That was a slogan used in the New Zealand “Stop Smoking” campaign several years back in the 1990’s. The very campaign that happened to feature my older brother Jason as their poster boy – his face was plastered on bill boards and bus stops from the tip of the North Island right to the bottom of the South Island.
Jason of the Golden Touch. When we were younger (when he wasn’t beating me up) Jason was always telling me that he was named after the Jason in “Jason and the Golden Fleece” – which is why he was always so successful in things.
Kinda spooky about how he almost always is really successful. Anyway, he’d gotten representation by a talent agent (as Jason lore goes) by being spotted in a Nightclub in New Zealand when he was dancing in a cage. Jason had ousted the actual dancer from their cage atop the pillar, and was going for it like there was no tomorrow. That’s when the agent happened spot him, gyrating away. When he descended from the pillar she pressed her card on him urging him to call – he had something, and she wanted to represent him.
Several days later he did just that, and was promptly signed. Now my brother is a surf freak, and would often skip auditions if the waves were good. His agent had gotten him an audition for the “Stop Smoking” campaign. On this particular day the waves were outstanding. Jason missed his scheduled audition time, but rolled into the studio just as they were getting ready to pack up for the day.
He then began spinning this yarn about why he was late. He almost hadn’t come as he had been so ashamed of his smoking habit. He knew he’d hit rock bottom when he was out of cash, walking down the street, and then picked a butt out of the gutter – just so he could finish smoking what the previous owner had left.
Jason of course told this with his typical blarney stone touch, and they ate it up – and even used his phrase “butt out of the gutter” in the campaign.
Now, this is all well and good – my only problem with this is that THAT STORY IS MINE! When we were about 9 years old, my Mum had a new boyfriend. They were engaged, and for that years summer holidays we were spending it with Mum, Roger and his daughter Joanne. Joanne was super old, I mean she was about 16 at the time. Maybe 15. And she smoked. Of course, Joanne introduced both my brother and me to smoking, letting us know how cool it was. That summer Jason and I had a pack of cigarettes when ever we felt like it, all we had to do was ask Joanne to go buy them for us (and give her a little extra cash for the trouble; or bake her some fudge).
We got home at the end of the holidays addicted to smoking, and were now without our cigarette dealer. What are underage boys to do? Well, I hit upon the brilliant plan of taking cigarette butts out of our grandparents ash trays. They were (and my grandmother still is) huge smokers. They’d often leave a fair amount of ciggy to smoke, and we could get our fix by secretly purloining these butts from their ash trays.
But, 9 year olds can only visit their grandparents so much in any given day, or any given week. Which is when I had my most cunning idea yet – walking home from a cigarette recovery operation I noticed all these cigarette butts in the gutter along the street – just laying there, unused! Why not collect these butts & smoke them!?! I mean it was cheap, economical, and in a way, recycling.
Anyway, that’s exactly what we did. Jason and I would pick butts out of the gutter, bring them home and when the folks weren’t around we’d scurry down to the bottom garden to have the last few puffs off of someone else’s cigarette.
Mmmmmm – smooth, clean taste.
So, you can understand my ire when I found out my childhood cunning had been stolen yet again by my older brother into a money making scheme.
It wouldn’t be SO bad, it’s just I never got my cut.
That was a slogan used in the New Zealand “Stop Smoking” campaign several years back in the 1990’s. The very campaign that happened to feature my older brother Jason as their poster boy – his face was plastered on bill boards and bus stops from the tip of the North Island right to the bottom of the South Island.
Jason of the Golden Touch. When we were younger (when he wasn’t beating me up) Jason was always telling me that he was named after the Jason in “Jason and the Golden Fleece” – which is why he was always so successful in things.
Kinda spooky about how he almost always is really successful. Anyway, he’d gotten representation by a talent agent (as Jason lore goes) by being spotted in a Nightclub in New Zealand when he was dancing in a cage. Jason had ousted the actual dancer from their cage atop the pillar, and was going for it like there was no tomorrow. That’s when the agent happened spot him, gyrating away. When he descended from the pillar she pressed her card on him urging him to call – he had something, and she wanted to represent him.
Several days later he did just that, and was promptly signed. Now my brother is a surf freak, and would often skip auditions if the waves were good. His agent had gotten him an audition for the “Stop Smoking” campaign. On this particular day the waves were outstanding. Jason missed his scheduled audition time, but rolled into the studio just as they were getting ready to pack up for the day.
He then began spinning this yarn about why he was late. He almost hadn’t come as he had been so ashamed of his smoking habit. He knew he’d hit rock bottom when he was out of cash, walking down the street, and then picked a butt out of the gutter – just so he could finish smoking what the previous owner had left.
Jason of course told this with his typical blarney stone touch, and they ate it up – and even used his phrase “butt out of the gutter” in the campaign.
Now, this is all well and good – my only problem with this is that THAT STORY IS MINE! When we were about 9 years old, my Mum had a new boyfriend. They were engaged, and for that years summer holidays we were spending it with Mum, Roger and his daughter Joanne. Joanne was super old, I mean she was about 16 at the time. Maybe 15. And she smoked. Of course, Joanne introduced both my brother and me to smoking, letting us know how cool it was. That summer Jason and I had a pack of cigarettes when ever we felt like it, all we had to do was ask Joanne to go buy them for us (and give her a little extra cash for the trouble; or bake her some fudge).
We got home at the end of the holidays addicted to smoking, and were now without our cigarette dealer. What are underage boys to do? Well, I hit upon the brilliant plan of taking cigarette butts out of our grandparents ash trays. They were (and my grandmother still is) huge smokers. They’d often leave a fair amount of ciggy to smoke, and we could get our fix by secretly purloining these butts from their ash trays.
But, 9 year olds can only visit their grandparents so much in any given day, or any given week. Which is when I had my most cunning idea yet – walking home from a cigarette recovery operation I noticed all these cigarette butts in the gutter along the street – just laying there, unused! Why not collect these butts & smoke them!?! I mean it was cheap, economical, and in a way, recycling.
Anyway, that’s exactly what we did. Jason and I would pick butts out of the gutter, bring them home and when the folks weren’t around we’d scurry down to the bottom garden to have the last few puffs off of someone else’s cigarette.
Mmmmmm – smooth, clean taste.
So, you can understand my ire when I found out my childhood cunning had been stolen yet again by my older brother into a money making scheme.
It wouldn’t be SO bad, it’s just I never got my cut.
Monday, January 22, 2007
The whole truth, and nothing but the truth
So, my brother phones from New Zealand the week before Christmas last year to again ask his annual yuletide favor of me – namely can I please purchase a Christmas gift for the folks state side in his name, wrap it, and deliver it. He’ll reimburse me by sending the money out as soon as he knows how much I spend on the gift and he’s willing to go up to $100 US this year. Oh, and can I please call him prior to delivering the gift, so when the folks call he can answer any questions about the gift.
Being a (now) dutiful younger brother I agree to this transaction.
This year, I did a gift basket thing around a movie theme. Fine New Zealand wine, and tasty nibbles from France to antipodes all from the lovely Cost Plus, all wrapped up in a custom basket – and then a gift membership to Netflix.
I called Jason to give him the cost of everything and I also explained what he’d “bought” for the parental units for 2006. I got to trying to explain “Netflix” to a New Zealander.
“It’s this online DVD rental store, where you select movies from their database and “queue up” the movies you want to see in your account, and for a nominal monthly fee Netflix mails them to you free of charge one after another. You can keep them as long as you want, there are no late fees and if you’re good about it – you can see dozens of movies a month." To which my brother replied, “Frankly, it sounds made up.”
This became my favorite phrase of December 2006, to anything I’d be muttering, “frankly, it sounds made up.”
Jason reminded me that their local video rental shop in Wellington still just asks for your home phone number when you rent a video. You don’t even need a credit card. Ahh, the good old days. On the plus side there, you can rent a “Sing Star” at the video store. The great New Zealand answer to karaoke on the play station – with Sing Star you sing along with the actual music videos, and the game rates you and your opponent as to your pitch, tempo and volume. After a couple of drinks, you’re all loving it. Well, anyone at the party is, the neighbors, not so much. I mean, there is a limit as to how many times your neighbors want to hear you belting out “The Reason” by Hoobastank or fumbling your way through “Shuddup” by the Black Eyed Peas. (Take Fergies part in that, BELIEVE me – the rap is murder on your score.)
Anyway, this all just came back to me today as I got a call from my brother, now almost a month after Christmas, letting me know that he’ll be sending me my reimbursement funds very soon – the cheque is in the mail, or soon will be. He needed to verify my address to ensure that my $100 will be state side soon.
Frankly, it sounds made up.
I confirmed my street address, let Jason know that yes, my city is still Los Angeles, (spelled it twice for him), gave out my zip code and then he added U.S.A. or “Gods own country” as Bush likes to think of it.
He promised he wouldn’t actually write THAT on the envelope, as I would like to see the cash and not some federal agents at my door asking about a smart arse in New Zealand that they’ve come across by opening my mail illegally under a legal law that was passed in the midst of night while the grunions were running that actually makes the illegality legal in all but the freak states of Alaska, Hawaii and Texas.
Being a (now) dutiful younger brother I agree to this transaction.
This year, I did a gift basket thing around a movie theme. Fine New Zealand wine, and tasty nibbles from France to antipodes all from the lovely Cost Plus, all wrapped up in a custom basket – and then a gift membership to Netflix.
I called Jason to give him the cost of everything and I also explained what he’d “bought” for the parental units for 2006. I got to trying to explain “Netflix” to a New Zealander.
“It’s this online DVD rental store, where you select movies from their database and “queue up” the movies you want to see in your account, and for a nominal monthly fee Netflix mails them to you free of charge one after another. You can keep them as long as you want, there are no late fees and if you’re good about it – you can see dozens of movies a month." To which my brother replied, “Frankly, it sounds made up.”
This became my favorite phrase of December 2006, to anything I’d be muttering, “frankly, it sounds made up.”
Jason reminded me that their local video rental shop in Wellington still just asks for your home phone number when you rent a video. You don’t even need a credit card. Ahh, the good old days. On the plus side there, you can rent a “Sing Star” at the video store. The great New Zealand answer to karaoke on the play station – with Sing Star you sing along with the actual music videos, and the game rates you and your opponent as to your pitch, tempo and volume. After a couple of drinks, you’re all loving it. Well, anyone at the party is, the neighbors, not so much. I mean, there is a limit as to how many times your neighbors want to hear you belting out “The Reason” by Hoobastank or fumbling your way through “Shuddup” by the Black Eyed Peas. (Take Fergies part in that, BELIEVE me – the rap is murder on your score.)
Anyway, this all just came back to me today as I got a call from my brother, now almost a month after Christmas, letting me know that he’ll be sending me my reimbursement funds very soon – the cheque is in the mail, or soon will be. He needed to verify my address to ensure that my $100 will be state side soon.
Frankly, it sounds made up.
I confirmed my street address, let Jason know that yes, my city is still Los Angeles, (spelled it twice for him), gave out my zip code and then he added U.S.A. or “Gods own country” as Bush likes to think of it.
He promised he wouldn’t actually write THAT on the envelope, as I would like to see the cash and not some federal agents at my door asking about a smart arse in New Zealand that they’ve come across by opening my mail illegally under a legal law that was passed in the midst of night while the grunions were running that actually makes the illegality legal in all but the freak states of Alaska, Hawaii and Texas.
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