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.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
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 ShÅgun.) 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 ShÅgun.) 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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)