I’m leaving Trader Joe’s this evening, and I was walking behind a mum taking her 3 year old(ish) daughter out to their car.
I had just seen them inside; the cashier had offered stickers to the little girl. She had readily demanded them, and her mum took the time to inform her of the polite way of accepting such a generous offer of free stickers.
Anyway, the mother, like me, had parked across the road from the crowded TJ parking lot. As they reached the sidewalk the mum asked in a super cheery voice:
“Who’s holding my hand as I cross the road?”
“Not me”.
I swear, that’s what came from the 3 year old’s mouth. A very sullen "not me". As I love contrary children to a fault, I thought this was a superb answer, though I can’t say that I think her mum agreed with me.
“Look, it’s either my hand or the cart, which is it?”
When you get into a debate with a 3 year old, I think you’ve already lost.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Monday, September 01, 2008
Nice accent
So, I’m not English. I was raised in New Zealand, so have (currently) a curious mix of a kiwi and U.S Californian accent.
If you’re American, you can think of this as “British”. (If you're not American, then think "mutt".)
In America accents basically work like this; if you have fairish skin and don’t sound (American) southern, New York, Connecticut, or Californian, you are either:
a. Canadian, or,
b. British
If a & b don’t work, then in a pinch you are c. Australian.
That's it. Nice and simple.
This being the case, I wasn’t that surprised to receive a phone call from my agent saying he’d submitted me for a commercial on Thursday. It was an interstitial for Honda during the new season of America’s Next Top Model. They wanted someone to play a photographer, late 20’s through late 30’s, male, “think stereo-typical photographer”, oh, and British.
This was thrown in last minute. “Oh, and British”.
My agent explained to the casting director that I wasn’t “exactly” British, but (I was) from New Zealand.
Submit they said. So he did. And then he called to tell me.
Now, I can do a British accent, don’t get me wrong. But I’m more, “BBC English” or "Avon - from Blake's 7" rather than “lad about London” English.
Which is why my heart sank when I arrived at the audition and I felt as though I’d arrived in Chelsea in London – all the guys there were authentic “lads”. No BBC English in sight, nope, all lad about town, a little bit rough English.
Sigh.
If you’re American, you can think of this as “British”. (If you're not American, then think "mutt".)
In America accents basically work like this; if you have fairish skin and don’t sound (American) southern, New York, Connecticut, or Californian, you are either:
a. Canadian, or,
b. British
If a & b don’t work, then in a pinch you are c. Australian.
That's it. Nice and simple.
This being the case, I wasn’t that surprised to receive a phone call from my agent saying he’d submitted me for a commercial on Thursday. It was an interstitial for Honda during the new season of America’s Next Top Model. They wanted someone to play a photographer, late 20’s through late 30’s, male, “think stereo-typical photographer”, oh, and British.
This was thrown in last minute. “Oh, and British”.
My agent explained to the casting director that I wasn’t “exactly” British, but (I was) from New Zealand.
Submit they said. So he did. And then he called to tell me.
Now, I can do a British accent, don’t get me wrong. But I’m more, “BBC English” or "Avon - from Blake's 7" rather than “lad about London” English.
Which is why my heart sank when I arrived at the audition and I felt as though I’d arrived in Chelsea in London – all the guys there were authentic “lads”. No BBC English in sight, nope, all lad about town, a little bit rough English.
Sigh.
Saturday, August 09, 2008
Gone swimming!
I ran across this picture from my mother that she mailed me. Not sure what it says about my Mum when I'm not surprised to see her in a bathing suit on her car port roof in the local paper.
The local city council had used ariel photographs to assess who in the neighborhood had pools, and sent bills out accordingly. The only problem with the technology is that Mum had a car port, but no pool. The first time she just went down to the council and informed them of the mistake, the second time she called the paper.
Bliss.
The local city council had used ariel photographs to assess who in the neighborhood had pools, and sent bills out accordingly. The only problem with the technology is that Mum had a car port, but no pool. The first time she just went down to the council and informed them of the mistake, the second time she called the paper.
Bliss.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
Got any tips?
At the end of our day in Paris, Hide and I needed dinner prior to boarding the Eurostar for the trip back to London.
We crossed the road from the terminal and were roped into eating at a café right across the street. A swarthy European man with shoulder length hair pressed us first in French and then in English.
“I have English menu. It’s good, you’ll like it.”
Normally I’d need something more than this simple sell to get me into an eating establishment. Well, something more than that, or exceptionally cute wait staff – but I was tired, I’d been up since 4am in the morning, had been walking across Paris all day and just wanted to sit and something to eat.
So, his “hard sell” worked.
The wrangler passed us off to a server, who was an older French gentleman with white hair and a disturbingly waxed mustache. I say disturbingly as I haven’t seen a waxed mustache in person other than on film, and in historic photographs.
The place was reasonably busy, but not overwhelmingly so. The server took his time serving us, and he neglected to mention that the ice tea Hide ordered – not on the menu – would cost as much as the Kir Royale that I ordered.
I wouldn’t have been that annoyed, but, after making the international subtle gesture that we were ready for the bill, he sat and watched some television, talked with other wait staff and began waiting on other tables with people who’d just arrived.
The bill finally arrived, and I asked for change. To which he gruffly replied “Tip is not included you know.” To which I believe I replied “good”.
Living in America, I’m now ingrained in the tipping mode. If someone tells you the time nicely, I'll probably tip. In New Zealand last year I was tipping bartenders who thought I’d forgotten my change – the other meals I’d eaten in France didn’t have the servers asking for a tip. I believe it my obvious foreignness that had him thinking he was entitled to a tip. I just don’t believe in tipping for poor service, no matter the country.
We crossed the road from the terminal and were roped into eating at a café right across the street. A swarthy European man with shoulder length hair pressed us first in French and then in English.
“I have English menu. It’s good, you’ll like it.”
Normally I’d need something more than this simple sell to get me into an eating establishment. Well, something more than that, or exceptionally cute wait staff – but I was tired, I’d been up since 4am in the morning, had been walking across Paris all day and just wanted to sit and something to eat.
So, his “hard sell” worked.
The wrangler passed us off to a server, who was an older French gentleman with white hair and a disturbingly waxed mustache. I say disturbingly as I haven’t seen a waxed mustache in person other than on film, and in historic photographs.
The place was reasonably busy, but not overwhelmingly so. The server took his time serving us, and he neglected to mention that the ice tea Hide ordered – not on the menu – would cost as much as the Kir Royale that I ordered.
I wouldn’t have been that annoyed, but, after making the international subtle gesture that we were ready for the bill, he sat and watched some television, talked with other wait staff and began waiting on other tables with people who’d just arrived.
The bill finally arrived, and I asked for change. To which he gruffly replied “Tip is not included you know.” To which I believe I replied “good”.
Living in America, I’m now ingrained in the tipping mode. If someone tells you the time nicely, I'll probably tip. In New Zealand last year I was tipping bartenders who thought I’d forgotten my change – the other meals I’d eaten in France didn’t have the servers asking for a tip. I believe it my obvious foreignness that had him thinking he was entitled to a tip. I just don’t believe in tipping for poor service, no matter the country.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Like I like you
Over the last month, I’ve become enamored of manga. Just certain ones – notably xxxHolic by CLAMP. xxxHolic happens to cross over with Tsubasa, and as I’m waiting for the latest installment of xxxHolic to be translated into English, I’ve started in on reading Tsubasa while I wait for 2009 to roll around.
So, I have the Tsubasa manga that I picked up at Borders during my lunch hour on my desk at work. We have several Phd’s on staff here at work, and he spotted it; which prompted the following exchange:
“Manga? Dude, you read manga?” – Dr
“Um, yeah. Do you like manga?” – Me
“Like manga? Well, I like it in the way I like 6-year old boys.” – Dr
“Excuse me?” – Me
“I mean, I like them, but wouldn’t pick them up, I wouldn’t take them home and I definitely wouldn’t bring them to work to have on my desk.” – Dr
Not sure what to make of that. On one hand, super creepy, and on the other, quite funny.
So, I have the Tsubasa manga that I picked up at Borders during my lunch hour on my desk at work. We have several Phd’s on staff here at work, and he spotted it; which prompted the following exchange:
“Manga? Dude, you read manga?” – Dr
“Um, yeah. Do you like manga?” – Me
“Like manga? Well, I like it in the way I like 6-year old boys.” – Dr
“Excuse me?” – Me
“I mean, I like them, but wouldn’t pick them up, I wouldn’t take them home and I definitely wouldn’t bring them to work to have on my desk.” – Dr
Not sure what to make of that. On one hand, super creepy, and on the other, quite funny.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
When a god passes
Artemis died on May 15, 2008.
I'd been expecting it, but not really. In the way you expect to win the lottery, but never really expect to win the lottery - if that makes sense.
I guess I'd almost be wanting it to happen too.
Well, before you get ALL up in arms about that sentence, he was 12, 3 months shy of 13. Around 68 years in human terms. In the last year or so he'd decided that he didn't really like to use the litter box to pee. For him, right beside the litter box was good enough, or failing that, on any nice soft thing. Towels, rugs, socks – any comfortable material item near the litter box was better than actually stepping into it. For Artemis, taking the trip inside the box was strictly for his number twos.
I'm not sure what changed in his mind about this, but I do know it was really frustrating. For the first few months when he made the decision to not pee in the box, I didn't realize he wasn't using the litter box.
I'd get home, and notice a pool on the floor around the box. At first I thought the litter box had a leak in it. I put down plastic, and then I attempted to try and find the leak in the box itself. I pressure tested it, searched for cracks and became quite flummoxed.
I even switched the box out for a new container, but it still kept happening.
Finally this precipitated the move of the litter box from the back hallway to the bathroom, as I figured a urine wash probably wasn't the best thing for hardwood floors, and tile was much easier to disinfect.
After the move, I discovered it was actually the old boy peeing in the litter box proximity. After an examination of him and the house I just gave in and bought some designated "Artemis towels". He'd use those to pee on and I'd wash them daily. This way he wouldn't feel the need to drag my pajamas or bathmat over to the litter box in the morning; it really worked out for both of us.
I guess this means I'll be going through a lot less bleach, and I can move the litter box back out of the bathroom. (Luna still being a lady does her business either in the great outdoors or in the coziness of the box.)
But I will miss his waiting by the door when I come home, and his insistence that one helping of dinner wasn't enough, or just one helping of breakfast come to that. The consummate fatman, he was already thinking about his next meal while he was wiping away the crumbs of his current feast.
I didn't like him getting up on the bed once he decided that he also liked to go outside during the day. After both cats discovery of all things outside on the deck, I stopped letting my cats into my bedroom. Artemis being a very fluffy cat would get very dusty outside, and during the summer he'd have a weekly bath. During the colder months I wouldn't bathe him, as it just didn't seem fair.
I bought him a bed of his own to sleep in that was nice, soft and cozy – but, in the mornings if I left the bedroom door open while I showered, I'd enter the bedroom afterwards to find him comfortably ensconced in the middle of my bed.
Now Artemis was always a large cat, and unlike Luna he has never been one to jump "up" on things. I was quite proud of his efforts to get on my bed that I just let him stay. I purchased a new bed this year and it is probably about a foot and a half taller than my old bed.
I got to witness his "climb" one morning – it was all brute strength and claws. He'd stand on his hind legs, and then like one of those crazy folks at 24 Hour Fitness climbing the rock wall, paw by paw he'd climb up the side of the bed until he could haul himself onto the flat, where, exhausted he collapse on a pillow for a snooze.
The crook in his tail, his really high voice, his blue eyes and chocolate points.
I guess I'll miss the companionship of these last 13 years.
I'd been expecting it, but not really. In the way you expect to win the lottery, but never really expect to win the lottery - if that makes sense.
I guess I'd almost be wanting it to happen too.
Well, before you get ALL up in arms about that sentence, he was 12, 3 months shy of 13. Around 68 years in human terms. In the last year or so he'd decided that he didn't really like to use the litter box to pee. For him, right beside the litter box was good enough, or failing that, on any nice soft thing. Towels, rugs, socks – any comfortable material item near the litter box was better than actually stepping into it. For Artemis, taking the trip inside the box was strictly for his number twos.
I'm not sure what changed in his mind about this, but I do know it was really frustrating. For the first few months when he made the decision to not pee in the box, I didn't realize he wasn't using the litter box.
I'd get home, and notice a pool on the floor around the box. At first I thought the litter box had a leak in it. I put down plastic, and then I attempted to try and find the leak in the box itself. I pressure tested it, searched for cracks and became quite flummoxed.
I even switched the box out for a new container, but it still kept happening.
Finally this precipitated the move of the litter box from the back hallway to the bathroom, as I figured a urine wash probably wasn't the best thing for hardwood floors, and tile was much easier to disinfect.
After the move, I discovered it was actually the old boy peeing in the litter box proximity. After an examination of him and the house I just gave in and bought some designated "Artemis towels". He'd use those to pee on and I'd wash them daily. This way he wouldn't feel the need to drag my pajamas or bathmat over to the litter box in the morning; it really worked out for both of us.
I guess this means I'll be going through a lot less bleach, and I can move the litter box back out of the bathroom. (Luna still being a lady does her business either in the great outdoors or in the coziness of the box.)
But I will miss his waiting by the door when I come home, and his insistence that one helping of dinner wasn't enough, or just one helping of breakfast come to that. The consummate fatman, he was already thinking about his next meal while he was wiping away the crumbs of his current feast.
I didn't like him getting up on the bed once he decided that he also liked to go outside during the day. After both cats discovery of all things outside on the deck, I stopped letting my cats into my bedroom. Artemis being a very fluffy cat would get very dusty outside, and during the summer he'd have a weekly bath. During the colder months I wouldn't bathe him, as it just didn't seem fair.
I bought him a bed of his own to sleep in that was nice, soft and cozy – but, in the mornings if I left the bedroom door open while I showered, I'd enter the bedroom afterwards to find him comfortably ensconced in the middle of my bed.
Now Artemis was always a large cat, and unlike Luna he has never been one to jump "up" on things. I was quite proud of his efforts to get on my bed that I just let him stay. I purchased a new bed this year and it is probably about a foot and a half taller than my old bed.
I got to witness his "climb" one morning – it was all brute strength and claws. He'd stand on his hind legs, and then like one of those crazy folks at 24 Hour Fitness climbing the rock wall, paw by paw he'd climb up the side of the bed until he could haul himself onto the flat, where, exhausted he collapse on a pillow for a snooze.
The crook in his tail, his really high voice, his blue eyes and chocolate points.
I guess I'll miss the companionship of these last 13 years.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Friday, April 25, 2008
Pretty Woman
So my former boss invites me out to a BBQ with her and her boyfriend last weekend. It was up the road from me, I had nothing else on so figured why not.
It was a Saturday afternoon, balmy and lazy. I was in shorts and a t-shirt, Annie picked me up – she was in jeans and a t-shirt. We located the house and walked up the path to the back patio where the BBQ was happening.
Their former roommate was there, and his friends, and then two girls. Well, ladies. And when I say ladies, I mean the “of the night” variety.
I didn’t pick up on it at first, but I guess their black mini’s and loads of bling should have tipped me off that they weren’t there for the BBQ meat. Sure, they were there for meat, but that’s too easy a pun.
Annie called their profession within seconds of arrival. I didn’t believe her at first, and by the time I did – I realized they weren’t the Julia Roberts type of working girl – these were more of the “cut a bitch” type of girl.
Anyway, they disappeared in the back bedroom for 2 hours – and emerged later wanting their payment. $250 to be exact.
I had dinner with coworkers later in the week, and there was a definite split on the sexes here. The women were all “that’s CHEAP!” – while the gents were “Wow, that’s A LOT!”
It was a Saturday afternoon, balmy and lazy. I was in shorts and a t-shirt, Annie picked me up – she was in jeans and a t-shirt. We located the house and walked up the path to the back patio where the BBQ was happening.
Their former roommate was there, and his friends, and then two girls. Well, ladies. And when I say ladies, I mean the “of the night” variety.
I didn’t pick up on it at first, but I guess their black mini’s and loads of bling should have tipped me off that they weren’t there for the BBQ meat. Sure, they were there for meat, but that’s too easy a pun.
Annie called their profession within seconds of arrival. I didn’t believe her at first, and by the time I did – I realized they weren’t the Julia Roberts type of working girl – these were more of the “cut a bitch” type of girl.
Anyway, they disappeared in the back bedroom for 2 hours – and emerged later wanting their payment. $250 to be exact.
I had dinner with coworkers later in the week, and there was a definite split on the sexes here. The women were all “that’s CHEAP!” – while the gents were “Wow, that’s A LOT!”
Monday, March 10, 2008
Private Gym
It was a beautiful Los Angeles Saturday afternoon. I arrived at my trainers' early, changed and was ready to go for my private workout session. At the start of the session, I was ordered into a weight vest, and my trainer got out a bicycle.
“Great!” I thought, I get to go for a nice bike ride on a sunny balmy afternoon. Which is when my trainer said “We’re going for a jog”. By “we”, he meant “me” – he got to ride the bike and I got to run.
After about a half mile we arrived at a local park; it had a large basketball court, bars and rings, green grass, swing set and sand pit. It was also packed to the gills with people.
I found myself being led to the chin up bar, which was about 7ft from the ground and in the middle of the park. A nice view for everyone there, which is probably why the bar was bereft of people. Normally I’d be able to jump up and grab a bar that high with no problem. However, that afternoon I had a problem – I’d just been running for a half mile, and I had a weight vest on. At this point, just jumping an inch in the air would have been a feat to behold.
My trainer wasn’t worried, “I’ll help you get up there, don’t worry. Then it’s a set of 10.” I felt rather like a 3-year old as I jumped and he grabbed my vest bodily hoisting me up to the bar. Then it was up and down, up and down – and I guess most people probably aren’t watching me – but it sure felt like it.
Next I landed on the ground and walked/stumbled and over to the grass for pushups. Where apparently my trainer mistook by back for an ottoman – as he began to sit on me to increase the resistance of the pushups.
This was the point where I collapsed face first on the grass and said “I had no idea that personal training also included public humiliation.”
He reassured me that no one was looking, and even if people were they’d just be thinking how strong I was, and what a great workout I was having.
None of which I believed in the slightest. I know if I was watching this particular scene from the sidelines “strong” and “great” would not be two of the adjectives I’d be using.
Of course he wasn’t done yet, and I had to endure another lifting to the bars for more chin ups prior to having to jog back out of the park past all the people who thought I was so strong and great.
“Great!” I thought, I get to go for a nice bike ride on a sunny balmy afternoon. Which is when my trainer said “We’re going for a jog”. By “we”, he meant “me” – he got to ride the bike and I got to run.
After about a half mile we arrived at a local park; it had a large basketball court, bars and rings, green grass, swing set and sand pit. It was also packed to the gills with people.
I found myself being led to the chin up bar, which was about 7ft from the ground and in the middle of the park. A nice view for everyone there, which is probably why the bar was bereft of people. Normally I’d be able to jump up and grab a bar that high with no problem. However, that afternoon I had a problem – I’d just been running for a half mile, and I had a weight vest on. At this point, just jumping an inch in the air would have been a feat to behold.
My trainer wasn’t worried, “I’ll help you get up there, don’t worry. Then it’s a set of 10.” I felt rather like a 3-year old as I jumped and he grabbed my vest bodily hoisting me up to the bar. Then it was up and down, up and down – and I guess most people probably aren’t watching me – but it sure felt like it.
Next I landed on the ground and walked/stumbled and over to the grass for pushups. Where apparently my trainer mistook by back for an ottoman – as he began to sit on me to increase the resistance of the pushups.
This was the point where I collapsed face first on the grass and said “I had no idea that personal training also included public humiliation.”
He reassured me that no one was looking, and even if people were they’d just be thinking how strong I was, and what a great workout I was having.
None of which I believed in the slightest. I know if I was watching this particular scene from the sidelines “strong” and “great” would not be two of the adjectives I’d be using.
Of course he wasn’t done yet, and I had to endure another lifting to the bars for more chin ups prior to having to jog back out of the park past all the people who thought I was so strong and great.
Saturday, March 08, 2008
Man About The House
An Asian lady came into Famima!! this morning. She had a hoodie shirt on, grey slacks, big dark sunglasses and a green frog-like purse. Very pretty, with a mysterious air.
She stood eyeing our Steam Bun display, obviously waiting for someone to approach her.
I gave her a cheery “good morning” and asked if she needed any assistance. Which is when, I was treated to the following.
Please keep in mind that she was never able to look me directly in the eyes, she had her hoodie up, with her black bob hair pocking out around her chin, her dark glasses were shading her eyes and she kept her hand up over the top of said dark glasses as though shielding her face from non-existent sunlight. (Perhaps the fluorescents were too strong…)
“The police told me to come here”.
I kid you not – this was the first thing she said to me. The Los Angeles police, told her to come here, to Famima!! There were several things wrong with this sentence, but I let them slide I mean, I’m paid to look after customers – even if they are sent by the LAPD.
“I have my own home, I’ve had it for over 3 years. There’s a Korean Christian man in my home.”
For me, the devil was certainly in the details here. I’m not sure why his being both Christian and Korean was relevant to what she was telling me, but there you go.
“I’ve tried to get him to leave for 2 years, but he won’t go. I can’t use my home because he’s in it.”
I responded with a murmured agreement of how awful that must be for her, not being able to use her home for two years as it’s being occupied by a Korean Christian man.
“So the police told me to come here. I’m in a homeless shelter, and I’d like some food. Do you have any food you can give me? I don’t have any money, and I can’t go back home because of the man. He’s got a knife.”
Now I know I should be feeling the milk of human kindness flowing forth from me at this point – but ALL I can think of is this TittyBangBang character. I want to laugh. I can’t laugh. Which makes me want to laugh more.
I’m winding up my tour of duty at Famima!!, and if this had happened a year ago when I started I’d’ve been getting a meal for her right then and there. Of course, since my beginnings at Famima!! I’ve been (specifically AT Famima!!):
1. Robbed
2. Fleeced out of $70 odd bucks (see earlier blog entries)
3. Threatened in person
4. Lied to
5. Insulted
6. Received obscene, threatening phone calls
So I no longer react to this sort of story as I once would have – for better or for worse. I politely explained that we didn’t have any free food, to which she replied:
“What, none today? Ok.” And left. That's it - just walked out.
During the week we often have free samples – and the key here is that they are FREE SAMPLES. No story needed.
Still, it was interesting. I mean, he had a knife.
She stood eyeing our Steam Bun display, obviously waiting for someone to approach her.
I gave her a cheery “good morning” and asked if she needed any assistance. Which is when, I was treated to the following.
Please keep in mind that she was never able to look me directly in the eyes, she had her hoodie up, with her black bob hair pocking out around her chin, her dark glasses were shading her eyes and she kept her hand up over the top of said dark glasses as though shielding her face from non-existent sunlight. (Perhaps the fluorescents were too strong…)
“The police told me to come here”.
I kid you not – this was the first thing she said to me. The Los Angeles police, told her to come here, to Famima!! There were several things wrong with this sentence, but I let them slide I mean, I’m paid to look after customers – even if they are sent by the LAPD.
“I have my own home, I’ve had it for over 3 years. There’s a Korean Christian man in my home.”
For me, the devil was certainly in the details here. I’m not sure why his being both Christian and Korean was relevant to what she was telling me, but there you go.
“I’ve tried to get him to leave for 2 years, but he won’t go. I can’t use my home because he’s in it.”
I responded with a murmured agreement of how awful that must be for her, not being able to use her home for two years as it’s being occupied by a Korean Christian man.
“So the police told me to come here. I’m in a homeless shelter, and I’d like some food. Do you have any food you can give me? I don’t have any money, and I can’t go back home because of the man. He’s got a knife.”
Now I know I should be feeling the milk of human kindness flowing forth from me at this point – but ALL I can think of is this TittyBangBang character. I want to laugh. I can’t laugh. Which makes me want to laugh more.
I’m winding up my tour of duty at Famima!!, and if this had happened a year ago when I started I’d’ve been getting a meal for her right then and there. Of course, since my beginnings at Famima!! I’ve been (specifically AT Famima!!):
1. Robbed
2. Fleeced out of $70 odd bucks (see earlier blog entries)
3. Threatened in person
4. Lied to
5. Insulted
6. Received obscene, threatening phone calls
So I no longer react to this sort of story as I once would have – for better or for worse. I politely explained that we didn’t have any free food, to which she replied:
“What, none today? Ok.” And left. That's it - just walked out.
During the week we often have free samples – and the key here is that they are FREE SAMPLES. No story needed.
Still, it was interesting. I mean, he had a knife.
Thursday, March 06, 2008
Spring Training
I hired a trainer; a personal trainer. He admits I’m the strangest client he’s ever had, as I’m very giggly. I just can’t help laughing at myself, as I know I must look ridiculous exercising away.
I keep seeing myself in my mind’s eye, as we’re doing sit-ups on a sit-up board and he’s lobbing a medicine ball at me to tap behind my head before I come back up to throw the ball back at him. This is just not a serious sight.
The nice thing about this particular exercise is that right before we started it, I had to sign my waiver acknowledging the fact that exercising is a dangerous activity, and I waive my right to sue if something goes wrong.
Al I could do was keep picturing myself getting hit in my face (my beautiful face) with the heavy ass ball and knocking out my front teeth. “Now I’ll never be a teen model.”
In any event, it’s good to have someone correct form and really push you towards a fitness goal. No wonder celebrities are so fit. It still strikes me as really funny though.
I keep seeing myself in my mind’s eye, as we’re doing sit-ups on a sit-up board and he’s lobbing a medicine ball at me to tap behind my head before I come back up to throw the ball back at him. This is just not a serious sight.
The nice thing about this particular exercise is that right before we started it, I had to sign my waiver acknowledging the fact that exercising is a dangerous activity, and I waive my right to sue if something goes wrong.
Al I could do was keep picturing myself getting hit in my face (my beautiful face) with the heavy ass ball and knocking out my front teeth. “Now I’ll never be a teen model.”
In any event, it’s good to have someone correct form and really push you towards a fitness goal. No wonder celebrities are so fit. It still strikes me as really funny though.
Sunday, February 03, 2008
The Velveteen Shirt - A Christmas Story
Several years ago now, I used to routinely receive clothing as gifts from my parents. Any gift is a really nice thought, and you shouldn’t really complain.
That being said - my brother and I used to have to keep our faces from falling when we’d unwrap a sweater that was on the stern side of conservative; jeans that were an inch too short, or a couple of years out of fashion. Christmas clothing was about the worst thing you could receive – other than one of those cards that read a donation was made in your name to “insert charity here”.
Finally the parental units just stopped the clothing purchasing at Chrissy which was a blessing. Well, most of the parental units.
Somewhere in her late 40’s our mother developed a great fondness for any type of silk shirt – especially if the shirt appears that it could have been worn by a waiter unlucky enough to find themselves working at a very seedy Vietnamese restaurant in the early 80’s. These types of garments are the ones she regularly “rescues” from various Thrift/Op Shops for the (bargain) price of $1. You can hear her say, and I quote, “Silk is so cool to wear. It’s so easy to wash, it’s comes up wonderfully.”
This past Christmas I was presented with a package from my mother that she’d had my brother smuggle past customs. J mentioned that he hadn’t wanted to bring it, but he’d promised.
To be fair to Mum, the shirt itself is something that I would have worn when I was 19 and sneaking into 21 and up clubs with my friend Mark down in San Diego.
However, I’m no longer 19, I don't live in San Diego, it’s no longer 1994 and I’m not usually one to wear crushed velvety vaguely snake like material. I was almost longing for one of the oft mocked (on my part) silk shirts.
Mum has asked if I’m wearing it out - my only valid excuse for not wearing it more often is my Thai Fortune Teller has told me not to wear red. You can’t go against that can you?
That being said - my brother and I used to have to keep our faces from falling when we’d unwrap a sweater that was on the stern side of conservative; jeans that were an inch too short, or a couple of years out of fashion. Christmas clothing was about the worst thing you could receive – other than one of those cards that read a donation was made in your name to “insert charity here”.
Finally the parental units just stopped the clothing purchasing at Chrissy which was a blessing. Well, most of the parental units.
Somewhere in her late 40’s our mother developed a great fondness for any type of silk shirt – especially if the shirt appears that it could have been worn by a waiter unlucky enough to find themselves working at a very seedy Vietnamese restaurant in the early 80’s. These types of garments are the ones she regularly “rescues” from various Thrift/Op Shops for the (bargain) price of $1. You can hear her say, and I quote, “Silk is so cool to wear. It’s so easy to wash, it’s comes up wonderfully.”
This past Christmas I was presented with a package from my mother that she’d had my brother smuggle past customs. J mentioned that he hadn’t wanted to bring it, but he’d promised.
To be fair to Mum, the shirt itself is something that I would have worn when I was 19 and sneaking into 21 and up clubs with my friend Mark down in San Diego.
However, I’m no longer 19, I don't live in San Diego, it’s no longer 1994 and I’m not usually one to wear crushed velvety vaguely snake like material. I was almost longing for one of the oft mocked (on my part) silk shirts.
Mum has asked if I’m wearing it out - my only valid excuse for not wearing it more often is my Thai Fortune Teller has told me not to wear red. You can’t go against that can you?
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Kylie Kylie Kylie Kylie
DUE TO OVERWHELMING DEMAND, VIDEO MAY APPEAR SLOW. IF YOU'RE HAVING PROBLEMS WATCHING A VIDEO, CLICK THE PAUSE BUTTON, WAIT A FEW MINUTES AND THEN SELECT PLAY!
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Style-less
I now realize that I need more style.
At work this evening (at Famima!!) 3 Japanese tourists came in. It's LA, it's raining, and it's at night.
One of the guys had silver reflective sunglasses on, and the other had great jeans to which he'd attached a Pooh Bear phone screen cleaner doll (it's a tiny, tiny thing) and on his belt buckle a mickey mouse type puppet. This too was super tiny.
I realized right away that if I was to be wearing any of these items - sunglasses at night, small dolls attached to jeans I'd look like:
a.) an idiot
b.) a sad, sad fool
c.) uber gay
d.) a very uncomfortable combination of all of the above
But on these guys, it was just - c o o l
Here I am typing away in green, and it's so not my colour...
At work this evening (at Famima!!) 3 Japanese tourists came in. It's LA, it's raining, and it's at night.
One of the guys had silver reflective sunglasses on, and the other had great jeans to which he'd attached a Pooh Bear phone screen cleaner doll (it's a tiny, tiny thing) and on his belt buckle a mickey mouse type puppet. This too was super tiny.
I realized right away that if I was to be wearing any of these items - sunglasses at night, small dolls attached to jeans I'd look like:
a.) an idiot
b.) a sad, sad fool
c.) uber gay
d.) a very uncomfortable combination of all of the above
But on these guys, it was just - c o o l
Here I am typing away in green, and it's so not my colour...
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
Spic and Span
My brother and I used to clean our Mum’s house when we were there over weekends; we’d clear away clutter, file paper, and throw away rubbish. By the end of our weekend stay, the place was always spotless, sparking, and the very look of a model home.
Mum always took this with good grace, and was genuinely pleased with our little boy efforts in the housekeeping arena.
I never realized what an annoying habit this can be until this New Years. I had a guest with me that’s a compulsive cleaner. All week long papers were stacked into neat piles and placed in strategic places around my apartment. Cards and pens would magically gather in new meeting places out of sight making the place look spotless.
In other words, I can no longer find anything as it’s no longer where I left it. I’ll never offer to clean for another soul again.
Mum always took this with good grace, and was genuinely pleased with our little boy efforts in the housekeeping arena.
I never realized what an annoying habit this can be until this New Years. I had a guest with me that’s a compulsive cleaner. All week long papers were stacked into neat piles and placed in strategic places around my apartment. Cards and pens would magically gather in new meeting places out of sight making the place look spotless.
In other words, I can no longer find anything as it’s no longer where I left it. I’ll never offer to clean for another soul again.
Monday, December 10, 2007
You look like....
“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.
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.
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.
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