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.
Monday, April 30, 2007
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.
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Valley of the Kings
When I was younger I was a huge Wonder Woman fan. We’re talking pictures cut out of magazines, rushing home on Friday nights to catch Lynda Carter in Wonder Woman– well telling your Dad to apply the speed when driving your 6 year old ass home. Of course being six, I wouldn’t have said ass, but still, you get the point. I loved The Superfriends, and I even used to watch Batman in hopes that Wonder Woman would make a guest appearance (the closet we ever got was Batgirl). I also watched The Love Boat in the hope that Lynda Carter would be guest starring as my favorite Amazonian Princess – sadly the closest we ever got there was Charo.
I loved Wonder Woman SO much, that at school during playtime on the playground my friends and I would play Superfriends. I of course was Wonder Boy – with the girls fighting over who got to be Wonder Woman and Wonder Girl. The least popular friend of the moment was of course the evil villain we’d be fighting, and then we’d all battle crime on the jungle gym.
I had a costume party when I was 7; of course I had a red top with a WB logo on it (for Wonder Boy – not the WB network). There was a Wonder Woman cake with Wonder Woman paper plates, Wonder Woman napkins & Wonder Woman plastic cups – I even received a telegram from Wonder Woman wishing me a very happy 7th birthday. How did Wonder Woman know it was my birthday? Well, I’d invited her to my party - so she’d sent the telegram letting me know she appreciated the invitation but had business on Paradise Island that meant she couldn’t make it.
That year for Christmas I received perhaps the best gift a boy can receive – a Wonder Woman doll. Now this was New Zealand in the late 1970’s, so of course we didn’t actually have anything like an “official” Wonder Woman doll anywhere on the islands – those wouldn’t be available until the early 1980’s, but my Aunt was a doll maker, and a skilled seamstress. So my Dad had secretly commissioned her to make me a Wonder Woman doll. For Christmas that year, my brother and I had been with our mother in Paraparaumu – I still remember waiting with my brother in the hot New Zealand sun as my Dad was pulling up in his white Toyota to take us back home to Minihaha in Khandallah – Dad let us know he’d met Father Christmas that night and this year Father Christmas had left our gifts from him with our Dad. That way Dad was able to give them to us when we were picked up at the end of the weekend. Ripping the wrapping off the package, I can still remember the thrill of seeing Diana Prince right there in doll form. Diana had her own hand-sewn star spangled outfit, complete with magic belt, tiara, bracelets & lasso.
Later that year after Christmas when I was sick at home one week with some childhood illness (probably the mumps or the measles) my Dad even built Wonder Woman her own invisible jet out of plastic sheeting. I asked for and got my own mini “IRAC” computer – complete with blinking lights – both items had been built in my Dad’s workshop. With these accoutrements Diana and I were set for crime fighting.
Anyway, Wonder Woman was of course my most precious possession, and she was a huge hit with all my friends. Phillipa Scott would have me and Diana over for tea parties with Strawberry Shortcake and her friends Blueberry Muffin, Oranage Blossom and Lemon Meringue. Phillipa was sure that the boy of the Strawberry Shortcake bunch, Apple Dumpling, had a crush and as such would I mind very much leaving Diana with her sometimes so they could get to know each other better. Jodi-Ann Parker and Sharon O’Sullivan would always ask to play with Wonder Woman when they were at my house. Yes, Wonder Woman and I had a full social calendar, what with tea dates and saving other my other action figures and stuffed toys from certain doom at the hands of my brothers evil toys.
One weekend I went to stay over at Phillipa Scott’s house. She had a trampoline in her back yard and her mother was Scottish. Mrs. Scott made great rock cakes and Scottish Eggs. On this particular trip, Wonder Woman didn’t travel with me – I wasn’t sure she and Apple Dumpling were a good fit, and Phillipa and I had plans to be jumping on the trampoline a lot that weekend.
I returned home after a pleasant weekend of exercise and rock cakes to Minihaha. Things were eerily quiet down the far end of the house where my brother and I had our rooms. Walking down the hallway I made the right turn in the ante way to our bedrooms and opened the door to my room to be confronted from a scene taken from the Valley of the Kings in Egypt. All of my soft toys were facing each, arranged from smallest to largest, forming a roadway up to an alter made of wood. Perfuming the air of my bedroom was patchouli, the fragrance coming from incense sticks; smoke lazily rising from the hot orange tips of the sticks, smoke hazing the air, the tips glowing amidst all the perfumey smoke. I was able to make out a sarcophagus resting on the wooden alter. (I later discovered the sarcophagus had been crafted from a Roses Chocolate box.)
There’s something strange about walking in on a reverent scene of stuffed animals and toys – you know something is very wrong, but you almost don’t want to disturb things.
I placed my overnight bag on the floor and approached the alter, being careful not to disturb the statuesque soft toy honor guard. I reached down and opened the sarcophagus, and found a mummy lying inside. A doll sized mummy. A doll sized mummy, tightly bound by strips of snowy white toilet paper.
Ripping the toilet paper shroud from off the mummy I was horrified to find that it was my Wonder Woman doll that’d been defiled.
This all smacked of the work of my evil older brother - JASON!!! I can remember crying and running out of my room, yelling for my Dad and my older brother. Yelling that he’d been in my room, and had touched my stuff. Tears on my face, my lovely weekend ruined by his evil ways.
Not even in the comics or on the TV Show had Wonder Woman ever been mummified.
The reaction I invariably get to this story is “Wow, your brother is SO creative. Wow, he’s really talented, does he still build things? Oh, yeah, poor you, that must have been bad.”
I loved Wonder Woman SO much, that at school during playtime on the playground my friends and I would play Superfriends. I of course was Wonder Boy – with the girls fighting over who got to be Wonder Woman and Wonder Girl. The least popular friend of the moment was of course the evil villain we’d be fighting, and then we’d all battle crime on the jungle gym.
I had a costume party when I was 7; of course I had a red top with a WB logo on it (for Wonder Boy – not the WB network). There was a Wonder Woman cake with Wonder Woman paper plates, Wonder Woman napkins & Wonder Woman plastic cups – I even received a telegram from Wonder Woman wishing me a very happy 7th birthday. How did Wonder Woman know it was my birthday? Well, I’d invited her to my party - so she’d sent the telegram letting me know she appreciated the invitation but had business on Paradise Island that meant she couldn’t make it.
That year for Christmas I received perhaps the best gift a boy can receive – a Wonder Woman doll. Now this was New Zealand in the late 1970’s, so of course we didn’t actually have anything like an “official” Wonder Woman doll anywhere on the islands – those wouldn’t be available until the early 1980’s, but my Aunt was a doll maker, and a skilled seamstress. So my Dad had secretly commissioned her to make me a Wonder Woman doll. For Christmas that year, my brother and I had been with our mother in Paraparaumu – I still remember waiting with my brother in the hot New Zealand sun as my Dad was pulling up in his white Toyota to take us back home to Minihaha in Khandallah – Dad let us know he’d met Father Christmas that night and this year Father Christmas had left our gifts from him with our Dad. That way Dad was able to give them to us when we were picked up at the end of the weekend. Ripping the wrapping off the package, I can still remember the thrill of seeing Diana Prince right there in doll form. Diana had her own hand-sewn star spangled outfit, complete with magic belt, tiara, bracelets & lasso.
Later that year after Christmas when I was sick at home one week with some childhood illness (probably the mumps or the measles) my Dad even built Wonder Woman her own invisible jet out of plastic sheeting. I asked for and got my own mini “IRAC” computer – complete with blinking lights – both items had been built in my Dad’s workshop. With these accoutrements Diana and I were set for crime fighting.
Anyway, Wonder Woman was of course my most precious possession, and she was a huge hit with all my friends. Phillipa Scott would have me and Diana over for tea parties with Strawberry Shortcake and her friends Blueberry Muffin, Oranage Blossom and Lemon Meringue. Phillipa was sure that the boy of the Strawberry Shortcake bunch, Apple Dumpling, had a crush and as such would I mind very much leaving Diana with her sometimes so they could get to know each other better. Jodi-Ann Parker and Sharon O’Sullivan would always ask to play with Wonder Woman when they were at my house. Yes, Wonder Woman and I had a full social calendar, what with tea dates and saving other my other action figures and stuffed toys from certain doom at the hands of my brothers evil toys.
One weekend I went to stay over at Phillipa Scott’s house. She had a trampoline in her back yard and her mother was Scottish. Mrs. Scott made great rock cakes and Scottish Eggs. On this particular trip, Wonder Woman didn’t travel with me – I wasn’t sure she and Apple Dumpling were a good fit, and Phillipa and I had plans to be jumping on the trampoline a lot that weekend.
I returned home after a pleasant weekend of exercise and rock cakes to Minihaha. Things were eerily quiet down the far end of the house where my brother and I had our rooms. Walking down the hallway I made the right turn in the ante way to our bedrooms and opened the door to my room to be confronted from a scene taken from the Valley of the Kings in Egypt. All of my soft toys were facing each, arranged from smallest to largest, forming a roadway up to an alter made of wood. Perfuming the air of my bedroom was patchouli, the fragrance coming from incense sticks; smoke lazily rising from the hot orange tips of the sticks, smoke hazing the air, the tips glowing amidst all the perfumey smoke. I was able to make out a sarcophagus resting on the wooden alter. (I later discovered the sarcophagus had been crafted from a Roses Chocolate box.)
There’s something strange about walking in on a reverent scene of stuffed animals and toys – you know something is very wrong, but you almost don’t want to disturb things.
I placed my overnight bag on the floor and approached the alter, being careful not to disturb the statuesque soft toy honor guard. I reached down and opened the sarcophagus, and found a mummy lying inside. A doll sized mummy. A doll sized mummy, tightly bound by strips of snowy white toilet paper.
Ripping the toilet paper shroud from off the mummy I was horrified to find that it was my Wonder Woman doll that’d been defiled.
This all smacked of the work of my evil older brother - JASON!!! I can remember crying and running out of my room, yelling for my Dad and my older brother. Yelling that he’d been in my room, and had touched my stuff. Tears on my face, my lovely weekend ruined by his evil ways.
Not even in the comics or on the TV Show had Wonder Woman ever been mummified.
The reaction I invariably get to this story is “Wow, your brother is SO creative. Wow, he’s really talented, does he still build things? Oh, yeah, poor you, that must have been bad.”
Monday, November 27, 2006
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Sunday, October 29, 2006
Amy Sedaris
I got to see Amy Sedaris *live* in person last week at Booksoup in Los Angeles.
Funny, witty - and she smelled grrrreat. I asked what she was wearing, but she didn't remember as she mixes two or three things together.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
What, me read?
My boss at work is crazy. Really. Well, crazy in her use of the written English language.
For example, yesterday she wrote that in our department I was a dianond in the rough.
Today we received the e-mail informing us that the department had to follow specific instructions in case A or B, and if we didn't do this then we weren't correct in either cases.
And a personal favourite - the e-mail thanking everyone for pitching in and going the extra milage.
I guess it's not so much that she's crazy (she is), but that she doesn't read what she's written prior to hitting send.
Or perhaps I'm not wordly enough. But, this does allow for work place jokes. I got to ask my coworker who's recently engaged how many carots her dianond ring is. With all theses cases around, who knows where to store anything - but it's lucky they're there with all the milage we've been putting on things lately.
For example, yesterday she wrote that in our department I was a dianond in the rough.
Today we received the e-mail informing us that the department had to follow specific instructions in case A or B, and if we didn't do this then we weren't correct in either cases.
And a personal favourite - the e-mail thanking everyone for pitching in and going the extra milage.
I guess it's not so much that she's crazy (she is), but that she doesn't read what she's written prior to hitting send.
Or perhaps I'm not wordly enough. But, this does allow for work place jokes. I got to ask my coworker who's recently engaged how many carots her dianond ring is. With all theses cases around, who knows where to store anything - but it's lucky they're there with all the milage we've been putting on things lately.
Friday, August 18, 2006
Not dead yet
Bleeding internally. Well, that’s what the doctor says. Shouldn’t I urinate blood or something really dramatic?
Sadly no, in this case it’s nothing so obvious. I’m a bit tired now and again, but originally I just put that down to work. Maybe it’s actually cause my circulatory system is leaking itself into other systems in my body.
There was a boy in my primary school in New Zealand that used to pee blood. We were all really scared; partly cause he was mean as all get out, and partly ‘cause his urine was red. Other boys would go tell teachers, others would just steer clear.
Anyway, nothing so dramatic as crimson urine in my case, but still rather surreal. I feel phantom pains at weird times – especially as the doctor mentions different regions of the body, But I think that’s more cause I’m my Dad’s boy than anything else. All my Dad’s sons aren’t huge fans of hearing about blood or operations.
It’s well known family lore that when my sister sliced her wrist on an old door by accident that the nurses ran up to him when they arrived at the hospital leaving my poor sister with her tea-towel bound wrist clamoring for attention as my Dad looked so pale - like he was about to faint.
So, here I am, waiting to hear the results of my ultrasound. I wonder if Katie Holms felt like this when Tom ran the ultrasound over their kid.
Sadly no, in this case it’s nothing so obvious. I’m a bit tired now and again, but originally I just put that down to work. Maybe it’s actually cause my circulatory system is leaking itself into other systems in my body.
There was a boy in my primary school in New Zealand that used to pee blood. We were all really scared; partly cause he was mean as all get out, and partly ‘cause his urine was red. Other boys would go tell teachers, others would just steer clear.
Anyway, nothing so dramatic as crimson urine in my case, but still rather surreal. I feel phantom pains at weird times – especially as the doctor mentions different regions of the body, But I think that’s more cause I’m my Dad’s boy than anything else. All my Dad’s sons aren’t huge fans of hearing about blood or operations.
It’s well known family lore that when my sister sliced her wrist on an old door by accident that the nurses ran up to him when they arrived at the hospital leaving my poor sister with her tea-towel bound wrist clamoring for attention as my Dad looked so pale - like he was about to faint.
So, here I am, waiting to hear the results of my ultrasound. I wonder if Katie Holms felt like this when Tom ran the ultrasound over their kid.
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