I’m shopping at my local Trader Joes last week, right after the gym. I’ve just had a relatively long work out, so I’m still in shorts, t-shirt, I’ve got my glasses on and my hair is kinda flat and spiky from sweat (so I’m wanting a shower).
I get to the check out, and the cashier looks at me and then at the guy behind me and loudly exclaims, “Is he your brother?! Are you two related?! Wow, you two look A LOT alike!”
With a feeling of trepidation in my stomach, I slowly turn my head around to get a view of this doppelganger behind me; and it’s so much worse than I feared. The look-alike guy is:
a. yes, wearing glasses
b. yes, is wearing a white t-shirt
but he is also:
a. older than me (a lot older)
b. fatter than me (a lot fatter)
So, perhaps, in a parallel universe where I was born in the 60’s and not the 70’s, and I’d begun shoveling copious amounts of fried food into myself and exercising a hellava lot less than I currently do I’d be FINE with the comment.
But I’m not in that universe, and while I have just come from the gym, I don’t feel that just wearing glasses and a t-shirt makes someone look, and I quote, “a lot alike” end quote.
To make things just that bit worse, the guy chuckles and responds “Well I can’t help it these days when folks keep stealing my style”.
HIS STYLE!? Gym shorts, t-shirt and sweat stains are not, never have been, and never will be “my style”. And I certainly don’t think they should be anyone else’s. Other than perhaps long distance Olympic runners.
I’m not sure I’ll go back to that Trader Joes…
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Dear Diary
When my Dad remarried, I gained quite a few things. One, I gained a stepmother, and from her, a stepsister; from my stepsister I gained a diary. She’d had one given to her and hadn’t used it – so she gave it to me instead.
My initial entry in this book (of dreams) was in 1983 – and my last entry was in 1995.
Basically it covers my teenage years – I was a sporadic writer at best. (kinda like this blog.) Reading this historical document, um, several years later, is quite an experience. One that I’m about to share on stage.
I wish that I could say that in a drunken moment I auditioned for “Mortified” – but I was stone cold sober. This is an outfit that has folks read, present, show material that was created during formative teenage years. There are Mortified chapters across the U.S. and one opening in Sweden.
I’ll be going on stage and reading from my diary – to complete strangers. This doesn’t bother me at all.
What does bother me is that I mentioned this to friends at work, who are now all planning on coming to the show. I don’t mind baring all before folks I don’t know – but I’m not sure that I’m ready for my coworkers and friends to know the 13 year old D.
My initial entry in this book (of dreams) was in 1983 – and my last entry was in 1995.
Basically it covers my teenage years – I was a sporadic writer at best. (kinda like this blog.) Reading this historical document, um, several years later, is quite an experience. One that I’m about to share on stage.
I wish that I could say that in a drunken moment I auditioned for “Mortified” – but I was stone cold sober. This is an outfit that has folks read, present, show material that was created during formative teenage years. There are Mortified chapters across the U.S. and one opening in Sweden.
I’ll be going on stage and reading from my diary – to complete strangers. This doesn’t bother me at all.
What does bother me is that I mentioned this to friends at work, who are now all planning on coming to the show. I don’t mind baring all before folks I don’t know – but I’m not sure that I’m ready for my coworkers and friends to know the 13 year old D.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Pure Evil Bottled - Soju
In the future I will know I've had too much to drink when Soju starts to taste good.
Karaoke evening in Wellington with my brother & sister-in-law this week. We hired a private room at the Korean BBQ on Willis Street. Now Karaoke is more fun when a little tipsy - however, my first taste of Soju was an instant "Oh this is awful". After 3 hours (and I dread to think how many bottles and ill advised songs) Soju was GREAT!
Until we got up to leave and found that walking, and keeping down the evenings meal was no longer possible.
J & I could do one or the other, but not both in conjunction.
Soju = pure liquid evil
Karaoke evening in Wellington with my brother & sister-in-law this week. We hired a private room at the Korean BBQ on Willis Street. Now Karaoke is more fun when a little tipsy - however, my first taste of Soju was an instant "Oh this is awful". After 3 hours (and I dread to think how many bottles and ill advised songs) Soju was GREAT!
Until we got up to leave and found that walking, and keeping down the evenings meal was no longer possible.
J & I could do one or the other, but not both in conjunction.
Soju = pure liquid evil
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Criminal Intent
I'm driving with my Mum back into Wellington the other day. As we head towards Porirua we pull up behind a BMW.
Mum immediately comments that the car could be stolen. I ask what has drawn her to this conclusion.
"Well, the car is dirty. Normally a nice car is kept clean, but that one is really dirty. So, it's most likely that the vehicle has been stolen."
I really need to make sure my mother never sees my car. She'll be handing me over to America's Most Wanted For Crimes I Didn't Commit with unfailing logic like that.
Mum immediately comments that the car could be stolen. I ask what has drawn her to this conclusion.
"Well, the car is dirty. Normally a nice car is kept clean, but that one is really dirty. So, it's most likely that the vehicle has been stolen."
I really need to make sure my mother never sees my car. She'll be handing me over to America's Most Wanted For Crimes I Didn't Commit with unfailing logic like that.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
When wrong is right
Mother turns 10 minute drive into 30 minute tikitour of Wellington beaches.
Ms. G. Philips, mother of 4 sons, took a wrong turn on the way to 'The Chocolate Fish' in Scorching Bay, Wellington New Zealand on September 19, 2007.
While making a u-turn at a dead end on a hill in Wellington, Ms. Philips (after asking for directions) remarked "This is the right way to go" prior to making the next 4 lefts to get out of the hills and back down to the coast.
Ms. G. Philips, mother of 4 sons, took a wrong turn on the way to 'The Chocolate Fish' in Scorching Bay, Wellington New Zealand on September 19, 2007.
While making a u-turn at a dead end on a hill in Wellington, Ms. Philips (after asking for directions) remarked "This is the right way to go" prior to making the next 4 lefts to get out of the hills and back down to the coast.
I think your dipthong is hanging
I'm in New Zealand at the moment. I've had a rather good facility for various accents for as long as I can remember. Well, born in Oz, raised in NZ, lived in Brunei & the U.S., traveled to the U.K. - I've had a rather good dose of English in all it's various accents & disguises. Which makes the following all the more disturbing.
I answered the phone the other day at my brothers house, and the conversation went something like this:
"Good afternoon" - me
"Hi, is J there?" - dude on the other line
"No, I'm sorry he's not. Would you like to leave a message?" - me
"Sure - tell him that Noel from La *@##$$#Hc called. His loats are ready to be picked up." - dude that just id'd himself as Noel. (I was unable to catch the company he worked for...)
"Loats?" - me
"Yeah, loats. There's one box of loats, and they're ready to be picked up." Noel
"A box, of 'loats' are ready to be picked up." - (very uncertain) me
"Yeah, his loats, that's right. Cheers mate." - Noel
I'd repeated the mysterious word as I had heard it to him and after I got off the phone, "loats, loats, loats...." and I still had NO idea what loats were. Now, J, my brother is building some houses. This means it's quite possible that this is some new building thing I hadn't heard of before.
J came home & I gave him the message. Unfortunately J didn't know any Noel, and had never heard of loats either. As I hadn't gotten a number or the name of the business he was a little stumped.
Over the next hour or so he figured it out.
It was Noah, from Wellington Light & Electric who'd called, and his lights were ready to be picked up.
I answered the phone the other day at my brothers house, and the conversation went something like this:
"Good afternoon" - me
"Hi, is J there?" - dude on the other line
"No, I'm sorry he's not. Would you like to leave a message?" - me
"Sure - tell him that Noel from La *@##$$#Hc called. His loats are ready to be picked up." - dude that just id'd himself as Noel. (I was unable to catch the company he worked for...)
"Loats?" - me
"Yeah, loats. There's one box of loats, and they're ready to be picked up." Noel
"A box, of 'loats' are ready to be picked up." - (very uncertain) me
"Yeah, his loats, that's right. Cheers mate." - Noel
I'd repeated the mysterious word as I had heard it to him and after I got off the phone, "loats, loats, loats...." and I still had NO idea what loats were. Now, J, my brother is building some houses. This means it's quite possible that this is some new building thing I hadn't heard of before.
J came home & I gave him the message. Unfortunately J didn't know any Noel, and had never heard of loats either. As I hadn't gotten a number or the name of the business he was a little stumped.
Over the next hour or so he figured it out.
It was Noah, from Wellington Light & Electric who'd called, and his lights were ready to be picked up.
Monday, September 03, 2007
Miss Marple, you're needed
I heard a scratching sound this evening, coming from the vicinity of my back door. With the recent opossum trouble around my place I quickly paused my Miss Marple mystery on my mac and went to investigate.
Los Angeles is currently in the grip of a 7 day heat wave. I had been doing chores outside earlier today, and had been taking a bit of sun. About mid afternoon I’d run a cool bath and had submerged myself in the poor mans pool for half an hour. The nights are still muggy and tropical, so I’d left my water in the tub and was planning to throw some ice in there later on and get back in. That way I could go to bed cool for once this week.
One bad thing about living alone is that currently Miss Marple is in my Netflix queue, and watching murder mysteries alone at night causes mysterious scratchings coming from where they shouldn’t to end up sounding like murder or something just as ominous.
Anyway, I make it to the bedroom door, and see a massive puddle and trail leading from the bathroom towards the front door. Luckily there was no body, and no need of a spinster detective to solve what had happened.
My cat Artemis had decided he’d like to lie on the cool porcelain bathtub surface, so he’d jumped in my tub – not realizing that it was quite full of cold water. The scathing had been him frantically clawing at the smooth porcelain surface in order to lift himself out of the water. Finally gaining a purchase he’d flung himself out of the tub, and was trying (unsuccessfully) to walk with a quiet dignity to the front door. His little legs, normally so fluffy were quite bedraggled as was his fine puffy tail. His staggering water-logged gait made him seem a bit like an old drunk man, vainly trying to walk a straight line for an officer when he’s being arrested for disorderly conduct. The puddle trail zig zagged as he’d made his way to the door where he was sitting waiting to be let outside. For all the world trying to make it look as though this had been his master plan all along.
I don’t think he liked me laughing at his misfortune.
I'm betting it's cold comfort to him that I had intended to give him a bath today, anyway I bet he’s cooler than he’s been all week.
The crime scene
Through the kitchen
One pissed off cat
Los Angeles is currently in the grip of a 7 day heat wave. I had been doing chores outside earlier today, and had been taking a bit of sun. About mid afternoon I’d run a cool bath and had submerged myself in the poor mans pool for half an hour. The nights are still muggy and tropical, so I’d left my water in the tub and was planning to throw some ice in there later on and get back in. That way I could go to bed cool for once this week.
One bad thing about living alone is that currently Miss Marple is in my Netflix queue, and watching murder mysteries alone at night causes mysterious scratchings coming from where they shouldn’t to end up sounding like murder or something just as ominous.
Anyway, I make it to the bedroom door, and see a massive puddle and trail leading from the bathroom towards the front door. Luckily there was no body, and no need of a spinster detective to solve what had happened.
My cat Artemis had decided he’d like to lie on the cool porcelain bathtub surface, so he’d jumped in my tub – not realizing that it was quite full of cold water. The scathing had been him frantically clawing at the smooth porcelain surface in order to lift himself out of the water. Finally gaining a purchase he’d flung himself out of the tub, and was trying (unsuccessfully) to walk with a quiet dignity to the front door. His little legs, normally so fluffy were quite bedraggled as was his fine puffy tail. His staggering water-logged gait made him seem a bit like an old drunk man, vainly trying to walk a straight line for an officer when he’s being arrested for disorderly conduct. The puddle trail zig zagged as he’d made his way to the door where he was sitting waiting to be let outside. For all the world trying to make it look as though this had been his master plan all along.
I don’t think he liked me laughing at his misfortune.
I'm betting it's cold comfort to him that I had intended to give him a bath today, anyway I bet he’s cooler than he’s been all week.
The crime scene
Through the kitchen
One pissed off cat
Friday, August 24, 2007
Thursday, August 09, 2007
When will it be saved? WHEN?
Ok - I know what this story from CNN is about, but I really think they should have done a better job with the cropping of this picture. It really makes Greg Letiecq look like he's campaigning for something else...
Sunday, August 05, 2007
The Call Is Coming From Inside The House
My cats are getting up there in years. They’re over 12 years old now; I have the feeling that they might be getting a bit senile.
About a week or so ago, they began defecating outside the litter box, and generally making a mess around the house. Well, the solution to this was to put them outside when I wasn’t home and overnight when I was in bed.
They’re old, but still quick. I have had them banned from my bedroom now for longer than this total house ban when I’m not home. I had left my bedroom door open one evening as I was going back and forth from the living room, and of course they always want to go in a room where they’re not allowed. As I return to my bedroom, my black cat Luna looks up, caught red handed in my room. She nimbly jumps over this weeks washing piles (sorted into delicates, white and dark colours) and speeds out the door. As I step to where she was I notice fresh poo.
Well, I was furious.
The litter box is clean, and accessible. I haven’t changed my schedule, their food, so I was very unclear why they were acting this way. I grabbed both cats and rather like Dino and Fred from the Flintstones launched them out the front door.
That night at around 3am I was waked by a “crunch, crunch, crunch” sound. As it’s summer, and hot, my windows are open. Noise travels a long way at night, so I thought it might have been some cat outside munching away on food left for strays by various neighbors. As I tried to settle back down to sleep, the “crunch, crunch, crunch” continued.
Had I left the door open? Was there a hole in the window screens that the cats had definitely climbed through to take their “rightful place” inside the house? Cause it seriously sounded like it was coming from within my house.
I got up and went into the kitchen and turned on the light. There, on the seat happily feasting on cat food was a baby opossum. This was the nasty thing that had been besmirching the good name of cats the world over. This was the evil creature that had been pooing and peeing with such abandon wherever it wanted. This was Satan’s spawn that Luna had been trying to warn me about in her trip into my forbidden room.
Seeing the light come on, the opossum hissed, jumped off the chair and ran under the sink. So began my next hour. Me, armed with my broom and various other objects trying to corner the opossum and get it back outside where it belongs. The opossum using its natural defenses of smells and nimbleness to escape under the old heavy stove trying to stay in what it considered its new home.
I finally had to get some sleep, but got up again after about 3 hours to try again. By this time, the opossum had retired to the lounge, where it had been climbing shelves, rearranging knick-knacks and tabletop items to suit opossum esthetics.
I located the evil looking thing at the bottom of my bookcase. I moved my couch giving it a straight line to the door, and opened the front door nice and wide. Then I grabbed my broom and vacuum for round two.
My cats hate the vacuum, and always head outside when they even see me grab it. I turned it on, and the opossum was no exception – but rather than going outside it squeezed itself under the bookcase.
The broom followed giving the opossum a sharp series of smacks each time I was able to locate it. Finally the punishment grew too much and it ran out from it’s refuge and up the side table leg. I managed to whack in on the head and it fell to the ground. I quickly flipped the broom around and began sweeping the spiteful thing towards the door. Just as I had it at the door it dodged a particularly fierce sweep that would have had it sailing out the door and it sped back inside to the kitchen and underneath the stove.
I had to get to work, so I informed my landlord, who:
A. laughed & laughed
B. said he’d help me move the stove that evening
We missed each other that evening – and the next morning there was more opossum opoo in the lounge.
When I returned home that evening, my landlord informed me that he had heard noises from my apartment that day, had gone in, and the opossum had decided it’s last redecoration of knickknacks hadn’t been quite right, so it was shelf climbing again. He’d swept it outside, and had hopefully scared it so much that it wouldn’t come back.
But, like some horror movie, that evening when I returned home, there sitting on my deck were the mother opossum and her two baby pups, waiting; just waiting for a door to open so they could scurry inside.
I slipped past the evil trio, grabbed a basin full of water and doused the lot of them. Then I grabbed my broom and sent them scurrying off the deck with sharp smacks to their hindquarters.
Yesterday afternoon, the baby devil opossum was back on my deck, and as I opened my door it ran towards it. My broom is now stored by my door and I grabbed it to smack it away – however it spotted the bristles heading its way and ran into the laundry room instead.
Well, if nothing else I owe my cats’ chicken dinners for a week. I’ve now begun disinfecting my entire house. It was in cupboards, under bookcases and my piano. Just everywhere – Luna has decided she doesn’t want to come back in the house, and she’s not convinced it’s opossum free.
As for me, it’s now constant vigilance my friends, constant vigilance.
About a week or so ago, they began defecating outside the litter box, and generally making a mess around the house. Well, the solution to this was to put them outside when I wasn’t home and overnight when I was in bed.
They’re old, but still quick. I have had them banned from my bedroom now for longer than this total house ban when I’m not home. I had left my bedroom door open one evening as I was going back and forth from the living room, and of course they always want to go in a room where they’re not allowed. As I return to my bedroom, my black cat Luna looks up, caught red handed in my room. She nimbly jumps over this weeks washing piles (sorted into delicates, white and dark colours) and speeds out the door. As I step to where she was I notice fresh poo.
Well, I was furious.
The litter box is clean, and accessible. I haven’t changed my schedule, their food, so I was very unclear why they were acting this way. I grabbed both cats and rather like Dino and Fred from the Flintstones launched them out the front door.
That night at around 3am I was waked by a “crunch, crunch, crunch” sound. As it’s summer, and hot, my windows are open. Noise travels a long way at night, so I thought it might have been some cat outside munching away on food left for strays by various neighbors. As I tried to settle back down to sleep, the “crunch, crunch, crunch” continued.
Had I left the door open? Was there a hole in the window screens that the cats had definitely climbed through to take their “rightful place” inside the house? Cause it seriously sounded like it was coming from within my house.
I got up and went into the kitchen and turned on the light. There, on the seat happily feasting on cat food was a baby opossum. This was the nasty thing that had been besmirching the good name of cats the world over. This was the evil creature that had been pooing and peeing with such abandon wherever it wanted. This was Satan’s spawn that Luna had been trying to warn me about in her trip into my forbidden room.
Seeing the light come on, the opossum hissed, jumped off the chair and ran under the sink. So began my next hour. Me, armed with my broom and various other objects trying to corner the opossum and get it back outside where it belongs. The opossum using its natural defenses of smells and nimbleness to escape under the old heavy stove trying to stay in what it considered its new home.
I finally had to get some sleep, but got up again after about 3 hours to try again. By this time, the opossum had retired to the lounge, where it had been climbing shelves, rearranging knick-knacks and tabletop items to suit opossum esthetics.
I located the evil looking thing at the bottom of my bookcase. I moved my couch giving it a straight line to the door, and opened the front door nice and wide. Then I grabbed my broom and vacuum for round two.
My cats hate the vacuum, and always head outside when they even see me grab it. I turned it on, and the opossum was no exception – but rather than going outside it squeezed itself under the bookcase.
The broom followed giving the opossum a sharp series of smacks each time I was able to locate it. Finally the punishment grew too much and it ran out from it’s refuge and up the side table leg. I managed to whack in on the head and it fell to the ground. I quickly flipped the broom around and began sweeping the spiteful thing towards the door. Just as I had it at the door it dodged a particularly fierce sweep that would have had it sailing out the door and it sped back inside to the kitchen and underneath the stove.
I had to get to work, so I informed my landlord, who:
A. laughed & laughed
B. said he’d help me move the stove that evening
We missed each other that evening – and the next morning there was more opossum opoo in the lounge.
When I returned home that evening, my landlord informed me that he had heard noises from my apartment that day, had gone in, and the opossum had decided it’s last redecoration of knickknacks hadn’t been quite right, so it was shelf climbing again. He’d swept it outside, and had hopefully scared it so much that it wouldn’t come back.
But, like some horror movie, that evening when I returned home, there sitting on my deck were the mother opossum and her two baby pups, waiting; just waiting for a door to open so they could scurry inside.
I slipped past the evil trio, grabbed a basin full of water and doused the lot of them. Then I grabbed my broom and sent them scurrying off the deck with sharp smacks to their hindquarters.
Yesterday afternoon, the baby devil opossum was back on my deck, and as I opened my door it ran towards it. My broom is now stored by my door and I grabbed it to smack it away – however it spotted the bristles heading its way and ran into the laundry room instead.
Well, if nothing else I owe my cats’ chicken dinners for a week. I’ve now begun disinfecting my entire house. It was in cupboards, under bookcases and my piano. Just everywhere – Luna has decided she doesn’t want to come back in the house, and she’s not convinced it’s opossum free.
As for me, it’s now constant vigilance my friends, constant vigilance.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Birthday Riches
When my brother and I were young, one of the highlights of the year was our respective birthdays. The party, the cake, the presents – but, what we looked forward to at 5 and 6 years old was the money.
Our grandparents gave us a dollar for every year we turned older. $7 for turning 7 years old, $6 for turning 6. GRAND!
We used to have discussions before, during and after our birthdays, counting our riches – and speculating on turning 100, NO – wait, 150. This was a sure fire way to make money and get rich. All we had to do was just keep having birthdays, and, if the trend of getting a dollar extra every year continued there was no end to the amount of money we’d be bringing in on a yearly basis.
To my six-year-old self, $150 was more than enough to live on for, well who knew how long $150 would last. Kbars were 10c at the local dairy, sherbet was 25c, and comics were 75c. So, that was – hmm, carry the 1 – well, it was a lot. A lot more money than I usually had. I knew counting to 150 took a long time, so it surely was a lot of money. Every year, just more and more money pouring in.
My grandfather passed away in the early 1990’s.
The one flaw in the plan that the child in me failed to see was that things never stay the same. People aren’t always with you, that what you have today isn’t necessarily what you’ll have tomorrow. Well, the other flaw was I wouldn’t always be living at home not paying rent and being fed for free. But I’m pretty sure that’s a secondary flaw.
Still, a dollar for EVERY year – just think about turning 500…
Our grandparents gave us a dollar for every year we turned older. $7 for turning 7 years old, $6 for turning 6. GRAND!
We used to have discussions before, during and after our birthdays, counting our riches – and speculating on turning 100, NO – wait, 150. This was a sure fire way to make money and get rich. All we had to do was just keep having birthdays, and, if the trend of getting a dollar extra every year continued there was no end to the amount of money we’d be bringing in on a yearly basis.
To my six-year-old self, $150 was more than enough to live on for, well who knew how long $150 would last. Kbars were 10c at the local dairy, sherbet was 25c, and comics were 75c. So, that was – hmm, carry the 1 – well, it was a lot. A lot more money than I usually had. I knew counting to 150 took a long time, so it surely was a lot of money. Every year, just more and more money pouring in.
My grandfather passed away in the early 1990’s.
The one flaw in the plan that the child in me failed to see was that things never stay the same. People aren’t always with you, that what you have today isn’t necessarily what you’ll have tomorrow. Well, the other flaw was I wouldn’t always be living at home not paying rent and being fed for free. But I’m pretty sure that’s a secondary flaw.
Still, a dollar for EVERY year – just think about turning 500…
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Message from Ashley
I woke up the other day and checked my email. I know, probably a bit sad, but it’s a habit now. Roll out of bed and on over to the computer; I click my nice gmail widgit and it tells me if I’ve received any new mail whilst I've been away from the computer.
I've always loved getting mail, physical or virtual - so I really like to see if I’ve received any missives from my various friends and family around the globe while I've been asleep. I mean they've had hours and hours to message me while I've been out with the sandman.
Anyway, the other morning my little blue message notifyer informed me that I had a new message from Ashley, on my MySpace page. Well, I only know one Ashely, she's in my improv troupe. I didn’t exactly recall adding her as a friend on my MySpace account, but we are in an improv troupe together, and we did have a show coming up. A rather big show in fact, where we were also going to be performing some originally sketch comedy. I'd written some material for the show, so perhaps something had come up regarding that.
Keep in mind it's the wee small hours of the morning, and as such I wasn’t that surprised to be receiving a message from her – though she does have my direct email, so it was a little curious as to why she’d be emailing me indirectly rather than directly.
Well, I brought up a new browser and diligently logged onto MySpace and saw the “NEW MESSAGES” icon. I went ahead and clicked this - which is when I received quite an eyeful for first thing in the morning.
Turns out it was THIS Ashley that was messaging me:
Not THIS Ashely:
I mean there’s anything wrong with either Ashley, but Ashley1 had a slightly different message for me than I was expecting at 6:30 in the morning.
Apparently Ashley1 wants me to respond to her outside email, she's got some really great pictures to share with me, but she "hardly ever" checks her MySpace account. Which is curious to me, I mean she logged on and took the time to message me....
I've always loved getting mail, physical or virtual - so I really like to see if I’ve received any missives from my various friends and family around the globe while I've been asleep. I mean they've had hours and hours to message me while I've been out with the sandman.
Anyway, the other morning my little blue message notifyer informed me that I had a new message from Ashley, on my MySpace page. Well, I only know one Ashely, she's in my improv troupe. I didn’t exactly recall adding her as a friend on my MySpace account, but we are in an improv troupe together, and we did have a show coming up. A rather big show in fact, where we were also going to be performing some originally sketch comedy. I'd written some material for the show, so perhaps something had come up regarding that.
Keep in mind it's the wee small hours of the morning, and as such I wasn’t that surprised to be receiving a message from her – though she does have my direct email, so it was a little curious as to why she’d be emailing me indirectly rather than directly.
Well, I brought up a new browser and diligently logged onto MySpace and saw the “NEW MESSAGES” icon. I went ahead and clicked this - which is when I received quite an eyeful for first thing in the morning.
Turns out it was THIS Ashley that was messaging me:
Not THIS Ashely:
I mean there’s anything wrong with either Ashley, but Ashley1 had a slightly different message for me than I was expecting at 6:30 in the morning.
Apparently Ashley1 wants me to respond to her outside email, she's got some really great pictures to share with me, but she "hardly ever" checks her MySpace account. Which is curious to me, I mean she logged on and took the time to message me....
Friday, June 22, 2007
I want it now, not later
I like the fact that the local sandwich place/coffee shop near work in Pasadena has espressos late.
Though as they actually shut pretty early, perhaps “late” is a relative term.
I mean COME ON - didn't *someone* at the sign place say "hey guys, this isn't how you spell latté"?
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
I'm on the phone!
There’s a new kid at work. Work being my second job, and “new” in a relative sense; he’s been with the company for about 2 or 3 weeks now. So he’s newer than me, but he’s not so new as not to know what to do.
We were closing the store, and as the evening hours climbed ever higher, his output got ever slower. Until by the end of the night, I really wanted to do something like smack him, or poke, or anything – just to get him moving.
I was wondering if he was the slowest worker I’d ever had the misfortune to be working with, until I remember an old Toys R Us colleague – who TRU paid to do nothing, literally.
This was back in the earlyish 90’s, and our TRU store had just got itself a new hands-free telephone answering system. It came with two phone packs, employees would wear these – a nice headset, and while you were working on the floor you could take calls. This was especially great for stock checks on the fly, when a customer HAD to know if you had one of the new Cabbage Patch Picnic Time kids in, or how many Megazords were left in stock.
The arrival was precipitous, as it was Christmas time, and the phones lines were red hot with inquiries and parents searching for the must have toy. Miranda was an Indian girl, she was hired during the Christmas rush – the managers weren’t too familiar with the new headsets – but wanted to get them out right away to relieve some of the hold time potential customers were experiencing. Miranda volunteered to wear one of the sets on her shifts.
Miranda could then be seen walking the aisles, purposefully looking for items and talking into the headset. You could hear her tell callers how many Pink Power Ranger figures were left in stock, what Super Soakers were available. Miranda was clearly on the phone, so customers actually in the store were never able to stop her and ask for assistance, as she was clearly already assisting someone else – on her headset phone.
If someone was wily enough to ask a question in-between her sporadic speech into the headset, she make her way to the stock room for a quick check of an item that we were out of on the floor – but would helpfully send the customer to the front desk for more assistance as she disappeared into the cavernous “employees only” back stock room.
This was her regular routine for a few weeks leading up to Christmas, and about this time we got a new manager in the regular TRU managerial rotation. This manager happened to notice that Miranda’s headset was never turned on – in the back.
So all those phone calls hadn’t really been phone calls at all. Miranda had been coming in for 8 – 12 hours a day (with overtime) and just been wandering the store, talking out loud to herself. She’d been taking breaks, her lunches, and then heading back out for more....talking to herself.
I was impressed with her ingenuity – the amount of time to actually come up with these one sided communications was well played. But, I can’t help thinking that it would have been more interesting to actually take the phone calls.
We were closing the store, and as the evening hours climbed ever higher, his output got ever slower. Until by the end of the night, I really wanted to do something like smack him, or poke, or anything – just to get him moving.
I was wondering if he was the slowest worker I’d ever had the misfortune to be working with, until I remember an old Toys R Us colleague – who TRU paid to do nothing, literally.
This was back in the earlyish 90’s, and our TRU store had just got itself a new hands-free telephone answering system. It came with two phone packs, employees would wear these – a nice headset, and while you were working on the floor you could take calls. This was especially great for stock checks on the fly, when a customer HAD to know if you had one of the new Cabbage Patch Picnic Time kids in, or how many Megazords were left in stock.
The arrival was precipitous, as it was Christmas time, and the phones lines were red hot with inquiries and parents searching for the must have toy. Miranda was an Indian girl, she was hired during the Christmas rush – the managers weren’t too familiar with the new headsets – but wanted to get them out right away to relieve some of the hold time potential customers were experiencing. Miranda volunteered to wear one of the sets on her shifts.
Miranda could then be seen walking the aisles, purposefully looking for items and talking into the headset. You could hear her tell callers how many Pink Power Ranger figures were left in stock, what Super Soakers were available. Miranda was clearly on the phone, so customers actually in the store were never able to stop her and ask for assistance, as she was clearly already assisting someone else – on her headset phone.
If someone was wily enough to ask a question in-between her sporadic speech into the headset, she make her way to the stock room for a quick check of an item that we were out of on the floor – but would helpfully send the customer to the front desk for more assistance as she disappeared into the cavernous “employees only” back stock room.
This was her regular routine for a few weeks leading up to Christmas, and about this time we got a new manager in the regular TRU managerial rotation. This manager happened to notice that Miranda’s headset was never turned on – in the back.
So all those phone calls hadn’t really been phone calls at all. Miranda had been coming in for 8 – 12 hours a day (with overtime) and just been wandering the store, talking out loud to herself. She’d been taking breaks, her lunches, and then heading back out for more....talking to herself.
I was impressed with her ingenuity – the amount of time to actually come up with these one sided communications was well played. But, I can’t help thinking that it would have been more interesting to actually take the phone calls.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Yum Cha!
I don’t know if I find this funny, worrisome, or just sad.
I enjoy Dim Sum, or “Yum Cha”, depending on which part of the world you’re in. I will try new things, but am still too western in my thinking to get down with chicken feet – and my dislike of tripe makes me stay away from the beef tripe when it rolls by in a little steaming silver cart. And I get worried about silly things like, will the waitress think I’m stupid, what if I don’t pronounce the dish correctly when I order it – anyway, I get through this and order. Generally I’m with friends, sometimes with someone that speaks Chinese, sometimes not. But every time I’ve had a delicious meal, and I always want a lotus/sesame ball.
So, when I was with friends this evening and heard the following I didn’t know what to think.
Rog and his wife went for a Chinese meal this past weekend in Chinatown in LA. Their favorite place was closed, so they went upstairs to the Dim Sum place.
They knew what Dim Sum is, but didn’t “know” what it was. He explained they were expecting a menu, so after sitting down and having the lady arrive with a cart offering the steaming dumpling she had within the cart, they were thrown for a loop. Hence, they waved her on, the next lady was approaching, they looked at each other, said “no” (to each other in the way that couples have), and left. In the space of about 30 seconds.
Then, I was asked by Amanda where I’d gone on my vacation. I said Thailand. The rest of the conversation went like this:
Amanda:
OH! Have you been to Thailand before?
Me:
No, but now I have!
Amanda:
Did you like it?
Me:
YES! IT was AMAZING! Great people, great food, it was just awesome. I loved it! I would really love to go back.
Amanda:
So, did you meet any nice Taiwanese guys on your trip?
Me:
......Yes...... I did, in Taiwan. I also met some super nice Thai guys in Thailand. That’s where I went, Thailand.
Anyway…..
I’m not sure which interaction disturbs me more, and I’m not sure if I’m mad at myself for being disturbed. I have SO confused people and places before; I’ve also been worried about new experiences. Then again, the new experiences worries have generally been in a country I’m visiting rather than the one I was born and live in.
However, these are people that can vote in this country that I’m currently living in, and have some very definite views on immigration and other subjects.
I enjoy Dim Sum, or “Yum Cha”, depending on which part of the world you’re in. I will try new things, but am still too western in my thinking to get down with chicken feet – and my dislike of tripe makes me stay away from the beef tripe when it rolls by in a little steaming silver cart. And I get worried about silly things like, will the waitress think I’m stupid, what if I don’t pronounce the dish correctly when I order it – anyway, I get through this and order. Generally I’m with friends, sometimes with someone that speaks Chinese, sometimes not. But every time I’ve had a delicious meal, and I always want a lotus/sesame ball.
So, when I was with friends this evening and heard the following I didn’t know what to think.
Rog and his wife went for a Chinese meal this past weekend in Chinatown in LA. Their favorite place was closed, so they went upstairs to the Dim Sum place.
They knew what Dim Sum is, but didn’t “know” what it was. He explained they were expecting a menu, so after sitting down and having the lady arrive with a cart offering the steaming dumpling she had within the cart, they were thrown for a loop. Hence, they waved her on, the next lady was approaching, they looked at each other, said “no” (to each other in the way that couples have), and left. In the space of about 30 seconds.
Then, I was asked by Amanda where I’d gone on my vacation. I said Thailand. The rest of the conversation went like this:
Amanda:
OH! Have you been to Thailand before?
Me:
No, but now I have!
Amanda:
Did you like it?
Me:
YES! IT was AMAZING! Great people, great food, it was just awesome. I loved it! I would really love to go back.
Amanda:
So, did you meet any nice Taiwanese guys on your trip?
Me:
......Yes...... I did, in Taiwan. I also met some super nice Thai guys in Thailand. That’s where I went, Thailand.
Anyway…..
I’m not sure which interaction disturbs me more, and I’m not sure if I’m mad at myself for being disturbed. I have SO confused people and places before; I’ve also been worried about new experiences. Then again, the new experiences worries have generally been in a country I’m visiting rather than the one I was born and live in.
However, these are people that can vote in this country that I’m currently living in, and have some very definite views on immigration and other subjects.
Oasis
I felt as though I’d been transported to Egypt yesterday. Walking with coworkers down to Famima!! for an afternoon coffee, we cut through the Vroman’s parking lot in Pasadena.
Then, appearing like a mirage in front of us, a woman emerged from the bookstore and walked past our group – stopping me in my tracks - literally.
It was a hot, sunny afternoon, she was wearing tan, Capri knee length shorts, reminiscent of an Egyptian desert – and in the midst of all this “sand” was a very large camel toe.
As she walked away from us, (ostensibly to her car) Vroman’s bag in one hand, purse in the other we had clear VPL.
There are some things I just don’t expect to see in an independent bookstore parking lot. And there are some things we should never have to see anywhere.
This fits both categories.
Then, appearing like a mirage in front of us, a woman emerged from the bookstore and walked past our group – stopping me in my tracks - literally.
It was a hot, sunny afternoon, she was wearing tan, Capri knee length shorts, reminiscent of an Egyptian desert – and in the midst of all this “sand” was a very large camel toe.
As she walked away from us, (ostensibly to her car) Vroman’s bag in one hand, purse in the other we had clear VPL.
There are some things I just don’t expect to see in an independent bookstore parking lot. And there are some things we should never have to see anywhere.
This fits both categories.
Monday, June 11, 2007
So fugly it hurts
OMG
I can not stop reading this site. I am having to have the very painful silent laughter at my desk at work while waiting for my next project to arrive.
Acerbic, sweet, insightful, informative and just plain funny.
READ!
http://gofugyourself.typepad.com/
I can not stop reading this site. I am having to have the very painful silent laughter at my desk at work while waiting for my next project to arrive.
Acerbic, sweet, insightful, informative and just plain funny.
READ!
http://gofugyourself.typepad.com/
Deux cafés s'il vous plait monsieur
I was in Target this afternoon picking up some Father’s Day cards, cat food, etc – and as I was selecting my items a woman with her screaming toddler were slowly perusing the same aisles.
The toddler looked to be about a year and a half old, and was screaming/wailing/crying up a storm. His mother was attempting some half hearted “calming down” techniques as she searched for what ever it was she needed.
I marveled at her forbearance, and her ability to block out piercing sound. This brought to mind a trip to the mall I made just prior to heading over to Thailand. I was in need of some new shorts, and wanted to stop by the mall to see what Guess had on offer.
As I entered the Galleria via one of their department store main entrances, I happened upon an 8 year old rather chubby child – he was on his knees sobbing, tears running down his round red face, and he was being dragged towards the door by his father.
Now part of what impressed me here was the father’s strength. The father was a short Mexican man, and his son was rather generously proportioned – the father was having very stern words with his son in Spanish as he step, by slow step dragged his crying son across the slick floor towards the doors.
The son replied in English to everything his father was saying in Spanish – saying how he’d be good, how he was so sorry, that he’d never do it again, and could they please, please, PLEASE stay, he didn’t want to go.
This is the second part of what impressed me. That while the parents may not have instilled in their son a proper sense of decorum of how to comport oneself when appearing in public, they’d done an awfully good job with languages. The crying boys bilingualism was in full force as he understood what his father said and answered in English – it brought to mind one of those immersion language courses where you’re only allowed to speak the language you’re learning. And I thought, once you’ve learnt two languages, it’s only a hop skip & a jump to learning three or even four. This kid could be some sort of translator, or diplomat or who knows what else if he keeps this up. Well, now wasn’t really the proper time to go over to the father and say how impressed I was with the two of them.
As I made my way across the store to head into the mall proper, the sounds of the sobbing tantrum growing fainter and fainter I only half hearted wondered what the incident was that made the father want to eject his son from the store. I regretted not continuing with my language studies when I was younger – as I only know smatterings of French, Spanish, Mandarin, Japanese, Thai & ASL. I’m more fluent in ASL than anything else other than perhaps French. Never having been to France, I may not be as good in French as ASL – as I can really only ask “if there is a bus for the swimming pool” and “how much is that” along with other niceties in French. “Deux cafés s'il vous plait monsieur.”
Anyway, I was heading for Thailand, and I needed those shorts – now, where’s a mall map when you need one?
The toddler looked to be about a year and a half old, and was screaming/wailing/crying up a storm. His mother was attempting some half hearted “calming down” techniques as she searched for what ever it was she needed.
I marveled at her forbearance, and her ability to block out piercing sound. This brought to mind a trip to the mall I made just prior to heading over to Thailand. I was in need of some new shorts, and wanted to stop by the mall to see what Guess had on offer.
As I entered the Galleria via one of their department store main entrances, I happened upon an 8 year old rather chubby child – he was on his knees sobbing, tears running down his round red face, and he was being dragged towards the door by his father.
Now part of what impressed me here was the father’s strength. The father was a short Mexican man, and his son was rather generously proportioned – the father was having very stern words with his son in Spanish as he step, by slow step dragged his crying son across the slick floor towards the doors.
The son replied in English to everything his father was saying in Spanish – saying how he’d be good, how he was so sorry, that he’d never do it again, and could they please, please, PLEASE stay, he didn’t want to go.
This is the second part of what impressed me. That while the parents may not have instilled in their son a proper sense of decorum of how to comport oneself when appearing in public, they’d done an awfully good job with languages. The crying boys bilingualism was in full force as he understood what his father said and answered in English – it brought to mind one of those immersion language courses where you’re only allowed to speak the language you’re learning. And I thought, once you’ve learnt two languages, it’s only a hop skip & a jump to learning three or even four. This kid could be some sort of translator, or diplomat or who knows what else if he keeps this up. Well, now wasn’t really the proper time to go over to the father and say how impressed I was with the two of them.
As I made my way across the store to head into the mall proper, the sounds of the sobbing tantrum growing fainter and fainter I only half hearted wondered what the incident was that made the father want to eject his son from the store. I regretted not continuing with my language studies when I was younger – as I only know smatterings of French, Spanish, Mandarin, Japanese, Thai & ASL. I’m more fluent in ASL than anything else other than perhaps French. Never having been to France, I may not be as good in French as ASL – as I can really only ask “if there is a bus for the swimming pool” and “how much is that” along with other niceties in French. “Deux cafés s'il vous plait monsieur.”
Anyway, I was heading for Thailand, and I needed those shorts – now, where’s a mall map when you need one?
Main Course
Years ago now, in one of my English courses in college I remember reading a short story about a young protagonist whose life changed over one summer. In part of the story, the character developed a “signature scent” (something Celine Dion, Jennifer Lopez & Britney Spears have all done) at the behest of one the other characters in the story.
I liked the idea so much, that I began, back then to mull the thought over. When Garden Botanika stores were around, you could go in and mix and match in your own (semi) private “parfumery” – concocting enticing and mysterious scents to your hearts – well, at least your wallets content.
I knew I wanted something summery, warm, tropical – so I settled on something with hints of coconut and vanilla. I’ve been wearing it now for years, and it’s also a pretty good indicator of whether I’ll get on with someone. Those that don’t like it, are normally people I don’t get on with. The reaction from others has normally been somewhat uniform – with folks telling me that it’s light, not overpowering, that the scent inspires memories of summertime’s past, lazy days on the beach, tanning in the sun, or that it’s reminiscent of the scent of a fine cigar smoked by a favorite grandfather.
At least until I got to Thailand.
I was out for coffee and chit chatting with my friend Chai, and his friends. A tropical monsoonal downpour was happening, so we were safely ensconced in the coffee establishment – lightning overhead, thunder crashing – a young boy was frightened but excited by the storm, his older brother walked over to him and put his arm around him as they both watched the rain coming down in sheets – momentarily catching the city of Bangkok illuminated by the brief burst of lightening.
Anyway, the storm cleared, and we finished our drinks and then all made our way to our respective cars – Chai and I had to almost paddle through a new “river” created by the deluge of rain. His car was up to its undercarriage in water. As he went to get in his car, I said goodbye to the friends and would soon be off to my hotel.
Later Chai and I were talking, and he was laughing saying his friends said I smelled like coconut. He’d assured them I didn’t smell of coconut – but, he thought he’d better ask me just to be sure. I said that, yes, I do have a cologne and part of it has a coconut undertone. Too which he just laughed.
Chai began explaining that he’d NEVER heard of anyone using coconut in a cologne before – especially in Thailand where coconut is a staple of cooking.
So, while overseas my custom scent is “exotic, beachy and summery”, in Bangkok I apparently smell merely of that night’s main course. Or perhaps I’m a sous chef who’s just come from the kitchen without having had time to shower before going out.
I liked the idea so much, that I began, back then to mull the thought over. When Garden Botanika stores were around, you could go in and mix and match in your own (semi) private “parfumery” – concocting enticing and mysterious scents to your hearts – well, at least your wallets content.
I knew I wanted something summery, warm, tropical – so I settled on something with hints of coconut and vanilla. I’ve been wearing it now for years, and it’s also a pretty good indicator of whether I’ll get on with someone. Those that don’t like it, are normally people I don’t get on with. The reaction from others has normally been somewhat uniform – with folks telling me that it’s light, not overpowering, that the scent inspires memories of summertime’s past, lazy days on the beach, tanning in the sun, or that it’s reminiscent of the scent of a fine cigar smoked by a favorite grandfather.
At least until I got to Thailand.
I was out for coffee and chit chatting with my friend Chai, and his friends. A tropical monsoonal downpour was happening, so we were safely ensconced in the coffee establishment – lightning overhead, thunder crashing – a young boy was frightened but excited by the storm, his older brother walked over to him and put his arm around him as they both watched the rain coming down in sheets – momentarily catching the city of Bangkok illuminated by the brief burst of lightening.
Anyway, the storm cleared, and we finished our drinks and then all made our way to our respective cars – Chai and I had to almost paddle through a new “river” created by the deluge of rain. His car was up to its undercarriage in water. As he went to get in his car, I said goodbye to the friends and would soon be off to my hotel.
Later Chai and I were talking, and he was laughing saying his friends said I smelled like coconut. He’d assured them I didn’t smell of coconut – but, he thought he’d better ask me just to be sure. I said that, yes, I do have a cologne and part of it has a coconut undertone. Too which he just laughed.
Chai began explaining that he’d NEVER heard of anyone using coconut in a cologne before – especially in Thailand where coconut is a staple of cooking.
So, while overseas my custom scent is “exotic, beachy and summery”, in Bangkok I apparently smell merely of that night’s main course. Or perhaps I’m a sous chef who’s just come from the kitchen without having had time to shower before going out.
Monday, June 04, 2007
Number One Factory!
I learned some Thai prior to my Thailand trip. I thought it only wise to be able to say “thank you”, “hello”, “how much is this” and a few other choice phrases such as “this is delicious” and “I don’t want that” in Thai on my vacation.
By the end of my trip, I ended up feeling that I just hadn’t learned enough Thai. I say this because of my last “scam” experience in Bangkok.
Now let me just say that I had heard all about the “number one factory/jewelry” scam in Thailand from travel books and the Internet. So when I was approached by a tuktuk driver within hours of hitting the street on my first day in Bangkok I was too intrigued NOT to go.
Which is how I found myself visiting the temple of the standing Buddha and another Buddha temple for the low low price of 30 bhat. The tuktuk driver assured me that as it was a special holiday time in Thailand he would get a gas coupon from the government if I’d just spend 10 minutes in a “number one factory” in Bangkok. I could “Get nice suit, look good!”
He had such a toothsome grin and an appealing earnestness to his salesmanship that I actually began to believe that I might want to get a suit made for me at this “number one factory”. That is until the arrival at said “number one factory”. It wasn’t a factory, or at least, what I’d consider to be a factory. More a shop. A small shop, boasting material. It was run by an Indian gentleman and his "silent type" Thai assistant. As I said, it was small, rather cramped and filled to the brim with really ugly silk prints, tightly wrapped up in bolts. Nothing I’d ever want to buy, even when drunk.
So, I asked about the “free gas coupon”, much to the disappointment of the owner. He mumbled something about “yes, yes, coupon” and I left. This upset my tuktuk driver, as he said I hadn’t spent 10 minutes inside. I was feeling pleased I’d managed to last upwards of 3 minutes. Then my tuktuk man said that he had an “even BETTER number one factory to go to, much larger”. And off we went, bobbing and weaving among the Bangkok traffic. Sweat rolling down my back, as I tightly gripped the metal bars in the tuktuk to prevent me from flying out into the road and being run over by thousands of cars.
I said I didn’t really need to see another factory, and just how much was this “gas coupon” anyway? I’d PAY him for the gas coupon, and he can just take me back to the hotel. Well, he wasn’t having any of that, and we went by a 2nd “factory”/store. One through the doorway I made myself take slow measured steps, slowly counting off the seconds in my head to get up to the required “10 minutes” so my driver would get his coupon and then take me home. I was immediately set upon by another Indian gent, who again began to extol the virtues of the suit they’d make me.
I explained I didn’t want, nor need a suit, but did they have any t-shirts. They did, and I managed to knock them down from 1,500 bhat to 1,000 bhat – which I now know is still WAY to expensive. After 9 minutes in this place, I really wanted out. Plus I had a whole other building to walk through, and I knew I’d more than passed my 10 minute mark.
The 2nd building was pay dirt – it was a rabbit warren over 3 stories – and here was where I was offered my authentic “jewelry”. As I wandered about, having the virtues of cubic zirconium explained to me I was able to see other chagrined tourists being led through the same building. While I was finding the whole thing extremely amusing, these poor folks apparently hadn’t known what they were letting themselves in for – and they were NOT amused.
On the 3rd floor, an old Thai woman was really pushing me towards a suit she’d make for me and “Armani cuts” were her specialty. As I left and was guided through other areas stocked with knick knacks I might like to buy I stopped in the final room to look at (relatively) cheap souvenirs.
I managed to impress my Thai “hostess” by asking for the price of certain objects in Thai. “Ohhh, you speak Thai” she gushed, and actually gave me a “normal” price on one of the knick knacks. Feeling more warmly towards her than the suit lady, I paid the 100 bhat for a souvenir for my nephew and went on my way back to the tuktuk driver, who apparently feeling somewhat bad offered to take me around to some more places prior to the hotel. I declined and asked to JUST be taken back to the hotel – no need to stop at factories, number one or otherwise.
Which brings me back to my last scam. I was at the mall on my 2nd to last day in Bangkok, and was killing a few hours until my glasses would be ready. Glasses I’d ordered the day before – and for only $150 US would be ready at 5pm.
This was at the Silom center. I was just wandering looking at shops, food stalls and people. I’d noticed this Thai guy ahead of me a few times, and he’d positioned himself at the top of the escalator. I got off, smiled a greeting and kept walking. He obviously summed up his courage and then came up to me and said gushed “hello” in English.
I returned the greeting and we walked together for a bit away from the escalator making very small talk. “What’s your name”, “how are you”, things of that nature.
I wasn’t sure if he was wanting to chat, have a date, or something more. That is until I was able to make out, “come with me”, and “number one factory”. Well, by this time in Bangkok, I was hot, tired, and had no desire to tell more Indian gents that I really didn’t need a suit made, even if “Armani cuts” were their specialty.
I wanted to be able to express this to my new friend, but my Thai vocabulary was less than a 2 year olds – so all I could say was “I don’t want that” and “thank you”.
My new friend also had limited English, but he was able to get out a heartbroken “you don’t like me” when I told him “Mai ow” (I don’t want that). He looked SO distraught, and was very upset – I quickly said that “he was adorable”, and “it’s not that I didn’t like him” it was more that I didn’t want to visit any more “factories”, be they “number one” or not.
But he couldn’t understand me, and I couldn’t understand him – and this is why I’d wished I had the time to learn more Thai.
The fact that someone took the time to try and learn enough of my language to pull one over on me, was just so, well, nice. He was so nice about trying to get me to go with him to this factory that I still have a little sadness that this guy thinks I didn’t like him, which is why I wouldn’t go to see his factory, when it wasn’t that at all.
I guess there’s always next time. Who knows, by then I truly may need to have a suit, with a nice Armani cut or I may learn enough Thai to let my erstwhile scammer know that I like him, just not his scheme.
By the end of my trip, I ended up feeling that I just hadn’t learned enough Thai. I say this because of my last “scam” experience in Bangkok.
Now let me just say that I had heard all about the “number one factory/jewelry” scam in Thailand from travel books and the Internet. So when I was approached by a tuktuk driver within hours of hitting the street on my first day in Bangkok I was too intrigued NOT to go.
Which is how I found myself visiting the temple of the standing Buddha and another Buddha temple for the low low price of 30 bhat. The tuktuk driver assured me that as it was a special holiday time in Thailand he would get a gas coupon from the government if I’d just spend 10 minutes in a “number one factory” in Bangkok. I could “Get nice suit, look good!”
He had such a toothsome grin and an appealing earnestness to his salesmanship that I actually began to believe that I might want to get a suit made for me at this “number one factory”. That is until the arrival at said “number one factory”. It wasn’t a factory, or at least, what I’d consider to be a factory. More a shop. A small shop, boasting material. It was run by an Indian gentleman and his "silent type" Thai assistant. As I said, it was small, rather cramped and filled to the brim with really ugly silk prints, tightly wrapped up in bolts. Nothing I’d ever want to buy, even when drunk.
So, I asked about the “free gas coupon”, much to the disappointment of the owner. He mumbled something about “yes, yes, coupon” and I left. This upset my tuktuk driver, as he said I hadn’t spent 10 minutes inside. I was feeling pleased I’d managed to last upwards of 3 minutes. Then my tuktuk man said that he had an “even BETTER number one factory to go to, much larger”. And off we went, bobbing and weaving among the Bangkok traffic. Sweat rolling down my back, as I tightly gripped the metal bars in the tuktuk to prevent me from flying out into the road and being run over by thousands of cars.
I said I didn’t really need to see another factory, and just how much was this “gas coupon” anyway? I’d PAY him for the gas coupon, and he can just take me back to the hotel. Well, he wasn’t having any of that, and we went by a 2nd “factory”/store. One through the doorway I made myself take slow measured steps, slowly counting off the seconds in my head to get up to the required “10 minutes” so my driver would get his coupon and then take me home. I was immediately set upon by another Indian gent, who again began to extol the virtues of the suit they’d make me.
I explained I didn’t want, nor need a suit, but did they have any t-shirts. They did, and I managed to knock them down from 1,500 bhat to 1,000 bhat – which I now know is still WAY to expensive. After 9 minutes in this place, I really wanted out. Plus I had a whole other building to walk through, and I knew I’d more than passed my 10 minute mark.
The 2nd building was pay dirt – it was a rabbit warren over 3 stories – and here was where I was offered my authentic “jewelry”. As I wandered about, having the virtues of cubic zirconium explained to me I was able to see other chagrined tourists being led through the same building. While I was finding the whole thing extremely amusing, these poor folks apparently hadn’t known what they were letting themselves in for – and they were NOT amused.
On the 3rd floor, an old Thai woman was really pushing me towards a suit she’d make for me and “Armani cuts” were her specialty. As I left and was guided through other areas stocked with knick knacks I might like to buy I stopped in the final room to look at (relatively) cheap souvenirs.
I managed to impress my Thai “hostess” by asking for the price of certain objects in Thai. “Ohhh, you speak Thai” she gushed, and actually gave me a “normal” price on one of the knick knacks. Feeling more warmly towards her than the suit lady, I paid the 100 bhat for a souvenir for my nephew and went on my way back to the tuktuk driver, who apparently feeling somewhat bad offered to take me around to some more places prior to the hotel. I declined and asked to JUST be taken back to the hotel – no need to stop at factories, number one or otherwise.
Which brings me back to my last scam. I was at the mall on my 2nd to last day in Bangkok, and was killing a few hours until my glasses would be ready. Glasses I’d ordered the day before – and for only $150 US would be ready at 5pm.
This was at the Silom center. I was just wandering looking at shops, food stalls and people. I’d noticed this Thai guy ahead of me a few times, and he’d positioned himself at the top of the escalator. I got off, smiled a greeting and kept walking. He obviously summed up his courage and then came up to me and said gushed “hello” in English.
I returned the greeting and we walked together for a bit away from the escalator making very small talk. “What’s your name”, “how are you”, things of that nature.
I wasn’t sure if he was wanting to chat, have a date, or something more. That is until I was able to make out, “come with me”, and “number one factory”. Well, by this time in Bangkok, I was hot, tired, and had no desire to tell more Indian gents that I really didn’t need a suit made, even if “Armani cuts” were their specialty.
I wanted to be able to express this to my new friend, but my Thai vocabulary was less than a 2 year olds – so all I could say was “I don’t want that” and “thank you”.
My new friend also had limited English, but he was able to get out a heartbroken “you don’t like me” when I told him “Mai ow” (I don’t want that). He looked SO distraught, and was very upset – I quickly said that “he was adorable”, and “it’s not that I didn’t like him” it was more that I didn’t want to visit any more “factories”, be they “number one” or not.
But he couldn’t understand me, and I couldn’t understand him – and this is why I’d wished I had the time to learn more Thai.
The fact that someone took the time to try and learn enough of my language to pull one over on me, was just so, well, nice. He was so nice about trying to get me to go with him to this factory that I still have a little sadness that this guy thinks I didn’t like him, which is why I wouldn’t go to see his factory, when it wasn’t that at all.
I guess there’s always next time. Who knows, by then I truly may need to have a suit, with a nice Armani cut or I may learn enough Thai to let my erstwhile scammer know that I like him, just not his scheme.
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