I’ve been having, or may still be in, one of those long periods where I can’t work up the ambition to write. I suppose it could be the result of a number of things; hours of deck staining (finally), working late a few days, and increased gym attendance (well… sort of... not really). The single greatest motivation to be writing now is to not let my blog become stagnant (assuming most of you haven’t already given up hoping for updates).
Highlights of the past two weeks include:
I went to an Asian restaurant with some other people for a friend’s birthday celebration. Even though the atmosphere of the place needed plenty of work, the food was great.
To be honest, I’m not entirely certain what it was that I ordered. First of all, I can’t properly recall the name. Moo Poo Chow Mein, Gai Poo Lo Mein… There was definitely “Poo,” in it somewhere. Don’t get me wrong, it was great tasting, but it had a name that, even a few years ago, I would have read and said, “Huh huh… This says ‘Poo’.”
Other items on the menu were equally ambiguous. That seems to be characteristic of proper Asian food places; they like to use words like “Ancient,” or “Mysterious,” instead of, like, naming ingredients. In describing the breaded shrimp, they even said it was smothered in “Romantic Sauce.” I kid you not. Maybe it’s just my American Skepticism, but I’d feel safer avoiding the “Romantic Sauce.”
The most notable items on the menu were, of course, the drinks. The regulars were present, Rum and Coke, Mai Tai, Bombay Sling. The more exotic drinks were matched with more appropriate names; The Zombie, Dr. Funk, Suffering Bastard. Being ignorant of the ancient Asian method of mixing a drink using 97% alcohol and 3% juice, I decided to be adventurous and ordered a Zombie... I think it was a Zombie, my memory of it is a little fuzzy. It may have been called a "Kick Jon In the Face."
By the end of the evening, my glass of… Zombie, was half empty (or half full, depending on what kind of person you are) and my head was buzzing quite a bit. I had the foresight to stop right there and not drink any more, seeing as how I had to drive home. Had I not been driving, I might have finished the whole glass and discovered the next morning why they called it “The Zombie.” I felt a little bit of it when I woke up; that acidic burning and queasiness that makes you stumble around, groaning like the undead. I had dodged the bullet that time.
I have respect for the courage of the birthday boy, who ordered the “Suffering Bastard,” which was served in an evil tiki mug that looked like it wanted you dead. I would guess that he has more of a drinking threshold than I do, but halfway into his “Suffering Bastard,” he was fully cocked. He’s not the kind of guy to act that way just for show; at least, I don’t think he is, so I think it’s safe to say that Suffering Bastard was some strong shit. He managed to finish the drink, which I think was a feat worthy of a prize… like the demonic cup it came in, but there was no such fanfare.
All things considered, it was a good time.
And speaking of good times, the next day, I saw Grease… oh, sorry… GREASE! (Copyright law states that I need to use appropriate exclamation).
G’s fiancée was in the stage production of the show being held in the park. It was a three night affair over the weekend, and G and I caught the Sunday show. Thought the weather looked threatening, it managed not to rain until the second to last song, when Sandra D. came out dressed in the form fitting black outfit which, depending on the actress playing the part, was created by God himself. Even then, the rain was short and it moved few, if any people from their seats.
Of course, the fun began before the show with a demonstration of various dance maneuvers by students of a local dance studio. At the end of their demonstration they invited audience members up front to try some dancing of their own. When not a single audience member volunteered, they began the draft. G and I had made the mistake of placing our lawn chairs near the center isle; a very visible spot. When the dancers came off stage to abduct audience members, one dancer zeroed in on me like a guided missile. She took me by the hand and we went up front where we began initiating “The Twist.” She was an attractive lady, much older than me, but a seasoned dancer, and she had me dancing in no time. Granted, there isn’t much to “The Twist.” You twist… that’s about it. My instructor left to draft more dancers, and I continued “The Twist,” in front of an audience which, after the show had started, would be counted as nearly 1,000 people.
I laughed and pointed a vengeful finger at G, who also laughed, and took multiple pictures of me using his cell phone. My laughing and pointing got him in trouble when my “dance instructor” recruited him up front as well.
I can’t really say I loved it, but I wasn’t ashamed. I guess I’m just used to making an ass of myself.
Of course, after we had taken our seats, they did the same thing again, but this time with a more complicated dance. A different dancer dragged me from my seat this time. What the hell?! Was there a fucking sign on my back?! I couldn’t protest; what would I say?
“Damnit, I came here to see “Grease!” without feeling the beat or getting funky. I fully intended to watch this production without any toe tapping or otherwise having a good time. Let go of my hand.”
We engaged in a group dance called the “Wander,” or the “Traveler,” or some name that implied movement that I could not master. I kept seeing myself as Steve Martin in “The Jerk,” born without a sense of rhythm, trying to clap his hands to the beat with disastrous and comedic results.
Eventually the show started or, as I like to call it, “The Time When The Dancers Started Leaving Me The Hell Alone.”
I can’t say I was ever a fan of “Grease!”, but seeing it performed live on stage was entertaining enough in itself. All told, I enjoyed the whole thing. The acting was fine and the singing was amazing. Everyone handled their own part beautifully, but what surprised me was how professionally the ensemble sang together in the full-cast bits. Not that I was expecting amateur hour, but I think “Grease!” was this particular company’s first performance, and yet the seemed like old pros together.
Of course, what do I know about theater? The only live performances I’ve seen have involved a mosh pit. (Which I always watch from the back of the venue).
They certainly deserved the wild success they saw that weekend in attendance and critical reviews. My hat’s off to them.
So those are the highlights, otherwise it’s been work and play as usual.
See you back here soon... I promise.
7/24/2005
7/22/2005
Other driver (not me):
"Gee, I have to quickly cross three lanes of traffic at once for some reason. Those drivers in the other lanes are going to be surprised. If only there were some way to signal my intent, some way to let them know that I will be changing lanes in front of them very quickly. Maybe a blinking light of some kind...
Oh well, here I go anyway."
SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECH!
"Gee, I have to quickly cross three lanes of traffic at once for some reason. Those drivers in the other lanes are going to be surprised. If only there were some way to signal my intent, some way to let them know that I will be changing lanes in front of them very quickly. Maybe a blinking light of some kind...
Oh well, here I go anyway."
SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECH!
7/20/2005
7/06/2005
Bored on the 4th of July
Well, I wasn’t really bored. But, I’ve been waiting forever to use that title, and I’m just gonna go ahead and use it.
I don’t recall being at a mall to shop on a day when it was virtually empty. You certainly get the brunt of everyone’s fake enthusiasm for whatever product they happen to be selling. Cell phone sellers have always been bad, the people at the Chinese food place in the food court tried to stuff me with samples (even though I was already next in line at Sbarro’s), even the slackers at the t-shirt store tried to sell me an extra keychain and a bumper sticker that said, “Fuck Off!”
However, the most intrusive sellers were the foreign people at their respective kiosks. I don’t want to make generalizations or sound racist, but everyone who stopped me that wasn’t selling a cell phone had a thick foreign accent. This might just be a selling tool, perhaps it helps sell the product on a sub-conscious level. Or maybe it helps when you try to tell them they short-changed you and they suddenly forget the language.
“Excuse me, miss. Thank you for the demonstration and telling me about the product, but I believe you owe me another $5 in change.”
“Que?”
To my credit, I was able to resist the lures of all the sellers involved. I went in, got what I needed, grabbed dinner and got out. Done.
I was even able to resist the charms of the, “Buy this product or they will send me back to my homeland and we will never be together!” girl. She approached me as I passed by and said, “Excuse me sir, do you have a lady in your life?”
I knew right away that she was selling something. No woman has EVER asked me that and not been selling something.
“No.” I said.
She seemed shocked. She must not have originally gotten a good look at me.
“How about a mother or sister?”
“Um… yea.” Arg! Stupid! I should have known from experience not to say that. I should have said they all died in a go-kart accident or something.
She took me by the hand and said, “Well, come here, I know they will love you for this!”
I let her take me. It was more contact than I’ve had with a woman than lately, so I just went with it. I was experiencing a weird sense of déjà vu. (I wrote about a very similar experience in Dec 2003).
She then proceeded to buff the fingernail on my middle finger with a block featuring various fabrics on each side.
“Feel that?” she said. “That buffs the nail and gets the blood flowing. Doesn’t that feel good?”
I agreed, but for some reason, it was also making me feel lonely.
“OK,” she said, getting ready to reveal my fingernail. “Are you ready to see this? One… Two…” There was a long pause after two. I began to wonder if she was waiting for me to say “Three.” I, wanting to show as little enthusiasm as possible, waited for her to say it.
“Three!” And there it was. My fingernail. Shinier than it was before. Probably shinier than it had ever been.
I realized at that moment, that despite the attractiveness of the girl buffing my nail, or the unprecedented shininess of said nail, I just didn’t give a fuck. No one I knew needed this, much less me. I said what I should have said from the start, “Thank you, but I’m just not interested.”
She abruptly dropped my hand and let me go without so much as a, “Goodbye,” or “Remember all the good times we had!”
So yes, it was just like last time, except I managed not to buy anything.
Anyway, the rest of the weekend was just hanging out with friends and family, and then getting a few things done, like waxing the car and checking the tires (you know, that they’re not about to fall off).
Monday night we had a blackout. There was no storm, no wind, no rain, the power just done gone away. It went out at about quarter of ten.
After everything went dark, I decided to go to be early. I picked out my clothes for the next day and took a shower by candlelight (which was so romantic that I had to cuddle with myself afterwards). I then went to bed.
Somewhere around 10:30 our neighbor, diagonally to the rear of our house, thought to himself, “Well, I got all these extra fireworks, I might as well be a dick and fire them all off while it’s so dark and all, and while people who have to go to work are getting to sleep.”
That lasted until about 11:15. I didn’t want to be a party pooper and tell him to shut up. It was still July 4th after all.
Then, just as I was drifting off at about midnight, the power came back on. That, of course, is when you have to get up and reset all the clocks and turn off all the lights you accidentally left on. I crawled back into bed at about 12:15.
The next day, I dozed off for a moment at my desk and dreamed about trying to get to sleep with a black bag over my head while someone was shooting at me.
Well, I wasn’t really bored. But, I’ve been waiting forever to use that title, and I’m just gonna go ahead and use it.
I don’t recall being at a mall to shop on a day when it was virtually empty. You certainly get the brunt of everyone’s fake enthusiasm for whatever product they happen to be selling. Cell phone sellers have always been bad, the people at the Chinese food place in the food court tried to stuff me with samples (even though I was already next in line at Sbarro’s), even the slackers at the t-shirt store tried to sell me an extra keychain and a bumper sticker that said, “Fuck Off!”
However, the most intrusive sellers were the foreign people at their respective kiosks. I don’t want to make generalizations or sound racist, but everyone who stopped me that wasn’t selling a cell phone had a thick foreign accent. This might just be a selling tool, perhaps it helps sell the product on a sub-conscious level. Or maybe it helps when you try to tell them they short-changed you and they suddenly forget the language.
“Excuse me, miss. Thank you for the demonstration and telling me about the product, but I believe you owe me another $5 in change.”
“Que?”
To my credit, I was able to resist the lures of all the sellers involved. I went in, got what I needed, grabbed dinner and got out. Done.
I was even able to resist the charms of the, “Buy this product or they will send me back to my homeland and we will never be together!” girl. She approached me as I passed by and said, “Excuse me sir, do you have a lady in your life?”
I knew right away that she was selling something. No woman has EVER asked me that and not been selling something.
“No.” I said.
She seemed shocked. She must not have originally gotten a good look at me.
“How about a mother or sister?”
“Um… yea.” Arg! Stupid! I should have known from experience not to say that. I should have said they all died in a go-kart accident or something.
She took me by the hand and said, “Well, come here, I know they will love you for this!”
I let her take me. It was more contact than I’ve had with a woman than lately, so I just went with it. I was experiencing a weird sense of déjà vu. (I wrote about a very similar experience in Dec 2003).
She then proceeded to buff the fingernail on my middle finger with a block featuring various fabrics on each side.
“Feel that?” she said. “That buffs the nail and gets the blood flowing. Doesn’t that feel good?”
I agreed, but for some reason, it was also making me feel lonely.
“OK,” she said, getting ready to reveal my fingernail. “Are you ready to see this? One… Two…” There was a long pause after two. I began to wonder if she was waiting for me to say “Three.” I, wanting to show as little enthusiasm as possible, waited for her to say it.
“Three!” And there it was. My fingernail. Shinier than it was before. Probably shinier than it had ever been.
I realized at that moment, that despite the attractiveness of the girl buffing my nail, or the unprecedented shininess of said nail, I just didn’t give a fuck. No one I knew needed this, much less me. I said what I should have said from the start, “Thank you, but I’m just not interested.”
She abruptly dropped my hand and let me go without so much as a, “Goodbye,” or “Remember all the good times we had!”
So yes, it was just like last time, except I managed not to buy anything.
Anyway, the rest of the weekend was just hanging out with friends and family, and then getting a few things done, like waxing the car and checking the tires (you know, that they’re not about to fall off).
Monday night we had a blackout. There was no storm, no wind, no rain, the power just done gone away. It went out at about quarter of ten.
After everything went dark, I decided to go to be early. I picked out my clothes for the next day and took a shower by candlelight (which was so romantic that I had to cuddle with myself afterwards). I then went to bed.
Somewhere around 10:30 our neighbor, diagonally to the rear of our house, thought to himself, “Well, I got all these extra fireworks, I might as well be a dick and fire them all off while it’s so dark and all, and while people who have to go to work are getting to sleep.”
That lasted until about 11:15. I didn’t want to be a party pooper and tell him to shut up. It was still July 4th after all.
Then, just as I was drifting off at about midnight, the power came back on. That, of course, is when you have to get up and reset all the clocks and turn off all the lights you accidentally left on. I crawled back into bed at about 12:15.
The next day, I dozed off for a moment at my desk and dreamed about trying to get to sleep with a black bag over my head while someone was shooting at me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)