Nature isn’t a metaphor, it’s a harbinger. We knew we’d be driving through thunderstorms the night we went to Las Vegas. It’s one thing to see the weather report, and another to see lightning flashing just off the side of the freeway, over and over again. It was loud, and brighter than the most annoying strobe you’ve ever seen. Truly tremendous fun. Then again, I’m a storm junkie and I was driving. Wheeee!
We got there and found out the hard way that Selena Gomez was playing at our hotel. Teenyboppers in casinos? Huh? Robert said maybe it was pedophiles. In any case, all 6,500 audience members came in their own vehicles, epic parking disaster. Fine, that’s why there are valets. Inside, the solitary young woman manning the check-in desk was having a bad night and she took it out on us in ways we didn’t even find out about until we left. That was only an annoyance, not a story, so don’t worry about it.
Lessons learned: “Foaming at the mouth” is not a euphemism for crazy, it’s a fact. Not putting that story online, but ask me when you see me. It’s a mofo.
Couture is ugly. There are lots of ultra-high end designer shops there. I went into a couple just as an anthropology experiment. The purses in Balenciaga reminded me of the worst of my Great Aunt Sophie’s excesses in the 1970s. I selected the most horrible of the lot and asked the price. $2,345.00. No wonder there was more security than sales staff. That same bag would go for $19.99 at Marshall’s, to a desperate blind woman in need of a Halloween costume.
It turns out that “Twinkie Pizza” isn’t pizza with Twinkie™ topping, it’s pizza in the shape of a twinkie, and apparently just as awful. They couldn’t make one without pepperoni, so I’m trusting Robert’s judgment here.
One final Moment, though it happened early on. I was walking past some shops on the way to the car. A pushy sales guy kept trying to give me a free sample of skin cream. I kept refusing, and didn’t slow down. He shouted after me, “You can use it on the bags under your eyes!” I stopped, turned, and shouted back, “Thanks for that! I don’t like the way you look either!”
Now I know I usually tell you everything I ate in Las Vegas, but we were there for an extra day and the Internet just isn’t big enough to hold it all, though apparently we are. You’ll get two meals’ worth of details. Trust me, that will suffice.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Friday, September 9, 2011
Don't Roll Your Eyes
How do you handle it when someone believes something is true and you don’t? No, we’re not talking about anything remotely religious. I’m always nice to the Jehovah’s Witnesses who come to our door. I may quote Aquinas or Kierkegaard, but I’m nice and I smile when I do it.
Maybe “enthusiasm” is a better word than “truth”. You’ve had someone close to you go nuts over something that you thought was mediocre at best. What do you do? You can nod along, pretending to listen just to keep the peace. You can be sarcastic and risk hurting someone you like. You could be like Robert and jump to the complete opposite opinion just to be pissy.
Or -- and here’s where I’m going to get radical, so fasten your seat belts -- you could take an interest.
Look, this is someone you value. You wouldn’t have gotten past the weather if that wasn’t the case. Why not trust their judgment? Find out what’s so damned fascinating about whatever it is. Ask questions. Listen to the answers.
I have a friend who likes professional basketball. I mean, really likes it. You all know what I think of professional sports. But over the years I’ve asked questions, and at least I understand more about what he likes about it and why he likes it. I’m still not going to sit through a game, but so what? The conversations were interesting. I watch “Top Chef” because years ago, someone I respect talked to me about it. Now it’s one of the few shows I see.
Next time you find yourself wanting to roll your eyes, stop. Take a deep breath, cowboy up, and listen with respect. You might be pleasantly surprised. Pleasant surprises are few and far between in this world, and you shouldn’t miss an opportunity to have one.
Maybe “enthusiasm” is a better word than “truth”. You’ve had someone close to you go nuts over something that you thought was mediocre at best. What do you do? You can nod along, pretending to listen just to keep the peace. You can be sarcastic and risk hurting someone you like. You could be like Robert and jump to the complete opposite opinion just to be pissy.
Or -- and here’s where I’m going to get radical, so fasten your seat belts -- you could take an interest.
Look, this is someone you value. You wouldn’t have gotten past the weather if that wasn’t the case. Why not trust their judgment? Find out what’s so damned fascinating about whatever it is. Ask questions. Listen to the answers.
I have a friend who likes professional basketball. I mean, really likes it. You all know what I think of professional sports. But over the years I’ve asked questions, and at least I understand more about what he likes about it and why he likes it. I’m still not going to sit through a game, but so what? The conversations were interesting. I watch “Top Chef” because years ago, someone I respect talked to me about it. Now it’s one of the few shows I see.
Next time you find yourself wanting to roll your eyes, stop. Take a deep breath, cowboy up, and listen with respect. You might be pleasantly surprised. Pleasant surprises are few and far between in this world, and you shouldn’t miss an opportunity to have one.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Toujours Du Jour
Time used to be measured in days. Aside from the ubiquitous soup du jour, we had the Thought for the Day and the Word of the Day. Everyone who ever lived with a parent, at some point in their lives, has shouted about The Way It’s Done Today – presumably in response to the way “it” was done in previous days.
After that, time was measured by the hour. Remember the Man of the Hour? Well, he died of old age. Now it’s by the minute. Thank you, technology.
Back in the 80s, when everyone else was searching for excellence or learning to love themselves, I read a lot of Zen. I tried to get on top of the idea of living in the moment. Back then, time was still measured in hours instead of minutes, so living in the moment was a relatively novel idea. I never did it. I was always thinking about what had already happened, what might happen shortly, or what could happen eventually.
Fast forward to this morning. I was in the gym (where else?) on the elliptical. I had no book, and I never use headphones. The guy next to me had TV and a video phone and headphones. He lasted about ten minutes. I was on a 45 minute cycle, with nothing to do but think. My time passed as comfortably as time can pass while you’re doing cardio.
Wax on, wax off. Watching the clock tick down, minute after slow minute, while I pushed forward at a steady pace, after all those years and all that Zen, I was finally living in the moment. The next step is to learn to take life one day at a time.
After that, time was measured by the hour. Remember the Man of the Hour? Well, he died of old age. Now it’s by the minute. Thank you, technology.
Back in the 80s, when everyone else was searching for excellence or learning to love themselves, I read a lot of Zen. I tried to get on top of the idea of living in the moment. Back then, time was still measured in hours instead of minutes, so living in the moment was a relatively novel idea. I never did it. I was always thinking about what had already happened, what might happen shortly, or what could happen eventually.
Fast forward to this morning. I was in the gym (where else?) on the elliptical. I had no book, and I never use headphones. The guy next to me had TV and a video phone and headphones. He lasted about ten minutes. I was on a 45 minute cycle, with nothing to do but think. My time passed as comfortably as time can pass while you’re doing cardio.
Wax on, wax off. Watching the clock tick down, minute after slow minute, while I pushed forward at a steady pace, after all those years and all that Zen, I was finally living in the moment. The next step is to learn to take life one day at a time.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
What Are They Thinking?
Or: Grasping At The Straw That Broke The Camel’s Backpack
There are things I just don’t get.
It started with guys in Capri pants. I can’t get used to them. Having graduated high school in 1978, my sartorial aesthetic runs to extra long pants that cover the shoes. Capris are anathema in general, and on otherwise strapping young men they look silly to me. Fine. It’s none of my business. Chacun a son gout, and all that. File it under “kids today” and get it off my lawn.
Moving on, have you seen those cruel and nasty-looking types blasting yacht rock from modded Escalades? I know I tweeted about them, my apologies if I also already blogged about them. Since the enigma remains unresolved, it’s both pertinent and apposite. Besides, I saw another one today. That makes six. It wasn’t an Escalade, but the point holds.
We’ll ignore fabulously expensive designer kids’ clothes – after all, fashion trends last about as long as a grammar school growth spurt. I don’t get it, but a college education isn’t worth the money anymore either, and clothes have a social value of sorts. It’s not a value I value, but what the hell. Snobs have to recognize each other somehow. They might as well have a uniform.
Right about now I figure you’re all with me. Here’s where I’ll lose most of you. My final style gripe du jour is: racer-back tank tops. (Macho types ask someone who isn’t. It’s a good opener. You’re welcome.) Don’t even mention racer-back bras, my cup size is too far down the alphabet for that. Go ahead and joke. Har har. Very funny. I haven’t heard that one before, not. But I double-dog dare you to find a cute little workout shirt that will hide a bra without pinching your armpits.
Let’s ignore the broody boys in too-tight girl jeans, the ersatz Flashdance-style cropped sweatshirts and butt implants. This is plenty for one day.
There are things I just don’t get.
It started with guys in Capri pants. I can’t get used to them. Having graduated high school in 1978, my sartorial aesthetic runs to extra long pants that cover the shoes. Capris are anathema in general, and on otherwise strapping young men they look silly to me. Fine. It’s none of my business. Chacun a son gout, and all that. File it under “kids today” and get it off my lawn.
Moving on, have you seen those cruel and nasty-looking types blasting yacht rock from modded Escalades? I know I tweeted about them, my apologies if I also already blogged about them. Since the enigma remains unresolved, it’s both pertinent and apposite. Besides, I saw another one today. That makes six. It wasn’t an Escalade, but the point holds.
We’ll ignore fabulously expensive designer kids’ clothes – after all, fashion trends last about as long as a grammar school growth spurt. I don’t get it, but a college education isn’t worth the money anymore either, and clothes have a social value of sorts. It’s not a value I value, but what the hell. Snobs have to recognize each other somehow. They might as well have a uniform.
Right about now I figure you’re all with me. Here’s where I’ll lose most of you. My final style gripe du jour is: racer-back tank tops. (Macho types ask someone who isn’t. It’s a good opener. You’re welcome.) Don’t even mention racer-back bras, my cup size is too far down the alphabet for that. Go ahead and joke. Har har. Very funny. I haven’t heard that one before, not. But I double-dog dare you to find a cute little workout shirt that will hide a bra without pinching your armpits.
Let’s ignore the broody boys in too-tight girl jeans, the ersatz Flashdance-style cropped sweatshirts and butt implants. This is plenty for one day.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Me, The Jury
Well, I just got a Jury Summons. All of you had better turn and spit, not to mention knock on wood, that you’re not next.
My objections aren’t what you think. I believe that we all have an obligation to our community. I try to do my lazy bit as far as that goes. However, jury duty and I have a past.
My first case was a guy with a documented blood alcohol limit just over what’s allowed. He had an expensively-dressed attorney and a batch of pseudo-scientists who ran rigamaroles around the poor first time prosecutor. Justice, apparently, involves sitting in the jury room listening to an attractive 20-something explain that she can have a few drinks before dinner, a bottle of wine with dinner, a few drinks after dinner and still be fine to drive so of course the guy had to be innocent. I naively thought that the law against driving under the influence applied to people who drove with too much alcohol in their blood. Apparently not. She was much prettier than I, so the other jurors believed her. He was not convicted.
The second case was even simpler, if you can imagine. A kid got hit in the face with a baseball bat during P.E. class. The substitute teacher was in another part of the yard. No one contested a single detail. Everyone agreed that the kid was injured in class while the teacher wasn’t looking. The family was suing for medical expenses. Half of the jury were teachers, one or two others worked for the school system. They all voted not to give the kid’s family a penny, not even to cover the emergency room, let alone the subsequent operations and treatment. Apparently any financial award would imply that it was the sub’s fault, or the school’s fault. Three of us voted for the family, at least I wasn’t alone.
So I’ll go. If I am chosen, I’ll serve my week to the best of my ability. But I’m not getting my hopes up for justice. As the saying goes, I’ll just be one of twelve people (plus alternates) who couldn’t get out of it.
My objections aren’t what you think. I believe that we all have an obligation to our community. I try to do my lazy bit as far as that goes. However, jury duty and I have a past.
My first case was a guy with a documented blood alcohol limit just over what’s allowed. He had an expensively-dressed attorney and a batch of pseudo-scientists who ran rigamaroles around the poor first time prosecutor. Justice, apparently, involves sitting in the jury room listening to an attractive 20-something explain that she can have a few drinks before dinner, a bottle of wine with dinner, a few drinks after dinner and still be fine to drive so of course the guy had to be innocent. I naively thought that the law against driving under the influence applied to people who drove with too much alcohol in their blood. Apparently not. She was much prettier than I, so the other jurors believed her. He was not convicted.
The second case was even simpler, if you can imagine. A kid got hit in the face with a baseball bat during P.E. class. The substitute teacher was in another part of the yard. No one contested a single detail. Everyone agreed that the kid was injured in class while the teacher wasn’t looking. The family was suing for medical expenses. Half of the jury were teachers, one or two others worked for the school system. They all voted not to give the kid’s family a penny, not even to cover the emergency room, let alone the subsequent operations and treatment. Apparently any financial award would imply that it was the sub’s fault, or the school’s fault. Three of us voted for the family, at least I wasn’t alone.
So I’ll go. If I am chosen, I’ll serve my week to the best of my ability. But I’m not getting my hopes up for justice. As the saying goes, I’ll just be one of twelve people (plus alternates) who couldn’t get out of it.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Breaking The Law
It’s time to review my Laws Of Narrative™. Mostly this is because I’ve been reading murder mysteries, so they’re fresh in my mind. Besides, this is a parlor trick I can teach all of you. Amaze your friends! Pick out the murderer by the third scene! It’s easy when you know how. First, foremost and most importantly, the inviolate rule is:
1. You never, ever, diss Angela Lansbury.
Or Raymond Burr, or any Poirot but especially David Suchet. If you do, then you are either the murderer or one of the later victims. The way you tell which it will be is by whether the character is generally unpleasant or if this was an isolated incident. Assholes will get killed.
Now a twofer for symmetry:
2. If someone went missing, then they’re dead. If they’re presumed to have died years ago, then they’re still alive.
That’s kind of a gimme. It goes along with:
3. If there’s no body, s/he’s still alive.
Obvious, sure, but not all of you grew up reading comic books. Well, maybe you did, but this is one of the many lessons they teach.
4. Anyone who survives a murder attempt is either the murderer or is in on the conspiracy.
The next one only applies to gritty noir or soldier of fortune derivatives:
5. The detective will be betrayed by someone close to him (it’s always a him in these cases) who has no apparent reason for doing so.
That came from a recent try at reading a new author. I saw it coming and was sorely pissed.
That’s enough to start with. If you’re only reading current stuff then this ought to cover you. There’s been a moral streak growing for about a decade, wherein the more vile the character, the more dastardly his/her end. You don’t need sophisticated variables for that. Nor is there any point in having a drinking game based on the moment when the detective says, “I know who did it, I just need evidence.”
All of which explains why I’m going to rifle my shelves for old Rex Stouts and Ngaio Marshes. Better to know and be entertained, than to be able to guess so easily.
1. You never, ever, diss Angela Lansbury.
Or Raymond Burr, or any Poirot but especially David Suchet. If you do, then you are either the murderer or one of the later victims. The way you tell which it will be is by whether the character is generally unpleasant or if this was an isolated incident. Assholes will get killed.
Now a twofer for symmetry:
2. If someone went missing, then they’re dead. If they’re presumed to have died years ago, then they’re still alive.
That’s kind of a gimme. It goes along with:
3. If there’s no body, s/he’s still alive.
Obvious, sure, but not all of you grew up reading comic books. Well, maybe you did, but this is one of the many lessons they teach.
4. Anyone who survives a murder attempt is either the murderer or is in on the conspiracy.
The next one only applies to gritty noir or soldier of fortune derivatives:
5. The detective will be betrayed by someone close to him (it’s always a him in these cases) who has no apparent reason for doing so.
That came from a recent try at reading a new author. I saw it coming and was sorely pissed.
That’s enough to start with. If you’re only reading current stuff then this ought to cover you. There’s been a moral streak growing for about a decade, wherein the more vile the character, the more dastardly his/her end. You don’t need sophisticated variables for that. Nor is there any point in having a drinking game based on the moment when the detective says, “I know who did it, I just need evidence.”
All of which explains why I’m going to rifle my shelves for old Rex Stouts and Ngaio Marshes. Better to know and be entertained, than to be able to guess so easily.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Improv-ment
This is by way of an experiment. I’m due to post something, but with everything going on in the world (Libya, the Baltimore quake) it’s hard to find banal little topics about which to prattle. For example, the current work-in-progress involves men in Capri pants. Not something I can think about right now. So I’m going experiential instead. It’s just about 5:00 as I write this, and at 8:00, I’ll be sitting by myself in a tiny theater (not even the clichéd 99 seats, I’m told) watching Improv. Now, Improv is definitely not my thing. I’m a big fan of both editing and rehearsal. But Robert’s passion is Improv, as is that of an actor friend. The actor friend will be performing at the abovementioned theater. Robert, however, will be off with his own Improv group. So I’m flying solo on this one. When I get back, I’ll let you know how it went. I’m improvising this post, as it were. Ha ha.
9:09. I’m ba-a-ack. I arrived 5 minutes before show time and got the primo parking space right in front of the theater. After dropping my donation into the plastic bucket, I took one of the forty-two seats. There were three people in each of the first two groups that performed. Our buddy was in the first group. He was appropriately earnest, hapless, stern or charming as the moment demanded. They made me laugh. Here’s the problem: the second group was annoying. Enough so that I don’t remember the bits I was going to tell you about my friend’s group. Annoying enough (a running gag was about Mel Gibson. Need I say more?) that I left before the third group. I had time to come home, take the dog out, come back, and start writing this at 9:09.
The image I’ll retain from the evening isn’t my friend looking cool onstage, nor the guy doing an unfunny anti-Semitic faux rant, but the car lining up to get my parking space when I left. It had a bumper sticker from the Upright Citizens Brigade, the Improv institution where Robert’s been taking classes. Rah rah rah!
9:09. I’m ba-a-ack. I arrived 5 minutes before show time and got the primo parking space right in front of the theater. After dropping my donation into the plastic bucket, I took one of the forty-two seats. There were three people in each of the first two groups that performed. Our buddy was in the first group. He was appropriately earnest, hapless, stern or charming as the moment demanded. They made me laugh. Here’s the problem: the second group was annoying. Enough so that I don’t remember the bits I was going to tell you about my friend’s group. Annoying enough (a running gag was about Mel Gibson. Need I say more?) that I left before the third group. I had time to come home, take the dog out, come back, and start writing this at 9:09.
The image I’ll retain from the evening isn’t my friend looking cool onstage, nor the guy doing an unfunny anti-Semitic faux rant, but the car lining up to get my parking space when I left. It had a bumper sticker from the Upright Citizens Brigade, the Improv institution where Robert’s been taking classes. Rah rah rah!
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