Some end-of-year musings...
I've always thought that I am here for a reason. Not some lofty reason that may change the world, simply one that may change someone's life...for the better.
Maybe I've already done that one thing, and I'm on borrowed time. Perhaps that one thing hasn't happened yet. Or it isn't one single thing or event. Maybe there are many yet to come.
One can't help but think these thoughts after watching a certain holiday movie, an annual event for some of us. You know the one where an enthusiastic, life-loving idealist is allowed to see what the world would be like had he not been born. In George Bailey's case, everything and everyone in his life goes to crap without his presence. He is given the opportunity to see one possible outcome of the so-called butterfly effect.
What if that story had gone the other direction? What if everyone had been better off without the principal character? I'm quite certain the book and subsequent script to It's a Lousy Life has already been written, many times over. Instead of a guardian angel named Clarence, George runs into a character named Bill. And Bill needs to shepherd some lost soul farther down in the depths in order to earn his way back into Hades. Bill shows George just how wonderful life would be without his presence! How everyone and everything is much better off without his influence. I picture an eternally pessimistic, self-loathing, manic depressive Paul Giamatti character as the lead. Tommy Lee Jones could play Bill. Brittney Spears would make an appropriate Violet Bick. Sharon Stone as Mary. Marlon Brando (RIP) as Potter. And Gary Busey as that pharmacist guy. Greg Kinnear as Harry, George's brother.
It's a Lousy Life, the movie...it's just a matter of time before we see that flick coming out near the holidays. Fortunately, it will most likely go straight to video and cable, as no one wants to see that sort of story over and over again just before Christmas!
That brings me to my own personal pilgrimage into New Year's Resolution Land. A precise and wonderful land chock full of good intentions, wishful dreams, and abundant good will. A place where I make pledges, promises, and personal predictions about my upcoming new year. An abstract region whereby I actually jot down some words describing my fantasies and daydreams. Another opportunity for real disappointment and unrealistic expectations.
I wax nostalgic quite often. Aaahhh! There...I just waxed again...last year's New Year's resolution blog post.
Let's see: Lose weight (didn't happen, in fact, I gained). Make more money (we won't even go there!). Be a more loving and caring husband, father, son, etc, etc (a work in progress, the jury is still out on this one). How lame! But, alas, no different than any other year. Let's move on.
As lousy as I am about keeping resolutions, I had better not make the one resolution I have been thinking of: Stay alive in 2008. I'll pass on that one.
So with that in mind...here is my one and only New Year's resolution for 2008: Do anything better this year than last!
A final thought. I'll leave you with a joke I heard in a Kate Clinton monologue recently. Her pessimistic, depressed friend always asks her when she calls, "Is anything O.K.?"
Cheers! Visit a pub in 2008.
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Monday, December 24, 2007
The "F" Word
My favorite color is blue. My favorite movie is The Graduate. My favorite season is Fall. My favorite food is chocolate. My favorite thing to do is sleep. My favorite letter is “F”. More specifically, my favorite words begin with the letter “F”.
Words beginning with “F” just seemed to fly with exuberance out of one’s vocal orifice. Almost effortlessly we humans are able to form that “F” sound. It just rolls off the lips. In fact, it begins economically in the middle of the mouth and only has to travel another inch or so to finish between the top front teeth and the bottom lip. Try it...say “eff”. You see? But when used as the first letter of a word, it only has to begin and end at the front teeth and the bottom lip! How easy is that?
Admittedly, “F” words may be considered somewhat macho or just male-oriented compared to, say...”L” words. Love, lick, little, lips, languid, and lust come to mind. Those just seem to better fit exiting a female mouth. “G” words are also machoistic and almost angry sounding. I digress...
Some favorite “F” words of mine: fabulous, fade, fairway, faint, faith, fall, family, fancy, and fanciful. That last one utilizing my favorite letter twice in one word. And those are only a few of my favorite “F” words from the “F - A” list! It goes on and on.
Free, funny, farm, farrow, and fart. I’m not so fond of “fat” though. Faux pas, faun, favor, feather, feelings, female, and feminine...of course.
I don’t know why this topic came to mind, especially today, the day before Christmas. Quite possibly it’s because I found myself mouthing various “F” words while driving yesterday...one "F Bomb" in particular. Taking twenty plus minutes to get out of the mall parking lot evokes those responses in the most gentile person. Of course, I am far from gentile! Driving an automobile two days before Christmas should be outlawed. It makes one fraught with fertile festering bouts of fervent frustration. My ferric ferocity festoons...I grip the wheel fuming with every fiber of my frail human form...
Well, you get the idea.
By the way, I feigned...what are your favorite f#@*ing words, flaccidly fumbling for a way to end this flimsy, flawed, flippant, flustering, fodder. Phew! I’m glad that’s over!
Merry Frickin' Christmas to all...and to all a flippin' good night.
Words beginning with “F” just seemed to fly with exuberance out of one’s vocal orifice. Almost effortlessly we humans are able to form that “F” sound. It just rolls off the lips. In fact, it begins economically in the middle of the mouth and only has to travel another inch or so to finish between the top front teeth and the bottom lip. Try it...say “eff”. You see? But when used as the first letter of a word, it only has to begin and end at the front teeth and the bottom lip! How easy is that?
Admittedly, “F” words may be considered somewhat macho or just male-oriented compared to, say...”L” words. Love, lick, little, lips, languid, and lust come to mind. Those just seem to better fit exiting a female mouth. “G” words are also machoistic and almost angry sounding. I digress...
Some favorite “F” words of mine: fabulous, fade, fairway, faint, faith, fall, family, fancy, and fanciful. That last one utilizing my favorite letter twice in one word. And those are only a few of my favorite “F” words from the “F - A” list! It goes on and on.
Free, funny, farm, farrow, and fart. I’m not so fond of “fat” though. Faux pas, faun, favor, feather, feelings, female, and feminine...of course.
I don’t know why this topic came to mind, especially today, the day before Christmas. Quite possibly it’s because I found myself mouthing various “F” words while driving yesterday...one "F Bomb" in particular. Taking twenty plus minutes to get out of the mall parking lot evokes those responses in the most gentile person. Of course, I am far from gentile! Driving an automobile two days before Christmas should be outlawed. It makes one fraught with fertile festering bouts of fervent frustration. My ferric ferocity festoons...I grip the wheel fuming with every fiber of my frail human form...
Well, you get the idea.
By the way, I feigned...what are your favorite f#@*ing words, flaccidly fumbling for a way to end this flimsy, flawed, flippant, flustering, fodder. Phew! I’m glad that’s over!
Merry Frickin' Christmas to all...and to all a flippin' good night.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Ooo, eee, ooo ah ah, ting tang, walla walla bing bang
Ah, memories of Christmas past. It will have to suffice for now.
That 45 rpm record from which those memorable lyrics come is what I wanted for Christmas in 1958. That tune, The Witch Doctor, was the predecessor to The Chipmunk Song both written and sung by Ross Bagdasarian, aka, David Seville. Fifty years later, the CG/live action movie, Alvin and the Chipmunks, is now playing in theatres. Some things just never go away!
But that wasn't all I wanted for Christmas as a child. I asked Santa for much more than a goofy, hit novelty song mistakenly recorded at half speed. Over the years spanning the mid fifties to the mid sixties, I longed for toys that had been embedded in my brain by television ads. I got all of them! Some of which included:
The Fanner '50 - a "chrome-plated" plastic replica of a 50 caliber revolver complete with spring-loaded shells that shot plastic bullets out the barrel! Not likely found under anyone's tree in this day and age.
Battling Betsy - No, not a soldier doll, but a battery operated Sherman tank that "could run over anything", including my baby sister. Our little dogs (toy poodles) would run and hide when I cranked up this battery-operated baby!
The Remco Pom Pom Gun - Yes, an accurately depicted miniature size replica of a twin 40mm anti-aircraft gun found on battleships and destroyers, complete with controls enabling this nine year old to traverse the gun from side to side, and up and down, while firing at imaginary enemy aircraft.
The Remco Ballistic Missile Site - You think I'm kidding, don't you? I could open the motorized doors, raise the two missiles, and fire them across the room. Can you say Cuban Missile Crisis and its affect on toy marketing?
The Revell Nautilus Nuclear Submarine model kit - Just what it sounds like. The entire side was removable revealing complete details of everything inside a submarine, include nuclear missiles.
The Frontiersman Rolling Block 50 caliber buffalo gun - Again, included spring-loaded bullets and "stickem' caps" that exploded when fired.
I also got chemistry sets, microscopes, transistor radios, bicycles, remote-controlled cars and gas airplanes, watches...and the proprietary sweaters, socks, underwear, and shirts. The latter mainly received from Aunts and Uncles, a wise ploy by my parents delegating the "boring" gifts to relatives.
The most sophisticated electronic device was the transistor radio. No iPods, no cell phones, no computers, no video games. But, we were spoiled with Christmas gifts...and couldn't wait for December 24th. Who knows what kids will be wishing for in another 30 years?
This year, my only wish is that we can see our kids and parents and siblings more next year. We won't be able to be with them on Christmas. We do have each other though, Loretta and I, and that is what is important right now. I also have relatives and close friends with whom I will have a brief phone conversation on that day. And I look forward to those verbal exchanges hoping they realize how much I miss being with them.
So, here's a hearty ooo eee ooo ah ah, ting tang, walla walla bing bang to all. It's the good memories that keep us going.
That 45 rpm record from which those memorable lyrics come is what I wanted for Christmas in 1958. That tune, The Witch Doctor, was the predecessor to The Chipmunk Song both written and sung by Ross Bagdasarian, aka, David Seville. Fifty years later, the CG/live action movie, Alvin and the Chipmunks, is now playing in theatres. Some things just never go away!
But that wasn't all I wanted for Christmas as a child. I asked Santa for much more than a goofy, hit novelty song mistakenly recorded at half speed. Over the years spanning the mid fifties to the mid sixties, I longed for toys that had been embedded in my brain by television ads. I got all of them! Some of which included:
The Fanner '50 - a "chrome-plated" plastic replica of a 50 caliber revolver complete with spring-loaded shells that shot plastic bullets out the barrel! Not likely found under anyone's tree in this day and age.
Battling Betsy - No, not a soldier doll, but a battery operated Sherman tank that "could run over anything", including my baby sister. Our little dogs (toy poodles) would run and hide when I cranked up this battery-operated baby!
The Remco Pom Pom Gun - Yes, an accurately depicted miniature size replica of a twin 40mm anti-aircraft gun found on battleships and destroyers, complete with controls enabling this nine year old to traverse the gun from side to side, and up and down, while firing at imaginary enemy aircraft.
The Remco Ballistic Missile Site - You think I'm kidding, don't you? I could open the motorized doors, raise the two missiles, and fire them across the room. Can you say Cuban Missile Crisis and its affect on toy marketing?
The Revell Nautilus Nuclear Submarine model kit - Just what it sounds like. The entire side was removable revealing complete details of everything inside a submarine, include nuclear missiles.
The Frontiersman Rolling Block 50 caliber buffalo gun - Again, included spring-loaded bullets and "stickem' caps" that exploded when fired.
I also got chemistry sets, microscopes, transistor radios, bicycles, remote-controlled cars and gas airplanes, watches...and the proprietary sweaters, socks, underwear, and shirts. The latter mainly received from Aunts and Uncles, a wise ploy by my parents delegating the "boring" gifts to relatives.
The most sophisticated electronic device was the transistor radio. No iPods, no cell phones, no computers, no video games. But, we were spoiled with Christmas gifts...and couldn't wait for December 24th. Who knows what kids will be wishing for in another 30 years?
This year, my only wish is that we can see our kids and parents and siblings more next year. We won't be able to be with them on Christmas. We do have each other though, Loretta and I, and that is what is important right now. I also have relatives and close friends with whom I will have a brief phone conversation on that day. And I look forward to those verbal exchanges hoping they realize how much I miss being with them.
So, here's a hearty ooo eee ooo ah ah, ting tang, walla walla bing bang to all. It's the good memories that keep us going.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Mythbusting: Tell me it just ain't true!
There was an interesting article this morning on Yahoo News concerning some common myths most of us seem to subscribe to...including myself. The wildly popular cable program Mythbusters addresses things like this and attempts to duplicate them on the show all the time. They recently aired some sort of Mythbuster Marathon and after an hour or two I was mythbusted into boredom. Most of them are just plain silly and akin to something you would see on the Jackass series and movies.
The Yahoo article (from a British Medical Journal piece) listed the following as common myths...that just ain't true!
1. We only use 10% of our brains. Myth. I am reasonably sure that most people only use 1% of their brains, especially during the holiday season and when driving.
2. You should drink at least 8 glasses of water a day. Myth. The liquid we get from fruits, vegetables, and other foods counts towards this total. And that includes coffee, soft drinks, and Coors light.
3. Finger nails and hair grow after death. Myth. I am convinced that some people use more than 10% of their brain after death.
4. Shaved hair grows back faster, coarser, and darker. Myth. I had a date in high school with Mary Lou Zablonski who never shaved and her mustache looked like Tom Selleck's in Magnum P.I. It was one of those "Butter-face" crushes.
5. Reading in dim light ruins your eyesight. Myth. Reading in dim light doesn't ruin your eyesight...but masturbating a lot in dim light makes you eventually go blind and grow hair on your palms.
6. Eating turkey makes you drowsy. Myth. I've addressed this idiotic wive's tale before. Eating a shitload of anything in one sitting, plus copious amounts of alcohol, and watching the replay of Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade on T.V. will make the most stalwart food hog catatonic.
7. Mobile phones are dangerous in hospitals. Myth. Only if your urologist is texting his mistress while performing a vasectomy on you. And then, only if she has just told him that she has chlamidia and is pregnant.
Here are few of my own myths that have been "busted"...
8. Sixty is the new forty. Myth. Depends on the "mileage".
9. Money is the root of all evil. Myth. Only if you don't have any.
10. Watching graphically violent movies will make you more violent. Myth. If you don't agree, I might have to kill you.
11. Looking at porn makes you a pervert. Myth. I've never seen any porn, so I couldn't tell you. It does make you a pathological liar though.
12. Elvis is dead. Myth. He just may have had extensive plastic surgery and become the president of North Korea.
13. Shit rolls downhill. Myth. Shit usually hits the fan and goes everywhere.
14. A dog or cat will explode in the microwave. Myth. It only makes their hair fall out, causes them to sleep more than usual, and makes them glow in the dark.
15. Drinking red wine is good for you. Myth. But drinking seven bottles of MD 20/20 a day allows you write like Charles Bukowski.
16. Size does matter. Myth. It ain't the size of the boat...it's the motion of the ocean!
The Yahoo article (from a British Medical Journal piece) listed the following as common myths...that just ain't true!
1. We only use 10% of our brains. Myth. I am reasonably sure that most people only use 1% of their brains, especially during the holiday season and when driving.
2. You should drink at least 8 glasses of water a day. Myth. The liquid we get from fruits, vegetables, and other foods counts towards this total. And that includes coffee, soft drinks, and Coors light.
3. Finger nails and hair grow after death. Myth. I am convinced that some people use more than 10% of their brain after death.
4. Shaved hair grows back faster, coarser, and darker. Myth. I had a date in high school with Mary Lou Zablonski who never shaved and her mustache looked like Tom Selleck's in Magnum P.I. It was one of those "Butter-face" crushes.
5. Reading in dim light ruins your eyesight. Myth. Reading in dim light doesn't ruin your eyesight...but masturbating a lot in dim light makes you eventually go blind and grow hair on your palms.
6. Eating turkey makes you drowsy. Myth. I've addressed this idiotic wive's tale before. Eating a shitload of anything in one sitting, plus copious amounts of alcohol, and watching the replay of Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade on T.V. will make the most stalwart food hog catatonic.
7. Mobile phones are dangerous in hospitals. Myth. Only if your urologist is texting his mistress while performing a vasectomy on you. And then, only if she has just told him that she has chlamidia and is pregnant.
Here are few of my own myths that have been "busted"...
8. Sixty is the new forty. Myth. Depends on the "mileage".
9. Money is the root of all evil. Myth. Only if you don't have any.
10. Watching graphically violent movies will make you more violent. Myth. If you don't agree, I might have to kill you.
11. Looking at porn makes you a pervert. Myth. I've never seen any porn, so I couldn't tell you. It does make you a pathological liar though.
12. Elvis is dead. Myth. He just may have had extensive plastic surgery and become the president of North Korea.
13. Shit rolls downhill. Myth. Shit usually hits the fan and goes everywhere.
14. A dog or cat will explode in the microwave. Myth. It only makes their hair fall out, causes them to sleep more than usual, and makes them glow in the dark.
15. Drinking red wine is good for you. Myth. But drinking seven bottles of MD 20/20 a day allows you write like Charles Bukowski.
16. Size does matter. Myth. It ain't the size of the boat...it's the motion of the ocean!
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
"The shitter was full!"
Now that I have your undivided attention by titling this post with one of the most memorable lines from Christmas Vacation, let's talk Christmas!
How about we all stop whining about how fucked up the holiday season has become? Sure, Cousin Eddie's line from the movie pretty much says it all, not to mention it spews from the mouth of one of the most clueless characters in modern moviedom. But how prophetic? It speaks volumes about how we all have come to feel about Christmas. It sucks!
Putting aside the "reason for the season", ie, the religious aspect of Christmas (a topic I won't debate with you, Jerry Lundegard!), let's put things in perspective. Christmas has become the season where marketing spin doctors masturbate themselves into frenzied circle jerks. Their wagons of product misinformation, commercials, and newspaper ads circle us hapless settlers who simply want to sit around the camp fire and get warm. All we really want to do is gather with friends, sip some eggnog, munch on a turkey leg, and watch Clark Griswold go slowly insane.
Yes, most of us were raised with visions of Remco toys, Chatty Cathy dolls, and shiny new bicycles dancing in our heads for several months leading up to Christmas, but it ain't like that anymore. We've all grown up and been bitch slapped at least a dozen times with the reality of life. Dudes (and dudettes)...you won't find a Mr. Wizard Chemical set under the tree on Christmas morning! You won't tune in the radio for Santa Radar Reports, or leave milk and cookies near the tree when you go to bed, or sit holding your shiny new remote controlled car for seven straight hours on Christmas Day. And for us who are even farther advanced in age, you won't enjoy this season by watching the joy of your young children opening presents...now they too have grown and become a bit disenchanted with the whole thing. They too are feeling the stress, the financial and social pressure to put on the cheery holiday face. They too have become, if not sarcastic or even cynical, pragmatic in their efforts to deal with everything yule-like.
The holiday season is when people get the most depressed all year long. Self-imposed expectations overwhelm even the most stalwart souls. Where once we looked forward to December...we now dread it. The only thing one can do now? Commiserate. Forget about rationalizing or coping or self-medicating. None of that works...well, maybe the self-medicating can be fun on occasion. Simply try to remember that you are not alone in your misgivings (pardon the gift-giving pun) about Holly Jolly Christmas.
One Christmas long ago, I remember sitting on Santa's lap and getting my picture taken. He was a damn good looking Santa as far as department store Santas go. Big old thick beard, red and white suit, and a big red nose. It wasn't until years later that I learned the big red nose is called a gin blossom (from years of drinking gin)! After telling the jolly old guy what I wanted for Christmas, I climbed down and ran to my Mom proudly waiting nearby. "Mommy", I asked, "How come Santa's breath smells like Dad's breath when you and him come home late from a Christmas party? Does Santa smoke cigars and drink the same stuff Dad buys every Christmas? You know, the bottle with the "7" on it?"
So, if you're wondering what to get someone for Christmas. Check that. If you're spazzing out about what to get someone for Christmas...knock that shit off! None of us (least not me) expect anything like that anymore. I, personally, will be content to enjoy reliving those old memories...and watching a Christmas movie or two. I've yet to watch Christmas Vacation or It's A Wonderful Life this year.
Yup...the shitter may be full. But my cup of pleasant holiday memories is more than full...it is overflowing!
How about we all stop whining about how fucked up the holiday season has become? Sure, Cousin Eddie's line from the movie pretty much says it all, not to mention it spews from the mouth of one of the most clueless characters in modern moviedom. But how prophetic? It speaks volumes about how we all have come to feel about Christmas. It sucks!
Putting aside the "reason for the season", ie, the religious aspect of Christmas (a topic I won't debate with you, Jerry Lundegard!), let's put things in perspective. Christmas has become the season where marketing spin doctors masturbate themselves into frenzied circle jerks. Their wagons of product misinformation, commercials, and newspaper ads circle us hapless settlers who simply want to sit around the camp fire and get warm. All we really want to do is gather with friends, sip some eggnog, munch on a turkey leg, and watch Clark Griswold go slowly insane.
Yes, most of us were raised with visions of Remco toys, Chatty Cathy dolls, and shiny new bicycles dancing in our heads for several months leading up to Christmas, but it ain't like that anymore. We've all grown up and been bitch slapped at least a dozen times with the reality of life. Dudes (and dudettes)...you won't find a Mr. Wizard Chemical set under the tree on Christmas morning! You won't tune in the radio for Santa Radar Reports, or leave milk and cookies near the tree when you go to bed, or sit holding your shiny new remote controlled car for seven straight hours on Christmas Day. And for us who are even farther advanced in age, you won't enjoy this season by watching the joy of your young children opening presents...now they too have grown and become a bit disenchanted with the whole thing. They too are feeling the stress, the financial and social pressure to put on the cheery holiday face. They too have become, if not sarcastic or even cynical, pragmatic in their efforts to deal with everything yule-like.
The holiday season is when people get the most depressed all year long. Self-imposed expectations overwhelm even the most stalwart souls. Where once we looked forward to December...we now dread it. The only thing one can do now? Commiserate. Forget about rationalizing or coping or self-medicating. None of that works...well, maybe the self-medicating can be fun on occasion. Simply try to remember that you are not alone in your misgivings (pardon the gift-giving pun) about Holly Jolly Christmas.
One Christmas long ago, I remember sitting on Santa's lap and getting my picture taken. He was a damn good looking Santa as far as department store Santas go. Big old thick beard, red and white suit, and a big red nose. It wasn't until years later that I learned the big red nose is called a gin blossom (from years of drinking gin)! After telling the jolly old guy what I wanted for Christmas, I climbed down and ran to my Mom proudly waiting nearby. "Mommy", I asked, "How come Santa's breath smells like Dad's breath when you and him come home late from a Christmas party? Does Santa smoke cigars and drink the same stuff Dad buys every Christmas? You know, the bottle with the "7" on it?"
So, if you're wondering what to get someone for Christmas. Check that. If you're spazzing out about what to get someone for Christmas...knock that shit off! None of us (least not me) expect anything like that anymore. I, personally, will be content to enjoy reliving those old memories...and watching a Christmas movie or two. I've yet to watch Christmas Vacation or It's A Wonderful Life this year.
Yup...the shitter may be full. But my cup of pleasant holiday memories is more than full...it is overflowing!
Monday, December 17, 2007
The Raccoon Under the Subway.
Well, I'm back home from three weeks in Toronto...Canada, that is.
I tried to write a few blog entries while I was there without much success. I just couldn't seem to find the time or the inspiration...too busy with the business at hand I guess: learning how to run a pub.
I did get out a couple of times during my tenure there, two Sundays to be exact. The first Sunday it was partly cloudy, windy, and cold with an occasional snow flurry dampening my spirits and my camera. The second Sunday it was just plain snowy, cold, and wet...not the typical photo day this California kid relishes. Riding the "Rocket" (Toronto's subway system) up, down, around, and under Yonge Street for a few hours, I managed to get a few shots of the city near each station.
It was a busy day in downtown Toronto on that Sunday. Being three weeks before Christmas, it was probably a busier than normal. Their version of "Times Square" is bit more compact than New York's. It's called Eaton Centre. There is a large mall with all the usual shops and fast food places we have here. Outside, the large stage and cement gathering area was mostly empty of people save for a local radio station's promotional pick up truck blaring it's speakers and displaying it's banners. It was snowing quite heavily at the time. That nearby stage offers local, live entertainment when the weather cooperates. Old style trolley cars clank to and fro, ferrying Torontoans East and West...the subway runs mostly North and South.
It all seems to work very efficiently.
I was flying solo in a strange city, so the whole experience was a little tentative. Standing and staring at the cityscape at the entrance to each subway station then scurrying back down into the subway was about all I could muster. I wondered on more than one occasion what the heck I was doing in Canada in the dead of winter. Some of the locals expressed to me the very same thoughts. Winter is winter no matter where you live. And with that brings the usual challenges, adjustments, and longings for more temperate climes. Strange...many Canadians vacation in Cuba during the winter months. They, unlike their American counterparts, are allowed to travel readily to that Carribbean island. After all...they are Canadians! Even though they look, act, and talk similar to us...it is another country entirely. The 49th parallel is still only a line drawn in the dirt across the prairie hundreds of years ago, eh?
Even in the cold, dark of winter, Canadians drink more beer than we do. One of them commented to me in the pub one day, "Can you believe that we still love our ice cold Butler's or Keith's when the snow is coming down outside? That's crazy, isn't it?" I told him, "Not so much crazy as it is simply different". One other big difference in pub libation there: No blended drinks, even in Summer. Canada just ain't Margaritaville! Or Daquiriville, or Pina Coladaville for that matter. They don't even have blenders in most of the pubs, let alone a machine for making slurpy-like blended drinks. It's just not their thing. They love their beer...and are proud of it!
The food in Canada is much like in the states. Pub fare does consist of a few things not normally found at an Applebees or Chili's. Besides the familiar bar and grill type menu, pub fare items like Shepherd's Pie, Steak and Guinness Pie, and Fish and Chips are standard. Many places you can still find Steak and Kidney Pie, Chicken Curry, and Bangers and Mash (grilled sausages and mashed potatoes). Generally speaking, it's all good comfort food...but a tad on the bland side. Canadians don't embrace the wildly spicy, exotic Southwest and Asian offerings that we have come to demand. At least that is the way it is in publand. They do have their fair share of Asian restaurants (and a huge contingent of Asian citizens). Sri Lankans are very abundant in Toronto as well and comprise most of the kitchen staffs. Ask a Sri Lankan cook to make you Chicken Curry like they have it and you'll experience spicy food!
That's me standing at the bar in the pub where I trained. I stopped in there for breakfast before heading out on my subway jaunt. The pubs are very cozy and very friendly (for the most part). The alcohol is much more expensive in Canada, hence the price of beer and cocktails reflects that added expense. For instance, a single shot of whiskey (they call it rye) goes for about $6.50 for call brands. And that's a real "single" shot, ie, 1 ounce! We've come to expect, and enjoy, those 1 1/2 or 2 ounce pours here in California. Premium, import draughts like Guinness run about $7.25 for a "pint". By the way, the most popular beers in Canada...are you ready for this...are Coors Light and Bud Light. Go figure! Again, no blended drinks. Only the youngest pub dwellers go for the "shots" of Patron or Jaegermeister. And, the drinking age in Canada is 19. I didn't ever see an I.D. checked while I was there, although the liquor board does its share of I.D. sting operations just like here in the states. I figure that most of the kids trying to pass false I.D.s at bars here are in the 19 to not-quite-21 age bracket anyway. Hence...underage drinking in Canadian bars is not as much of a problem.
That's a shot of the converted Victorian/rooming house in which I stayed in Toronto. It's located on a side street, just a few blocks off the main drag (Yonge), two blocks from a subway station, and smack dab in the middle of Toronto's "Gay Town". It was no big deal. That area is very quiet and no one bothers you save for a bum or two once in a while. I didn't go out bar hopping while I was there...it was a bit creepy enough just looking in the windows of some of them late at night. Just not my cup of tea...not that there's anything wrong with that mind you! Although I did have the opportunity to meet and chat with a "lovely" trans-gender person named Anita (was Jeff) at my work pub the last night I was there. We didn't converse about her transformation. She was very sweet. We talked about Toronto and photography (she is also a photographer). It was only slightly surreal...I'd had a couple pints of Guinness by then. All in all, it was an interesting hour of pub chat for me. We exchanged website addresses and I headed out for the subway "home". My last night in Toronto.
At the subway station, I had a much stranger encounter. As I stepped onto the platform at the bottom of the stairs to wait for the next train, there it was. A very large, mature raccoon. It was slowly ambling its way around the small area between the subway wall and the edge of the platform, sampling bits of whatever trash had been left on the cement from inconsiderate riders. It didn't seem to notice or care that I was there, just a few feet from it. A few other people farther away were staring, a couple of young women were giggling, trying to get their cell phone cameras going. The raccoon continued its fruitless search for something. The subway train began to pull into the station, moving much slower than usual. The operator had noticed the animal and decided to slow down. He reached out the window of his car and tossed a bit of food in the raccoon's direction as the subway rolled by. It didn't seem to see what had been thrown. It appeared to be blind or sick or both. As the subway train came to a stop, the animal meandered back toward it, as if wanting to go back down to the track level and return to its den under the structure (that is where many of them reside). It bumped into the closed door of the train. If the door had been open, it would have wandered right into the train itself. The operator waited to open the doors until the raccoon turned and walked back toward the wall. I got on. The doors closed. And my last subway ride in Toronto began, slowly at first, then faster as it cleared the station and the raccoon that continued its search of the subway platform.
I had heard from the locals that downtown Toronto is literally infested with raccoons. Upon hearing that, I raised my eyebrows in disbelief, "Really?", I said with a slight smirk on my face, "Raccoons? Where do they live?" I was informed that they live everywhere...in trees, under houses and apartments and other buildings, and under the subways. And after Googling "Toronto raccoons", I also discovered that it is quite a problem now. The humane society discourages any control or eradication efforts. So, they just coexist with them for now.
My time in Canada was rather short by most standards (three weeks). Too short to offer any kind of accurate description of the city of Toronto or Canada in general. I worked most of the time. Someday, I would like to go back when the weather is nicer and I have more time to explore. It's an interesting city at the very least. The people are friendly and enjoy talking to you about the differences between themselves and the Americans. Those differences are mostly political. The look, talk, and live their lives just like us. They do have socialized medicine, though they criticize it openly because of some of the shortcomings, ie, paying for prescriptions and the exorbitant taxes imposed on alcohol, liquor, and gasoline. Everything's a tradeout. There are no free lunches anywhere...even in the Great White North, eh?
Cheers to my new-found friends in Toronto. Thanks for your hospitality. More photos of what I was able to see in Toronto here.
I tried to write a few blog entries while I was there without much success. I just couldn't seem to find the time or the inspiration...too busy with the business at hand I guess: learning how to run a pub.
I did get out a couple of times during my tenure there, two Sundays to be exact. The first Sunday it was partly cloudy, windy, and cold with an occasional snow flurry dampening my spirits and my camera. The second Sunday it was just plain snowy, cold, and wet...not the typical photo day this California kid relishes. Riding the "Rocket" (Toronto's subway system) up, down, around, and under Yonge Street for a few hours, I managed to get a few shots of the city near each station.
It was a busy day in downtown Toronto on that Sunday. Being three weeks before Christmas, it was probably a busier than normal. Their version of "Times Square" is bit more compact than New York's. It's called Eaton Centre. There is a large mall with all the usual shops and fast food places we have here. Outside, the large stage and cement gathering area was mostly empty of people save for a local radio station's promotional pick up truck blaring it's speakers and displaying it's banners. It was snowing quite heavily at the time. That nearby stage offers local, live entertainment when the weather cooperates. Old style trolley cars clank to and fro, ferrying Torontoans East and West...the subway runs mostly North and South.
It all seems to work very efficiently.
I was flying solo in a strange city, so the whole experience was a little tentative. Standing and staring at the cityscape at the entrance to each subway station then scurrying back down into the subway was about all I could muster. I wondered on more than one occasion what the heck I was doing in Canada in the dead of winter. Some of the locals expressed to me the very same thoughts. Winter is winter no matter where you live. And with that brings the usual challenges, adjustments, and longings for more temperate climes. Strange...many Canadians vacation in Cuba during the winter months. They, unlike their American counterparts, are allowed to travel readily to that Carribbean island. After all...they are Canadians! Even though they look, act, and talk similar to us...it is another country entirely. The 49th parallel is still only a line drawn in the dirt across the prairie hundreds of years ago, eh?
Even in the cold, dark of winter, Canadians drink more beer than we do. One of them commented to me in the pub one day, "Can you believe that we still love our ice cold Butler's or Keith's when the snow is coming down outside? That's crazy, isn't it?" I told him, "Not so much crazy as it is simply different". One other big difference in pub libation there: No blended drinks, even in Summer. Canada just ain't Margaritaville! Or Daquiriville, or Pina Coladaville for that matter. They don't even have blenders in most of the pubs, let alone a machine for making slurpy-like blended drinks. It's just not their thing. They love their beer...and are proud of it!The food in Canada is much like in the states. Pub fare does consist of a few things not normally found at an Applebees or Chili's. Besides the familiar bar and grill type menu, pub fare items like Shepherd's Pie, Steak and Guinness Pie, and Fish and Chips are standard. Many places you can still find Steak and Kidney Pie, Chicken Curry, and Bangers and Mash (grilled sausages and mashed potatoes). Generally speaking, it's all good comfort food...but a tad on the bland side. Canadians don't embrace the wildly spicy, exotic Southwest and Asian offerings that we have come to demand. At least that is the way it is in publand. They do have their fair share of Asian restaurants (and a huge contingent of Asian citizens). Sri Lankans are very abundant in Toronto as well and comprise most of the kitchen staffs. Ask a Sri Lankan cook to make you Chicken Curry like they have it and you'll experience spicy food!
That's me standing at the bar in the pub where I trained. I stopped in there for breakfast before heading out on my subway jaunt. The pubs are very cozy and very friendly (for the most part). The alcohol is much more expensive in Canada, hence the price of beer and cocktails reflects that added expense. For instance, a single shot of whiskey (they call it rye) goes for about $6.50 for call brands. And that's a real "single" shot, ie, 1 ounce! We've come to expect, and enjoy, those 1 1/2 or 2 ounce pours here in California. Premium, import draughts like Guinness run about $7.25 for a "pint". By the way, the most popular beers in Canada...are you ready for this...are Coors Light and Bud Light. Go figure! Again, no blended drinks. Only the youngest pub dwellers go for the "shots" of Patron or Jaegermeister. And, the drinking age in Canada is 19. I didn't ever see an I.D. checked while I was there, although the liquor board does its share of I.D. sting operations just like here in the states. I figure that most of the kids trying to pass false I.D.s at bars here are in the 19 to not-quite-21 age bracket anyway. Hence...underage drinking in Canadian bars is not as much of a problem.
That's a shot of the converted Victorian/rooming house in which I stayed in Toronto. It's located on a side street, just a few blocks off the main drag (Yonge), two blocks from a subway station, and smack dab in the middle of Toronto's "Gay Town". It was no big deal. That area is very quiet and no one bothers you save for a bum or two once in a while. I didn't go out bar hopping while I was there...it was a bit creepy enough just looking in the windows of some of them late at night. Just not my cup of tea...not that there's anything wrong with that mind you! Although I did have the opportunity to meet and chat with a "lovely" trans-gender person named Anita (was Jeff) at my work pub the last night I was there. We didn't converse about her transformation. She was very sweet. We talked about Toronto and photography (she is also a photographer). It was only slightly surreal...I'd had a couple pints of Guinness by then. All in all, it was an interesting hour of pub chat for me. We exchanged website addresses and I headed out for the subway "home". My last night in Toronto.
At the subway station, I had a much stranger encounter. As I stepped onto the platform at the bottom of the stairs to wait for the next train, there it was. A very large, mature raccoon. It was slowly ambling its way around the small area between the subway wall and the edge of the platform, sampling bits of whatever trash had been left on the cement from inconsiderate riders. It didn't seem to notice or care that I was there, just a few feet from it. A few other people farther away were staring, a couple of young women were giggling, trying to get their cell phone cameras going. The raccoon continued its fruitless search for something. The subway train began to pull into the station, moving much slower than usual. The operator had noticed the animal and decided to slow down. He reached out the window of his car and tossed a bit of food in the raccoon's direction as the subway rolled by. It didn't seem to see what had been thrown. It appeared to be blind or sick or both. As the subway train came to a stop, the animal meandered back toward it, as if wanting to go back down to the track level and return to its den under the structure (that is where many of them reside). It bumped into the closed door of the train. If the door had been open, it would have wandered right into the train itself. The operator waited to open the doors until the raccoon turned and walked back toward the wall. I got on. The doors closed. And my last subway ride in Toronto began, slowly at first, then faster as it cleared the station and the raccoon that continued its search of the subway platform.
I had heard from the locals that downtown Toronto is literally infested with raccoons. Upon hearing that, I raised my eyebrows in disbelief, "Really?", I said with a slight smirk on my face, "Raccoons? Where do they live?" I was informed that they live everywhere...in trees, under houses and apartments and other buildings, and under the subways. And after Googling "Toronto raccoons", I also discovered that it is quite a problem now. The humane society discourages any control or eradication efforts. So, they just coexist with them for now.
My time in Canada was rather short by most standards (three weeks). Too short to offer any kind of accurate description of the city of Toronto or Canada in general. I worked most of the time. Someday, I would like to go back when the weather is nicer and I have more time to explore. It's an interesting city at the very least. The people are friendly and enjoy talking to you about the differences between themselves and the Americans. Those differences are mostly political. The look, talk, and live their lives just like us. They do have socialized medicine, though they criticize it openly because of some of the shortcomings, ie, paying for prescriptions and the exorbitant taxes imposed on alcohol, liquor, and gasoline. Everything's a tradeout. There are no free lunches anywhere...even in the Great White North, eh?
Cheers to my new-found friends in Toronto. Thanks for your hospitality. More photos of what I was able to see in Toronto here.
Sunday, December 9, 2007
My Canada experience, Parte Une
For me to write a comprehensive comparison between Canada and the United States at this point in time would be like trying to write a comparison of, well...Canada and the United States after spending only two weeks working in downtown Toronto without ever having seen anything else in this huge country. My Canadian experience has been limited to subway rides up and down Younge Street (actually under Younge Street, the longest street in the world by the way), working 11 hours or so a day in a Canadian pub, and gazing out the little window of my little room in the little rooming house in which I have been staying during my time here. I have managed to walk around the streets a bit, mostly to and from my little rooming house and the above mentioned subway and an occasional foray into the frigid Toronto nights in search of something to eat...never straying more than a few blocks from my temporary abode.
Today, Sunday, my day off, I plan on venturing out with my trusty Canon 20D and taking a few photos of, yes...downtown Toronto. There just isn’t enough time to go anywhere else outside of the capital of Ontario, or even downtown proper, while I am here. Besides, I’m not adventurous enough to do something like that on my own, ie, without a guide or another person with whom I can get lost. I have an all-day subway pass today and that will dictate the length and breadth of my journey...riding the subway around the city and actually getting off and on at the various stops. The little folded tourist map is tucked safely into my leather Harley Davidson riding jacket, the hand-written map proudly sketched for me by a regular visitor to the pub in which I work (a pub and bar tour map indicating some cool places with live music), and my $1.00 stocking cap I got for protection against the sub-freezing wind-chill temperatures and light snow I will encounter today in downtown Toronto...I am as prepared as I ever will be to get out for a while.
Barring any unforeseen circumstances, I will post some words and photos of my last day off in Toronto later today. I fly home next Saturday morning.
Bon voyage au moi.
Today, Sunday, my day off, I plan on venturing out with my trusty Canon 20D and taking a few photos of, yes...downtown Toronto. There just isn’t enough time to go anywhere else outside of the capital of Ontario, or even downtown proper, while I am here. Besides, I’m not adventurous enough to do something like that on my own, ie, without a guide or another person with whom I can get lost. I have an all-day subway pass today and that will dictate the length and breadth of my journey...riding the subway around the city and actually getting off and on at the various stops. The little folded tourist map is tucked safely into my leather Harley Davidson riding jacket, the hand-written map proudly sketched for me by a regular visitor to the pub in which I work (a pub and bar tour map indicating some cool places with live music), and my $1.00 stocking cap I got for protection against the sub-freezing wind-chill temperatures and light snow I will encounter today in downtown Toronto...I am as prepared as I ever will be to get out for a while.
Barring any unforeseen circumstances, I will post some words and photos of my last day off in Toronto later today. I fly home next Saturday morning.
Bon voyage au moi.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
What do they call a Quarter Pounder in Canada?
They call a Quarter Pounder a Quarter Pounder. A Big Mac is a Big Mac...and so on.
Not a lot of difference from the states here in any quarter. The only real stray in language is dropping in an occasional "eh?" at the end of a sentence once in a while...as in, "Nice day, eh?" Of course, one mustn't forget the "out" and "about" thing. Other than that, I could be in Cleveland.
Our dollar is about at par right now. However, things are a bit more expensive in Canada. Not to mention the two taxes they have (GST and PST as in government and provincial sales tax). But, they don't have to worry about medical insurance either.
There are no dollar bills, replaced with $1.00 and $2.00 coins called loonies and toonies.
If any Canadians are reading this blog, my apologies for the mundane subject matter. But I live in California. My circle of friends and relatives might find this interesting.
By the way, I haven't seen any sled dogs yet?
That small piece is a subway token. Costs $2.75 a ride.
Not a lot of difference from the states here in any quarter. The only real stray in language is dropping in an occasional "eh?" at the end of a sentence once in a while...as in, "Nice day, eh?" Of course, one mustn't forget the "out" and "about" thing. Other than that, I could be in Cleveland.
Our dollar is about at par right now. However, things are a bit more expensive in Canada. Not to mention the two taxes they have (GST and PST as in government and provincial sales tax). But, they don't have to worry about medical insurance either.
There are no dollar bills, replaced with $1.00 and $2.00 coins called loonies and toonies.
If any Canadians are reading this blog, my apologies for the mundane subject matter. But I live in California. My circle of friends and relatives might find this interesting.
By the way, I haven't seen any sled dogs yet?
That small piece is a subway token. Costs $2.75 a ride.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Clarence Oddbody, AS2...Angel Second Class
I'm not going to say, "Bah, humbug!" I'm just saying that we are not in the mood this year. Are we bad people?
I've said it before, right in this here blog, Christmas ain't what it used to be for us big kids.
Even my little Loretta, holiday decorator extraordinaire, is boycotting the home decor festivities this year. She has boxes and boxes of Christmas do-dads that normally adorn our abode just after Thanksgiving. Those porcelain Santas with eight tiny reindeer...the red and green pine cone-shaped candles...lighted wreathes...the miniature Bedford town complete with music and lights and snow...they will all remain in their cardboard crypts somewhere in the rafters of the garage. And that really cool fake tree with 1500 Italian twinkly lights we got at Costco a few years ago...still neatly sequestered in it's original box we've managed to maintain over the years...will wait for another time to display itself.
And yours truly. I will enjoy a season without the worry of near fatal incidents while stringing the outdoor lights. Climbing our rickety ladder or lying cantilevered over the raingutters a couple dozen feet about the driveway is something I will not miss. Enjoying the look on Loretta's face when we plug in the lights at night for the first time...yes, I will miss that. But, it's just not going to happen this year.
For one, I will be gone most of December. The last week of November through the middle of December, I will be in Toronto for work-related training. Upon returning from the Great White North, I will be fully involved with a new restaurant opening. Long days and nights, seven days a week for the most part. Loretta will be working longer hours as well. Being empty-nesters, there is no kid factor to be concerned with. Our four spoiled indoor dogs could give a rat's ass what time of year it is! There are no holiday visits planned. No one is planning to come visit us.
One thing we will do this year though is watch one of my favorite holiday movies. We will break out the DVD of It's A Wonderful Life. I'm reasonably sure we haven't seen it for a few years. It is the quintessential take-stock-of-the-good-things-in-your-life-and-stop-whining-about-the-bad-things movie. If I wasn't on this Earth, are there people who would miss me? I say, "Yes, dammit!" My creditors would miss me for sure. But there are others whose life I may have impacted positively who may shed a tear or two. I'm quit sure I have an angel on my shoulder.
Considering some of the places I've been and the situations I've been placed in over the years...there has to be a Clarence Oddbody hovering over me. And this Angel Second Class got his wings years ago. In fact, he is probably been promoted many times for watching over me. He's is most likely a Master Chief Angel by now! Might explain all the bells I've heard ringing in my head. And I just thought I needed to increase my medication.
Just because we are not hanging up all the Christmas stuff doesn't mean we don't know and appreciate the meaning of this season. We are two very lucky individuals.
A ring-a-ding-ding!
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
The Marquis de Sade had to be a dental hygienist!
I went to the dentist for the first time in umpteen years last week. There was nothing particularly pressing dental-wise...it was just time to go. The exam results were a good news/bad news deal. Good news: You're at the dentist finally. Bad news: What the hell were you thinking waiting so long? My teeth (what's left of them) are in pretty good shape (no cavities). But, the gums gotta go! Shit, we used to joke about that years ago.
So, today, a week later, I had my first treatment...a long-overdue cleaning. Check that. It's called a Deep Cleaning. It's something that needs to be done when #1 - You've waited way too long between visits. #2 - You've refused to floss your entire life. #3 - You have a lot of plaque and calculus on your teeth, (evidently calculus is something worse than plaque, not an elective in high school). Geeze, how can that be? I used to get those Gold Stars from Sheriff John for brushing my teeth!
At 11:30 am, I reluctantly checked into The Hostel III Dental Clinic and Torture Parlor. They led me back immediately and strapped me into a plastic covered chair with a view of the parking lot and Wal-Mart in the distance. Should people be watching this sort of thing? A pleasant-sounding lady introduced herself behind me as Elizabeth...she may have said, "I'm Madame Elizabeth. I'll be your guide into the world of S & M. Would you prefer a painkiller...or not?" I was too nervous to remember. I couldn't tell you what her face looked like, she was wearing a surgical mask, industrial strength protective goggles, and a shiney, skin-tight black leather suit the whole time.
"Hmmm", Madame Elizabeth exclaimed while viewing my recent X-rays, "This may take a while, James. You've been a bad, bad, boy!" I could hear the crinkle sound from her leather outfit as she settled into the heavily embroidered buckskin chair behind me. She smelled strangely like my first set of Harley chaps mixed with Estee Lauder and garlic cheese bread. An Air Supply song came on the office Muzak system...I'm All Out Of Love I think.
Her stiletto-healed boot stomped on a small petal under my chair, sending me backwards immediately into a prone position...now looking up directly into her masked face and one of those saliva splatter-stained lights...she said, "Are you ready, James?"
My first dental treatment in many years commenced. After at least 15 minutes or so of novacaine injections, it managed to numb my entire left side. Not just the left side of my mouth...but the entire left side of my body!
Madame Elizabeth drilled, scraped, buffed, picked, ground, and assaulted my teeth. At one point, I could have sworn she strattled me from the front, and placed her stiletto-high-heeled boots on my chest for more leverage. This excrutiatingly painful torture party went only for 45 straight minutes with no let up, save for an occasional pause when I began to gag on all the water, spit, plaque, and blood running down my throat. "Are you O.K.?", she asked with feigned sincerity. "Ahhggg!", I responded with a slight nod. The suction tube continued it's watery, gurgling, suction sound, the roto-tool screamed and transmitted that high frequency dental office drill sound into the room and through my teeth into my brain. "Isn't this harmful to my already 'Navy-jet- roar-damaged' ear drums?", I asked myself. "What if I cough and gag and she drops that lethal drill thing into my throat...then what?"
I could see geysers of pink water shooting into the air highlighted by an already stained dental lamp overhead. The spraying geysers went higher and higher, covering my face with a coating of liquid that smelled like burnt teeth, novacaine, and blood. How come I didn't get to wear goggles? It was coming down in my eyes! Cheryl Crow's All I Wanna Do (Is Have Some Fun) was playing now. How strange. This is as far from having some fun as one could get! Madame Elizabeth was relentless. continuing her masochistic tirade on my mouth. I began to pray for a power failure...a tornado...any emergency will do at this point!
And then...it stopped. Was she simply pausing to unwrap some new implement of pain not yet used? Did she need to administer more novacaine for the really bad part? Was she answering a cell phone call from the dental board informing her they made a mistake on her exam and she had failed to get her license? No, it was actually over. Done for now.
Madame Elizabeth informed me that she wanted me to floss. She wanted me to rinse with warm salt water when I got home. "It will help your gums heal", she said in a calm, comforting manner. Help my gums heal! What the hell happened to my gums? I'm not looking at any of this in the mirror when I'm done.
She led me out to the reception desk, she had removed her mask, goggles, leather outfit, and stiletto-healed leather boots. Elizabeth was very pleasant looking, she had a smile on her face. I tried to smile...only one side of my face managed to move. I looked as if I had just had a stroke. Maybe I did. I just wanted to get out of there...until next Wednesday when the Madame will do the right side. I was only half done.
Copacabana by Barry Manilow was playing on the speakers as I stumbled out the door to my car.
So, today, a week later, I had my first treatment...a long-overdue cleaning. Check that. It's called a Deep Cleaning. It's something that needs to be done when #1 - You've waited way too long between visits. #2 - You've refused to floss your entire life. #3 - You have a lot of plaque and calculus on your teeth, (evidently calculus is something worse than plaque, not an elective in high school). Geeze, how can that be? I used to get those Gold Stars from Sheriff John for brushing my teeth!
At 11:30 am, I reluctantly checked into The Hostel III Dental Clinic and Torture Parlor. They led me back immediately and strapped me into a plastic covered chair with a view of the parking lot and Wal-Mart in the distance. Should people be watching this sort of thing? A pleasant-sounding lady introduced herself behind me as Elizabeth...she may have said, "I'm Madame Elizabeth. I'll be your guide into the world of S & M. Would you prefer a painkiller...or not?" I was too nervous to remember. I couldn't tell you what her face looked like, she was wearing a surgical mask, industrial strength protective goggles, and a shiney, skin-tight black leather suit the whole time.
"Hmmm", Madame Elizabeth exclaimed while viewing my recent X-rays, "This may take a while, James. You've been a bad, bad, boy!" I could hear the crinkle sound from her leather outfit as she settled into the heavily embroidered buckskin chair behind me. She smelled strangely like my first set of Harley chaps mixed with Estee Lauder and garlic cheese bread. An Air Supply song came on the office Muzak system...I'm All Out Of Love I think.
Her stiletto-healed boot stomped on a small petal under my chair, sending me backwards immediately into a prone position...now looking up directly into her masked face and one of those saliva splatter-stained lights...she said, "Are you ready, James?"
My first dental treatment in many years commenced. After at least 15 minutes or so of novacaine injections, it managed to numb my entire left side. Not just the left side of my mouth...but the entire left side of my body!
Madame Elizabeth drilled, scraped, buffed, picked, ground, and assaulted my teeth. At one point, I could have sworn she strattled me from the front, and placed her stiletto-high-heeled boots on my chest for more leverage. This excrutiatingly painful torture party went only for 45 straight minutes with no let up, save for an occasional pause when I began to gag on all the water, spit, plaque, and blood running down my throat. "Are you O.K.?", she asked with feigned sincerity. "Ahhggg!", I responded with a slight nod. The suction tube continued it's watery, gurgling, suction sound, the roto-tool screamed and transmitted that high frequency dental office drill sound into the room and through my teeth into my brain. "Isn't this harmful to my already 'Navy-jet- roar-damaged' ear drums?", I asked myself. "What if I cough and gag and she drops that lethal drill thing into my throat...then what?"
I could see geysers of pink water shooting into the air highlighted by an already stained dental lamp overhead. The spraying geysers went higher and higher, covering my face with a coating of liquid that smelled like burnt teeth, novacaine, and blood. How come I didn't get to wear goggles? It was coming down in my eyes! Cheryl Crow's All I Wanna Do (Is Have Some Fun) was playing now. How strange. This is as far from having some fun as one could get! Madame Elizabeth was relentless. continuing her masochistic tirade on my mouth. I began to pray for a power failure...a tornado...any emergency will do at this point!
And then...it stopped. Was she simply pausing to unwrap some new implement of pain not yet used? Did she need to administer more novacaine for the really bad part? Was she answering a cell phone call from the dental board informing her they made a mistake on her exam and she had failed to get her license? No, it was actually over. Done for now.
Madame Elizabeth informed me that she wanted me to floss. She wanted me to rinse with warm salt water when I got home. "It will help your gums heal", she said in a calm, comforting manner. Help my gums heal! What the hell happened to my gums? I'm not looking at any of this in the mirror when I'm done.
She led me out to the reception desk, she had removed her mask, goggles, leather outfit, and stiletto-healed leather boots. Elizabeth was very pleasant looking, she had a smile on her face. I tried to smile...only one side of my face managed to move. I looked as if I had just had a stroke. Maybe I did. I just wanted to get out of there...until next Wednesday when the Madame will do the right side. I was only half done.
Copacabana by Barry Manilow was playing on the speakers as I stumbled out the door to my car.
Friday, November 9, 2007
Just call me MunDanish.
You know, I've always been very proud of my heritage. My mother is 100% Danish, my father was Danish/English. So, I guess I am about 3/4 Danish. That sound about right, Mom?
Throughout most of my adult life, my hair (what's left of it) has been very dark, almost black now. And, no, I don't dye it! Even though I was a total toe-head until age nine or so...then light brown, then brown, etc, etc...I am Danish. When I told people I was Danish, they would always say, "Hmmm, really. How come you're not blonde?" My 100% Danish mother had very dark brown hair when she was young (it has since turned a bit "lighter"). "Maybe you're thinking of Swedish, or Norwegian. But I'm not convinced all of them are blondes either".
In Holland, our European neighboring land of similar-looking windmills, wooden shoes, boring food, and grumpy attitudes...there is a huge contingent of Indonesians. They are many brown-skinned Netherlanders originating from the South Pacific (New Guinea, Malaysia, Philippines) . They speak Dutch and Portuguese and have been there for a long time. Figure that one out!
So why is it so hard to fathom someone from Denmark with dark brown hair, not fair-skinned, and has no freckles? I've been told that one of reasons Danes are so diversified in their ethnic origins is because they have been "conquered" so many times over the centuries. Plundering, bedouine hordes took over around the turn of the century (the first century to the second), and left a lot of genes from their raping and pillaging. Danes are natural pacifists. We're lovers, not fighters. We, of that tiny little principality of Denmark, have survived because of that. So, if some of us resemble Ghengis Khan or Christopher Columbus or Saxo Grammaticus...so be it. We are Scandinavians, but we're not all blonde-haired. We are a proud bunch. Grumpy, hospitable, with a very dry, cynical sense of humor, but proud.
We've even managed to preserve our culinary culture over the centuries. It's called mundane. Recipes consisting of two or three items, usually some sort of meat plus salt and pepper, abound. How this happened with those wacky French so geographically close is anyone's guess. I love French cooking, but their pompous chefs have turned the basic staple of life into a science, a religion that no one can agree on. Sorry Monsieur Escoffier. Of course, we are well known for the pastry thing. Can't beat a traditional danish and coffee in the morning while reading the paper and complaining about anything and everything in the world.
I have yet to visit the land of my ancestors. Hopefully, I will before checking out. The school-taught second language in Denmark is English...that says something about their good-naturedness, welcoming attitude toward the New World.
Regarding Danish cuisine, I'll never forget my Grandpa Carl Christiansen teaching me how to make frikadeller, a spiced up ground meat dish similar to meatloaf or meatballs, but fried in patties. He was a cafe owner in South Dakota for many years after coming from Denmark. His wife, my Grandma Melita Christiansen (the person who nicknamed me Skip), lavished me with affection and attention from day one. I think she even taught me the appreciation for a good, strong cup of heavily-creamed-and-sugared coffee at a very young age, allowing me to take a sip or two from her cup.
Grandpa Christiansen also introduced me to cigars when I was about seven! He got a kick out of watching me take a drag, turning green, then coughing my guts up. I guess I wanted to be like him.
The Danes are a simple bunch. Being MunDanish (as in mundane, regular, ordinary folk) is not a bad thing at all. I come from, good, strong, stubborn, friendly, Northern European stock. We are indeed pacifists...but don't piss us off! And don't forget, it was the Vikings who really discovered America long before Chris Columbus laid claim.
Tak. Goddag til mit verden...Thank You. Hello (welcome) to my world.
Throughout most of my adult life, my hair (what's left of it) has been very dark, almost black now. And, no, I don't dye it! Even though I was a total toe-head until age nine or so...then light brown, then brown, etc, etc...I am Danish. When I told people I was Danish, they would always say, "Hmmm, really. How come you're not blonde?" My 100% Danish mother had very dark brown hair when she was young (it has since turned a bit "lighter"). "Maybe you're thinking of Swedish, or Norwegian. But I'm not convinced all of them are blondes either".
In Holland, our European neighboring land of similar-looking windmills, wooden shoes, boring food, and grumpy attitudes...there is a huge contingent of Indonesians. They are many brown-skinned Netherlanders originating from the South Pacific (New Guinea, Malaysia, Philippines) . They speak Dutch and Portuguese and have been there for a long time. Figure that one out!
So why is it so hard to fathom someone from Denmark with dark brown hair, not fair-skinned, and has no freckles? I've been told that one of reasons Danes are so diversified in their ethnic origins is because they have been "conquered" so many times over the centuries. Plundering, bedouine hordes took over around the turn of the century (the first century to the second), and left a lot of genes from their raping and pillaging. Danes are natural pacifists. We're lovers, not fighters. We, of that tiny little principality of Denmark, have survived because of that. So, if some of us resemble Ghengis Khan or Christopher Columbus or Saxo Grammaticus...so be it. We are Scandinavians, but we're not all blonde-haired. We are a proud bunch. Grumpy, hospitable, with a very dry, cynical sense of humor, but proud.
We've even managed to preserve our culinary culture over the centuries. It's called mundane. Recipes consisting of two or three items, usually some sort of meat plus salt and pepper, abound. How this happened with those wacky French so geographically close is anyone's guess. I love French cooking, but their pompous chefs have turned the basic staple of life into a science, a religion that no one can agree on. Sorry Monsieur Escoffier. Of course, we are well known for the pastry thing. Can't beat a traditional danish and coffee in the morning while reading the paper and complaining about anything and everything in the world.
I have yet to visit the land of my ancestors. Hopefully, I will before checking out. The school-taught second language in Denmark is English...that says something about their good-naturedness, welcoming attitude toward the New World.
Regarding Danish cuisine, I'll never forget my Grandpa Carl Christiansen teaching me how to make frikadeller, a spiced up ground meat dish similar to meatloaf or meatballs, but fried in patties. He was a cafe owner in South Dakota for many years after coming from Denmark. His wife, my Grandma Melita Christiansen (the person who nicknamed me Skip), lavished me with affection and attention from day one. I think she even taught me the appreciation for a good, strong cup of heavily-creamed-and-sugared coffee at a very young age, allowing me to take a sip or two from her cup.
Grandpa Christiansen also introduced me to cigars when I was about seven! He got a kick out of watching me take a drag, turning green, then coughing my guts up. I guess I wanted to be like him.
The Danes are a simple bunch. Being MunDanish (as in mundane, regular, ordinary folk) is not a bad thing at all. I come from, good, strong, stubborn, friendly, Northern European stock. We are indeed pacifists...but don't piss us off! And don't forget, it was the Vikings who really discovered America long before Chris Columbus laid claim.
Tak. Goddag til mit verden...Thank You. Hello (welcome) to my world.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Ace in the Hole
Just a quickee....
Steven Spielberg's favorite movie is Billy Wilder's (writer & director) 1951 Ace in the Hole starring Kirk Douglas. Check it out sometime on Netlfix, or TCM. By the way, it's not a western. But a character-driven drama set in Albuquerque, New Mexico when a small-town local is trapped in a cave-in under some Native-American ruins. Douglas plays a ruthless newspaper writer who milks the story nationwide a bit too far.
My favorite line from the move comes from Jan Sterling's character (the trapped man's wife) to Kirk Douglas, "I knew you were hard-boiled. But you - you're 20 minutes!".
Check out some other lines from this gem, it's what good script writing is all about.
Give this classic a try sometime. By the way, Billy Wilder also did (among many others) The Lost Weekend, Sunset Boulevard, Stalag 17, Sabrina, The Seven Year Itch, The Spirit of St. Louis, Witness for the Prosecution, Some Like It Hot, The Apartment, Irma la Douce.
Steven Spielberg's favorite movie is Billy Wilder's (writer & director) 1951 Ace in the Hole starring Kirk Douglas. Check it out sometime on Netlfix, or TCM. By the way, it's not a western. But a character-driven drama set in Albuquerque, New Mexico when a small-town local is trapped in a cave-in under some Native-American ruins. Douglas plays a ruthless newspaper writer who milks the story nationwide a bit too far.
My favorite line from the move comes from Jan Sterling's character (the trapped man's wife) to Kirk Douglas, "I knew you were hard-boiled. But you - you're 20 minutes!".
Check out some other lines from this gem, it's what good script writing is all about.
Give this classic a try sometime. By the way, Billy Wilder also did (among many others) The Lost Weekend, Sunset Boulevard, Stalag 17, Sabrina, The Seven Year Itch, The Spirit of St. Louis, Witness for the Prosecution, Some Like It Hot, The Apartment, Irma la Douce.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Fact or Fiction?
I often get sucked into taking those little on-line trivia quizzes embedded in my browser's news headline section. Quizzes like Pick the Celebrity Siblings, World Records, or Weird State and Municipal Laws (the one I just wasted five minutes on). The promo'd question that drew me into this "too much time on my hands waster": In what state is it illegal to sleep in the nude? Answer: Minnesota...ya'!
In my many travels, I've accumulated a Top 10 list of strange "facts" from around the country and the world. These may or may not be true as some were acquired (or observed) while sitting at a bar under the influence of alcohol, recreational tobacco, extreme fatigue, or a combination of all three.
True or False...you be the judge.
10. In Taiwan, I watched a demonstration of "Hard-boiled Egg Baseball" played by two naked ladies in an exotic bar. BTW...they didn't throw the eggs with their hands.
9. You can be arrested, thrown in jail, and "caned" for spitting on the sidewalk in Singapore.
8. In Millington, Tennessee (just outside Memphis), I saw signs in front of many houses that read, "Sailors and dogs...stay off the grass".
7. In Idaho, it is illegal for a woman to eat a kielbasa in public.
6. In one city just outside Seattle, it is illegal to say the name, "George W. Bush".
5. Gorgonzola cheese has been outlawed in Alaska because it smells exactly like dog shit.
4. If you leave Spam on the kitchen counter overnight...it will melt.
3. I ate soup made from frogs, lizards and cacti during a survival course in the Navy.
2. I once worked at a restaurant that had four foot long dried bull's penises for sale as walking canes in the gift shop.
1. I once had an intimate moment with a girlfriend in a 1972 Fiat 124 Spyder at 70 mph on the Ventura Freeway...I was driving.
As a buddy of mine reminds me quite often, "Man...please tell me you're taking your medication!"
In my many travels, I've accumulated a Top 10 list of strange "facts" from around the country and the world. These may or may not be true as some were acquired (or observed) while sitting at a bar under the influence of alcohol, recreational tobacco, extreme fatigue, or a combination of all three.
True or False...you be the judge.
10. In Taiwan, I watched a demonstration of "Hard-boiled Egg Baseball" played by two naked ladies in an exotic bar. BTW...they didn't throw the eggs with their hands.
9. You can be arrested, thrown in jail, and "caned" for spitting on the sidewalk in Singapore.
8. In Millington, Tennessee (just outside Memphis), I saw signs in front of many houses that read, "Sailors and dogs...stay off the grass".
7. In Idaho, it is illegal for a woman to eat a kielbasa in public.
6. In one city just outside Seattle, it is illegal to say the name, "George W. Bush".
5. Gorgonzola cheese has been outlawed in Alaska because it smells exactly like dog shit.
4. If you leave Spam on the kitchen counter overnight...it will melt.
3. I ate soup made from frogs, lizards and cacti during a survival course in the Navy.
2. I once worked at a restaurant that had four foot long dried bull's penises for sale as walking canes in the gift shop.
1. I once had an intimate moment with a girlfriend in a 1972 Fiat 124 Spyder at 70 mph on the Ventura Freeway...I was driving.
As a buddy of mine reminds me quite often, "Man...please tell me you're taking your medication!"
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Get ready for a Firkin' good time!
If World Class Fish & Chips, Beef Pot Roast & Yorkshire Pudding, Shepherd's Pie, Bangers & Mash, Guinness Steak & Mushroom Pie, and Chicken Curry sound interesting to you...then get ready for a Firkin' good time...coming very soon to Tracy.
Besides the traditional pub fare just mentioned, you'll find more of the most unique menu items in an authentic British pub atmosphere this side of the Altamont Pass at Firkin and Beaver Pub in Tracy. Among other things, this will be my new home as General Manager/Chief Cook & Bottle Washer and Head Cheerleader. I just bought a new Army cot as I will spending a lot of time there. It will be the very first of this relatively new pub concept to open in our area (Stanislaus & San Joaquin Counties). Several others are already in the works.
Yes, I am shamelessly self-promoting myself and our new restaurant on my blog! What's your point! Seriously...this is one of the most interesting career/business endeavors I have been involved with. I'm all a twitter with excitement, anxiety, and a feeling of adventure. No hives yet...I'm keeping my fingers crossed.
Check out our Firkin and Beaver website for more info, construction photos, location map, and a complete menu. I will also post more info here from time to time, ie, our exact opening date, photos, and so on. In the meantime, I'm off to Toronto, Canada very shortly for training, eh! Ya' think I'll need a coat?
I'll bring the ol' iBook with me. I'm pretty sure they have the internet in Canada.
Besides the traditional pub fare just mentioned, you'll find more of the most unique menu items in an authentic British pub atmosphere this side of the Altamont Pass at Firkin and Beaver Pub in Tracy. Among other things, this will be my new home as General Manager/Chief Cook & Bottle Washer and Head Cheerleader. I just bought a new Army cot as I will spending a lot of time there. It will be the very first of this relatively new pub concept to open in our area (Stanislaus & San Joaquin Counties). Several others are already in the works.
Yes, I am shamelessly self-promoting myself and our new restaurant on my blog! What's your point! Seriously...this is one of the most interesting career/business endeavors I have been involved with. I'm all a twitter with excitement, anxiety, and a feeling of adventure. No hives yet...I'm keeping my fingers crossed.
Check out our Firkin and Beaver website for more info, construction photos, location map, and a complete menu. I will also post more info here from time to time, ie, our exact opening date, photos, and so on. In the meantime, I'm off to Toronto, Canada very shortly for training, eh! Ya' think I'll need a coat?
I'll bring the ol' iBook with me. I'm pretty sure they have the internet in Canada.
Friday, November 2, 2007
Could anything be worse than a trip to the DMV?
The answer is a resounding, "Yes!"
Another demeaning, government, stand-in-line-even-though-you-have-an-appointment experience: Getting a passport. Ah...you can't pay for that kind of fun...but, I did pay dearly for it. I paid $157, plus gas to and from San Francisco (a lovely 2 hour and 45 minute drive each way in bumper-to-bumper traffic), plus lunch, not to mention hanging around for 5 hours so I could get it that day.
I know what you're saying. You're saying, "What the hell is yer major malfunction numb-nuts? Ya' just go down to the post office, git yer pitcher taken, then wait around for a couple of months fer it to come in the mail!" That's fine, as long as you don't need it within a short amount of time...which I do.
Since some government dumb-ass with nothing better to do with his time suggested that we all need passports for Mexico and Canada, the process takes a bit longer now. If you go to, say, a post office where they issue passports, it takes about four to six weeks after forking over about $100. If you go to a post office and tell them, "I want an expedited passport", it takes about three to four weeks after forking over $120. If you go to one of them there regional passport offices (like I did), you need an appointment, $157, and your head examined. But, it only takes a week or so in the mail. Or, like numb-nuts here did...hang around all day after turning in your paperwork, and pick it up in the afternoon. I got me a passport (my first)! Considering I will have to travel to Canada for my job in the very near future, I needed one...soon.
So here's Skippy with about five hours to kill in downtown San Francisco, another check point in my life (like getting a passport) I experienced for the very first time. And strangely enough...it was kinda fun! I got to fart around by myself for hours in one of the most interesting cities in the country. On Halloween no less, making it more than difficult to pick out day-to-day attire from Halloween costumes. After all...it's San Francisco!
I did many second-takes, "Hmmm...vampire costume...or everyday goth? Annie Hall lipstick lesbian...or turn-of-the-century newsboy costume? Drag queen...or, drag queen? Conjoined twins...or newly engaged Bruce and Todd out for a stroll at lunch?" Not that there's anything wrong with that...!
I chose not to bring my camera (another dumb-ass move), so I took a ton of shots with my cell phone. Unfortunately, getting those image files out of the camera and into my iMac takes an act of God. Probably not gonna happen.
Loretta and I are planning a day-trip there someday soon. It will be fun to walk around and hang out in downtown S.F., if not just for people watching. And, there are a lot to watch!
Another demeaning, government, stand-in-line-even-though-you-have-an-appointment experience: Getting a passport. Ah...you can't pay for that kind of fun...but, I did pay dearly for it. I paid $157, plus gas to and from San Francisco (a lovely 2 hour and 45 minute drive each way in bumper-to-bumper traffic), plus lunch, not to mention hanging around for 5 hours so I could get it that day.
I know what you're saying. You're saying, "What the hell is yer major malfunction numb-nuts? Ya' just go down to the post office, git yer pitcher taken, then wait around for a couple of months fer it to come in the mail!" That's fine, as long as you don't need it within a short amount of time...which I do.
Since some government dumb-ass with nothing better to do with his time suggested that we all need passports for Mexico and Canada, the process takes a bit longer now. If you go to, say, a post office where they issue passports, it takes about four to six weeks after forking over about $100. If you go to a post office and tell them, "I want an expedited passport", it takes about three to four weeks after forking over $120. If you go to one of them there regional passport offices (like I did), you need an appointment, $157, and your head examined. But, it only takes a week or so in the mail. Or, like numb-nuts here did...hang around all day after turning in your paperwork, and pick it up in the afternoon. I got me a passport (my first)! Considering I will have to travel to Canada for my job in the very near future, I needed one...soon.
So here's Skippy with about five hours to kill in downtown San Francisco, another check point in my life (like getting a passport) I experienced for the very first time. And strangely enough...it was kinda fun! I got to fart around by myself for hours in one of the most interesting cities in the country. On Halloween no less, making it more than difficult to pick out day-to-day attire from Halloween costumes. After all...it's San Francisco!
I did many second-takes, "Hmmm...vampire costume...or everyday goth? Annie Hall lipstick lesbian...or turn-of-the-century newsboy costume? Drag queen...or, drag queen? Conjoined twins...or newly engaged Bruce and Todd out for a stroll at lunch?" Not that there's anything wrong with that...!
I chose not to bring my camera (another dumb-ass move), so I took a ton of shots with my cell phone. Unfortunately, getting those image files out of the camera and into my iMac takes an act of God. Probably not gonna happen.
Loretta and I are planning a day-trip there someday soon. It will be fun to walk around and hang out in downtown S.F., if not just for people watching. And, there are a lot to watch!
Saturday, October 27, 2007
A converation with a Pomeranian.
Today, our little Pomeranian stood behind me in the bathroom while I got ready to get in the shower. No, she's not tall enough to do that...our Greyhound is, but I've stopped disrobing in front of him. So Sassie, the Pom, began barking at me in that tiny dog "ruh ruh ruh ruh ruff" thing. I turned around and she stopped barking and begged for attention. Then, as I turned back she started again. I could see her in the bathroom mirror and she me..."ruh ruh ruh ruh ruff"! She was barking at my reflection in the mirror. Granted, I was naked. But I'm not convinced I look that different naked in the mirror than I do not in the mirror.
Do dogs perceive there is another room or another world in a mirror? Quite possibly. I've observed our Boxer, Lucy, stare at me in the full length mirror in our bedroom...I was standing right next to her. She didn't bark at me though. She just wanted some attention from the dummy making faces at her in the reflection considering I was ignoring her "in person".
Perhaps I need to take a closer look at my reflection in the mirror. Perhaps dogs have some sort of visual perception that we humans have yet to acquire...or have lost over the course of evolution.
Me: Sassie, why are you barking at my reflection in the mirror? What's up with that?
Sassie: Well, I have noticed that the "you" in the mirror appears to be left-handed. And I know for a fact that you are a right-handed human. I thought you were someone else. By the way, dogs are ambidextrous you know.
Me: Thanks for that reminder. But can you see in color? Ah hah!
Sassie: Of course we can. You're wearing blue boxer shorts, aren't you?
Me: Another superior human myth dashed to the ground!
Sassie: We also have feelings. It took you over 50 years of yelling at your dogs before you realized that.
Me: How was I supposed to know?
Sassie: I guess I shouldn't look a gift human in the mouth. Get it, gift human!
Me: I get it.
Sassie: Dogs have a sense of humor too.
Me: Yeah, this conversation is a riot. Hey, why do dogs lick themselves and drag their butts around on the carpet?
Sassie: Because we can! What do you do when your ass itches?
Me: Ya' got a point there. Wanna potato chip?
Do dogs perceive there is another room or another world in a mirror? Quite possibly. I've observed our Boxer, Lucy, stare at me in the full length mirror in our bedroom...I was standing right next to her. She didn't bark at me though. She just wanted some attention from the dummy making faces at her in the reflection considering I was ignoring her "in person".
Perhaps I need to take a closer look at my reflection in the mirror. Perhaps dogs have some sort of visual perception that we humans have yet to acquire...or have lost over the course of evolution.
Me: Sassie, why are you barking at my reflection in the mirror? What's up with that?
Sassie: Well, I have noticed that the "you" in the mirror appears to be left-handed. And I know for a fact that you are a right-handed human. I thought you were someone else. By the way, dogs are ambidextrous you know.
Me: Thanks for that reminder. But can you see in color? Ah hah!
Sassie: Of course we can. You're wearing blue boxer shorts, aren't you?
Me: Another superior human myth dashed to the ground!
Sassie: We also have feelings. It took you over 50 years of yelling at your dogs before you realized that.
Me: How was I supposed to know?
Sassie: I guess I shouldn't look a gift human in the mouth. Get it, gift human!
Me: I get it.
Sassie: Dogs have a sense of humor too.
Me: Yeah, this conversation is a riot. Hey, why do dogs lick themselves and drag their butts around on the carpet?
Sassie: Because we can! What do you do when your ass itches?
Me: Ya' got a point there. Wanna potato chip?
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Sleepless About Seattle
After spending five days in Seattle this past week, I’ve come away with mixed emotions about the city I’ve wanted to live in for over 30 years.
This was a long overdue trip to see my daughter and son-in-law, specifically to spend some time with her. We pretty much just did the tourist thing with cameras in tow. Plus a couple of culinary adventures for good measure. After all, I did eat sushi for the first time. Jen and Roth were excellent hosts, as always.
Back in the seventies, I sent many resumes and radio airchecks to Seattle radio stations. At the time it was (and probably still is) a Top 20 radio market, ie, regarding population, market size, etc. I really wanted to work there and live there, even though I had not even visited Seattle yet. The culture, the opportunities, the size, the demographics, the allure...all of which fascinated me for years. Still does. The closest I got to Seattle career-wise was Boise, Idaho...a poor substitute for the Emerald City in terms of culture. I lasted six months there. It took one month to discover the mistake, and five more months to find a way back.
I would still love to make that jump to hyper space and come out in Seattle. The call of the Northwest is still strong. Or maybe my aversion to where I am now is stronger. I don’t know at this point. Other factors are now affecting my decision whether or not to “blow this pop stand”.
Logistically speaking, picking up and moving a thousand miles is a daunting task. Finding a great job, selling the house, and the other things that come with this possible future all weigh heavily. Loretta’s anxiety can not be overlooked as well. She has always been agreeable to all of my adventures, with a smattering of trepidation of course. That’s expected.
Today, this morning, we will sit down and make one of those ‘Pros” and ‘Cons’ list about moving. Maybe that will help make things more clear for a making a righteous decision. And one of the items on that list, one that should be a ‘Pro’ has turned into a ‘Con’. The fact that my daughter and son-in-law live in Seattle now. And this particular ‘Con’ has much more weight than the “gloomy weather”, the “hassle of moving”, or “selling our house”.
I’ve come to discover that I’m expecting too much from my daughter when it comes to support for this move of ours. Actually, she recently told me that in an e-mail. I’ve also come to feel that she may not actually want a parental intrusion into her newfound world. After more than two years in Seattle, I’m not convinced that she would truly welcome close proximity on my part. An occasional visit, yes. A full-time city-mate, no.
There is no fault or hard feelings. Just reason to rethink. I respect other people’s feelings, even if they pain me a bit. I would not be selfish enough to ignore another person’s wishes, especially my child’s.
Jenifer’s cordial and caring invitation for me to come visit recently was accepted and I made the trip. I know she truly wanted to see her Dad for a few days now since they won’t be coming here for the holiday season. I had a great time, her gracious hospitality made me feel right at home. Her efforts to provide an enjoyable itinerary were wonderful. I just hope I didn’t impose too much on her and Roth. Their house is small but very homey and comfortable.
Loretta didn’t make this trip due to job responsibilities. Our next visit to Seattle will include her. It will make things much easier on everyone if we stay in a hotel. They can make the short drive to downtown Seattle and we can take them out to dinner at one of those trendy eateries we always read about. It’s all good!
Now...time to get at that ‘Pro’ and ‘Con’ list. No decision has yet been made about moving.
And for Jen and Roth: If you hear a knock on your door someday and find a familiar-looking older couple standing on your stoop with four dogs...we’ll just be visiting. But, we may be living across town as well!
This was a long overdue trip to see my daughter and son-in-law, specifically to spend some time with her. We pretty much just did the tourist thing with cameras in tow. Plus a couple of culinary adventures for good measure. After all, I did eat sushi for the first time. Jen and Roth were excellent hosts, as always.
Back in the seventies, I sent many resumes and radio airchecks to Seattle radio stations. At the time it was (and probably still is) a Top 20 radio market, ie, regarding population, market size, etc. I really wanted to work there and live there, even though I had not even visited Seattle yet. The culture, the opportunities, the size, the demographics, the allure...all of which fascinated me for years. Still does. The closest I got to Seattle career-wise was Boise, Idaho...a poor substitute for the Emerald City in terms of culture. I lasted six months there. It took one month to discover the mistake, and five more months to find a way back.
I would still love to make that jump to hyper space and come out in Seattle. The call of the Northwest is still strong. Or maybe my aversion to where I am now is stronger. I don’t know at this point. Other factors are now affecting my decision whether or not to “blow this pop stand”.
Logistically speaking, picking up and moving a thousand miles is a daunting task. Finding a great job, selling the house, and the other things that come with this possible future all weigh heavily. Loretta’s anxiety can not be overlooked as well. She has always been agreeable to all of my adventures, with a smattering of trepidation of course. That’s expected.
Today, this morning, we will sit down and make one of those ‘Pros” and ‘Cons’ list about moving. Maybe that will help make things more clear for a making a righteous decision. And one of the items on that list, one that should be a ‘Pro’ has turned into a ‘Con’. The fact that my daughter and son-in-law live in Seattle now. And this particular ‘Con’ has much more weight than the “gloomy weather”, the “hassle of moving”, or “selling our house”.
I’ve come to discover that I’m expecting too much from my daughter when it comes to support for this move of ours. Actually, she recently told me that in an e-mail. I’ve also come to feel that she may not actually want a parental intrusion into her newfound world. After more than two years in Seattle, I’m not convinced that she would truly welcome close proximity on my part. An occasional visit, yes. A full-time city-mate, no.
There is no fault or hard feelings. Just reason to rethink. I respect other people’s feelings, even if they pain me a bit. I would not be selfish enough to ignore another person’s wishes, especially my child’s.
Jenifer’s cordial and caring invitation for me to come visit recently was accepted and I made the trip. I know she truly wanted to see her Dad for a few days now since they won’t be coming here for the holiday season. I had a great time, her gracious hospitality made me feel right at home. Her efforts to provide an enjoyable itinerary were wonderful. I just hope I didn’t impose too much on her and Roth. Their house is small but very homey and comfortable.
Loretta didn’t make this trip due to job responsibilities. Our next visit to Seattle will include her. It will make things much easier on everyone if we stay in a hotel. They can make the short drive to downtown Seattle and we can take them out to dinner at one of those trendy eateries we always read about. It’s all good!
Now...time to get at that ‘Pro’ and ‘Con’ list. No decision has yet been made about moving.
And for Jen and Roth: If you hear a knock on your door someday and find a familiar-looking older couple standing on your stoop with four dogs...we’ll just be visiting. But, we may be living across town as well!
Sunday, October 21, 2007
I ate "bait" this weekend.
A thousand pardons to true sushi and sashimi afficianados who detest the reference to sushi as “bait”. I just couldn’t help myself. After all, I have resided in the central valley of California for nine years now, and it is the redneck capital of the Golden State! In addition, there ain’t one heck of a lot of sushi fans, or sushi places, in the Modesto area. A mecca for even borderline foodies of any type it is not. In fact, it’s more of a cuisine wasteland...a desert...a black hole...the end of the earth...a netherland...a virtual nothingness of non-adventurous culinary catacombs. If it hasn’t been incinerated over a bed of 1000 degree mesquite coals then slathered in canned salsa and served with French fries, it won’t "go" around these parts, son.
My Seattle-ite daughter and son-in-law have been promising to deflower my sushi virginity on my next visit to the Emerald City for some time. And so, friends, it was done. I did it. I consumed copious amounts of uncooked animal protein in the form of tuna, amberjack, escolar, eel, several species of salmon, scallops, mackerel, shrimp, and yellowtail. I’ve had sushi now. And not to my surprise, I actually enjoyed it. I’ll do it again someday.
Technically speaking, we dined on nigiri, as opposed to sashimi. Nigiri is raw fish wrapped around cooked rice. Sashimi is just raw fish by itself. I might also add (for the benefit of any sushi virgins reading this) that a sushi bar experience is not raw fish exclusive. There are many other items on the menu that are actually cooked through and through. Tempura fish and vegetables, chicken teriyaki, and various panko-coated rolls abound on a good sushi bar menu just to name a few.
It’s kind of funny that just last weekend was my brother-in-law’s annual fish fry in Red Bluff. I’ve eaten more fish this week than in the previous six months. Both ends of the seafood spectrum, but seafood nonetheless.
If you’ve wanted to try sushi for the first time, I highly recommend going with someone who you consider to be at least a “novice” in this area. A somewhat seasoned sushi specialist in tow will make the endeavor a little less scary and mysterious. Even then...sushi is not for everyone. I can name a half dozen of my closest friends, relatives, and a food-picky spouse who will take much prodding to try it.
Truly good, fresh sushi is not fishy smelling. It is not fishy tasting either. My favorite from our night out at Seattle’s I Love Sushi is called escolar, or super white tuna. The taste is extremely mild, and it almost melts in your mouth. Even the fresh water eel (which was cooked) was very flavorful despite its foreign appearance and darker color.
Sake was not a part of our meal at this last sitting. We all drank big bottles of Sapporo (Japanese lager). Maybe a few shots of good sake prior to a first time will make the “deflowering” a bit easier! And stay away from the more exotic sushi fare like sea urchin, octopus, or squid. These critters served raw will turn you away from this cuisine in no time flat.
Thanks to Jen and Roth for holding my hand.
Still on my list of Things I’ve Never Eaten But Would Like To Before I Die: a beating cobra heart, coconut grubs, and deep fried bats. NOT!
My Seattle-ite daughter and son-in-law have been promising to deflower my sushi virginity on my next visit to the Emerald City for some time. And so, friends, it was done. I did it. I consumed copious amounts of uncooked animal protein in the form of tuna, amberjack, escolar, eel, several species of salmon, scallops, mackerel, shrimp, and yellowtail. I’ve had sushi now. And not to my surprise, I actually enjoyed it. I’ll do it again someday.
Technically speaking, we dined on nigiri, as opposed to sashimi. Nigiri is raw fish wrapped around cooked rice. Sashimi is just raw fish by itself. I might also add (for the benefit of any sushi virgins reading this) that a sushi bar experience is not raw fish exclusive. There are many other items on the menu that are actually cooked through and through. Tempura fish and vegetables, chicken teriyaki, and various panko-coated rolls abound on a good sushi bar menu just to name a few.
It’s kind of funny that just last weekend was my brother-in-law’s annual fish fry in Red Bluff. I’ve eaten more fish this week than in the previous six months. Both ends of the seafood spectrum, but seafood nonetheless.
If you’ve wanted to try sushi for the first time, I highly recommend going with someone who you consider to be at least a “novice” in this area. A somewhat seasoned sushi specialist in tow will make the endeavor a little less scary and mysterious. Even then...sushi is not for everyone. I can name a half dozen of my closest friends, relatives, and a food-picky spouse who will take much prodding to try it.
Truly good, fresh sushi is not fishy smelling. It is not fishy tasting either. My favorite from our night out at Seattle’s I Love Sushi is called escolar, or super white tuna. The taste is extremely mild, and it almost melts in your mouth. Even the fresh water eel (which was cooked) was very flavorful despite its foreign appearance and darker color.
Sake was not a part of our meal at this last sitting. We all drank big bottles of Sapporo (Japanese lager). Maybe a few shots of good sake prior to a first time will make the “deflowering” a bit easier! And stay away from the more exotic sushi fare like sea urchin, octopus, or squid. These critters served raw will turn you away from this cuisine in no time flat.
Thanks to Jen and Roth for holding my hand.
Still on my list of Things I’ve Never Eaten But Would Like To Before I Die: a beating cobra heart, coconut grubs, and deep fried bats. NOT!
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Sleepless in Seattle
I'm in Seattle this week through the weekend. It's one last chance until next year to visit my daughter Jen and son-in-law Roth. It looks like they won't be doing the Christmas whirlwind tour to California this time as in years past.
Surprise! It's rainy here. The typical northwest Fall weather pattern has begun. After a Summer of nasty, 100+ degree days in central California, the clouds, cool temperatures, and showers are a welcome relief for me. I like the rain.
My night on the guest futon was a bit restless last night. After what seemed like hours of tossing and turning, I eventually drifted off into a deep sleep and a long, detailed, multi-faceted dream worthy of a short story of its own. Without going into specific details here, I have one question for myself this morning. Can a dream help provide some closure on a chapter of my life that just won't seem to close? A chapter that should have been over and done with more than thirty years ago. Or will this dream perpetuate the memories? I know the answer to that question. It's up to yours truly. It's up to me to simply savor those memories, and not covet that space in time. Because it will never return.
Reality check!
Surprise! It's rainy here. The typical northwest Fall weather pattern has begun. After a Summer of nasty, 100+ degree days in central California, the clouds, cool temperatures, and showers are a welcome relief for me. I like the rain.
My night on the guest futon was a bit restless last night. After what seemed like hours of tossing and turning, I eventually drifted off into a deep sleep and a long, detailed, multi-faceted dream worthy of a short story of its own. Without going into specific details here, I have one question for myself this morning. Can a dream help provide some closure on a chapter of my life that just won't seem to close? A chapter that should have been over and done with more than thirty years ago. Or will this dream perpetuate the memories? I know the answer to that question. It's up to yours truly. It's up to me to simply savor those memories, and not covet that space in time. Because it will never return.
Reality check!
Thursday, October 11, 2007
More reunion thoughts...
Right up front, I will say now, our reunion weekend was very enjoyable. Rather than save that statement for a final after thought, there it is. We had a lot of fun. In fact, it turned out exactly as I had imagined in the weeks leading up to it.
Despite all the cynicism that arose from exposure to the present condition of our town compared to the Wonder Years days, we weren’t disappointed in the actual event. By the way, the “we” here is myself and my best friend from high school, Bob. We attended the 20th reunion and the 35th as well.
Of the three events that took place Saturday - the school tour, our afternoon Meet & Greet, and the reunion party itself - our afternoon Meet & Greet at the motel was probably the most congenial, relaxing dose of classmate nostalgia. About a dozen of us (plus a few guests) gathered around the pool for a few hours. We sipped Pina Coladas and beers and chatted. That’s all. But it didn’t feel like a meeting of twelve people from the class of 1967. It was simply a dozen or so 58 year olds with one common denominator: we just happened to go to the same school at the same time. Beyond that, we really have all that much in common...until we started talking. Marriage, divorce, kids, grand kids, ups, downs, growing old, napping, plans and goals realized and unrealized. Most folks our age say that their “To Do List” in life is not complete. It seems we all still posses an adventurous spirit. Coming to this reunion itself was evidence of that. Maybe that is why we decided to go...and others did not. Maybe that is why 71 stalwart souls made that commitment...while 869 others stayed home. Maybe some just couldn’t fit it into their schedule...while others have simply lost the desire to take a chance. To take that leap of faith. Age will do that to a person. Life will do that to you. In my case, maybe I just don’t care what people think of me like I did in high school...so I go.
Earlier in the day, a young history teacher at the school hosted a tour of the campus. His name is Mr. Tibbetts. His enthusiasm for the history of Canoga Park High School was infectious to say the least. A school that has been around since 1915 deserves such a historian. There was a lot to be said, and Mr. Tibbetts said it well.
It seemed there was a group of fifteen or so who made it to the school tour. Each and every one of us came away with a new appreciation of that place. Even though the high school has suffered through many changes, including earthquake damage, much of it looked very similar to its 1967 image. Several of the old, familiar, two-story classroom buildings had to be torn down and replaced by more modern looking structures. The two gyms are still there, as is the outside lunch area. The area where much socialization occurred way back when. Where relationships were nurtured, or broken. Where a high school student could step out academia, and back onto the “playground” for a hour. Where the guys could ogle the girls, and vice versa. Where you could be free for a short time.
We visited the library and the new media room next door where a museum of sorts is being put together. A museum of CPHS memorabilia. We got to see the inside of the old meeting hall where we attended school assemblies and watched noon-time movies. The classic pipe organ is still there, and very functional. Outside of the meeting hall the quad area is still there. Surrounded by classrooms, the pine trees, grass, and benches still sit just like they did 40 years ago. Another place to sit and socialize. At the edge of the quad there is a memorial to students who have fallen in battle. Here is where most of us experienced the most emotion. Not surprisingly, it was a very touching part of the school tour. Not surprisingly, at our age, we’ve all become much more sentimental.
Shortly after our Pina Colada Meet & Greet broke up, we headed over to The Sagebrush Cantina for the actual reunion party. The Sagebrush was within crawling distance of our motel, just up the street, very convenient at least. This place is a sprawling bar and restaurant akin to Gilley’s in the movie Urban Cowboy. I didn’t see a mechanical bull though or any cowboy hats. The outside patio is probably a square acre in size with a small stage in the front corner, the remainder is tables for drinking and appetizers. They located us in the back 40, about 3 1/2 miles from the stage. There were umbrella-covered tables, tall propane heat lamps, and a buffet line. There is also a small bar at that end of the patio to purchase overpriced, weak drinks. I will tell you at this point that several classmates said to me, “What the hell is this?” referring to the accommodations compared to past reunions. The 10th and 20th were at the Santa Monica Hilton. The 35th was at the Air Tel Hotel Ballroom in Van Nuys. No, it wasn’t posh, or even remotely worth the price we paid...but it was a reunion venue...good enough for the 71 people who decided to come!
The food? Well, the food was adequate. Again, certainly not worth the money we paid ($42). It consisted of a buffet line with a Ranch dressing salad, refried beans, rice, enchiladas, some old leftover BBQ’d chicken, some old leftover BBQ’d ribs, and tri-tip. That’s it. So, for anyone reading this who didn’t attend, you didn’t miss much with the food. By the way, no dessert. No cocktail waitresses, no service personnel of any kind. It was serve yourself all the way.
Back to the camaraderie. I spent the entire night taking photos of as much as I could. Being a photographer, it wasn’t a stretch for me. I enjoyed every minute of it. Plus, it gave me the opportunity to meet and chat a bit with just about everybody. I felt fortunate to be able to do this.
Here’s the deal with reunions. You did not know everyone from high school...period. We all had our little social groups. But when you get to the 35th or the 40th reunion, that doesn’t seem to matter as much, especially when the number of people attending dwindles over the years. Everyone has something in common. Everyone appreciates seeing and meeting the people who do show up. Some will remember your name even if they had never spoken to you in school. Some will not. The last three reunions, I had the most fortunate opportunity to attend with my two best friends over the past 45 years! Beyond that, I also met up with some nice people who remembered me, people who I went to class with. People who had something in common with me. We went to the same high school together. End of story.
New relationships were formed. Some old ones were reconstituted. Regarding the 45th reunion? Who knows at this point. Most of the people I spoke with were already excited for the 45th...and the 50th. They want to make it bigger and better than this one. Maybe so. Maybe it will be. All in all, I feel most of us thought this was one of the friendliest, nicest reunions so far. Less is better I guess. We’ll see in five years.
Despite all the cynicism that arose from exposure to the present condition of our town compared to the Wonder Years days, we weren’t disappointed in the actual event. By the way, the “we” here is myself and my best friend from high school, Bob. We attended the 20th reunion and the 35th as well.
Of the three events that took place Saturday - the school tour, our afternoon Meet & Greet, and the reunion party itself - our afternoon Meet & Greet at the motel was probably the most congenial, relaxing dose of classmate nostalgia. About a dozen of us (plus a few guests) gathered around the pool for a few hours. We sipped Pina Coladas and beers and chatted. That’s all. But it didn’t feel like a meeting of twelve people from the class of 1967. It was simply a dozen or so 58 year olds with one common denominator: we just happened to go to the same school at the same time. Beyond that, we really have all that much in common...until we started talking. Marriage, divorce, kids, grand kids, ups, downs, growing old, napping, plans and goals realized and unrealized. Most folks our age say that their “To Do List” in life is not complete. It seems we all still posses an adventurous spirit. Coming to this reunion itself was evidence of that. Maybe that is why we decided to go...and others did not. Maybe that is why 71 stalwart souls made that commitment...while 869 others stayed home. Maybe some just couldn’t fit it into their schedule...while others have simply lost the desire to take a chance. To take that leap of faith. Age will do that to a person. Life will do that to you. In my case, maybe I just don’t care what people think of me like I did in high school...so I go.
Earlier in the day, a young history teacher at the school hosted a tour of the campus. His name is Mr. Tibbetts. His enthusiasm for the history of Canoga Park High School was infectious to say the least. A school that has been around since 1915 deserves such a historian. There was a lot to be said, and Mr. Tibbetts said it well.
It seemed there was a group of fifteen or so who made it to the school tour. Each and every one of us came away with a new appreciation of that place. Even though the high school has suffered through many changes, including earthquake damage, much of it looked very similar to its 1967 image. Several of the old, familiar, two-story classroom buildings had to be torn down and replaced by more modern looking structures. The two gyms are still there, as is the outside lunch area. The area where much socialization occurred way back when. Where relationships were nurtured, or broken. Where a high school student could step out academia, and back onto the “playground” for a hour. Where the guys could ogle the girls, and vice versa. Where you could be free for a short time.
We visited the library and the new media room next door where a museum of sorts is being put together. A museum of CPHS memorabilia. We got to see the inside of the old meeting hall where we attended school assemblies and watched noon-time movies. The classic pipe organ is still there, and very functional. Outside of the meeting hall the quad area is still there. Surrounded by classrooms, the pine trees, grass, and benches still sit just like they did 40 years ago. Another place to sit and socialize. At the edge of the quad there is a memorial to students who have fallen in battle. Here is where most of us experienced the most emotion. Not surprisingly, it was a very touching part of the school tour. Not surprisingly, at our age, we’ve all become much more sentimental.
Shortly after our Pina Colada Meet & Greet broke up, we headed over to The Sagebrush Cantina for the actual reunion party. The Sagebrush was within crawling distance of our motel, just up the street, very convenient at least. This place is a sprawling bar and restaurant akin to Gilley’s in the movie Urban Cowboy. I didn’t see a mechanical bull though or any cowboy hats. The outside patio is probably a square acre in size with a small stage in the front corner, the remainder is tables for drinking and appetizers. They located us in the back 40, about 3 1/2 miles from the stage. There were umbrella-covered tables, tall propane heat lamps, and a buffet line. There is also a small bar at that end of the patio to purchase overpriced, weak drinks. I will tell you at this point that several classmates said to me, “What the hell is this?” referring to the accommodations compared to past reunions. The 10th and 20th were at the Santa Monica Hilton. The 35th was at the Air Tel Hotel Ballroom in Van Nuys. No, it wasn’t posh, or even remotely worth the price we paid...but it was a reunion venue...good enough for the 71 people who decided to come!
The food? Well, the food was adequate. Again, certainly not worth the money we paid ($42). It consisted of a buffet line with a Ranch dressing salad, refried beans, rice, enchiladas, some old leftover BBQ’d chicken, some old leftover BBQ’d ribs, and tri-tip. That’s it. So, for anyone reading this who didn’t attend, you didn’t miss much with the food. By the way, no dessert. No cocktail waitresses, no service personnel of any kind. It was serve yourself all the way.
Back to the camaraderie. I spent the entire night taking photos of as much as I could. Being a photographer, it wasn’t a stretch for me. I enjoyed every minute of it. Plus, it gave me the opportunity to meet and chat a bit with just about everybody. I felt fortunate to be able to do this.
Here’s the deal with reunions. You did not know everyone from high school...period. We all had our little social groups. But when you get to the 35th or the 40th reunion, that doesn’t seem to matter as much, especially when the number of people attending dwindles over the years. Everyone has something in common. Everyone appreciates seeing and meeting the people who do show up. Some will remember your name even if they had never spoken to you in school. Some will not. The last three reunions, I had the most fortunate opportunity to attend with my two best friends over the past 45 years! Beyond that, I also met up with some nice people who remembered me, people who I went to class with. People who had something in common with me. We went to the same high school together. End of story.
New relationships were formed. Some old ones were reconstituted. Regarding the 45th reunion? Who knows at this point. Most of the people I spoke with were already excited for the 45th...and the 50th. They want to make it bigger and better than this one. Maybe so. Maybe it will be. All in all, I feel most of us thought this was one of the friendliest, nicest reunions so far. Less is better I guess. We’ll see in five years.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Reunion thoughts...
I grew up in the extreme western end of the San Fernando Valley, just outside Los Angeles. My town, Canoga Park, used to be one of the largest orange groves anywhere. Now, it shares that end of the valley with Woodland Hills, West Hills, and Calabasas...not orange groves...just a lot of urbania.
Calabasas always seemed to be an afterthought as far as towns go. Maybe it wasn’t even officially a town. Some sort of last place to pull over and get gas and snacks on your way west on Highway 101 out of the valley. A place where Treeland was located. The location of the Motion Picture Retirement Home. A couple service stations and a bar or two. A somewhat remote spot where you could find places to “park” with your date on the weekend. That was forty years ago. Now, Calabasas is the new Studio City or Encino or Westwood. Movie stars...swimming pools...BMWs...the nouveau rich...the wannabe nouveau rich. Hulking, mansion-like homes hanging on the edge of the hills overlooking the town, hundreds more back up in the canyons that eventually find their way to Malibu. Most of the streets begin with “Park”...Park Sorrento, Park Mirasol, Park Granada, and so on. Speilberg Drive is there also. I wonder if HE lives there?
Calabasas, a mere 4.03 miles from our school, is where we decided to hold our 40th Canoga Park High School reunion last weekend. We gathered at a huge, popular watering hole and restaurant called The Sagebrush Cantina. I called it a “dump”, a “dive”, and a rustic, west valley “meat market” for the non-Hollywood, middle income types looking to hook up.
But, this blog isn’t really about a old bar with sawdust on the floor, over-priced drinks, crappy food, smelly restrooms, lousy live music, and managers and servers with typical shitty L.A. attitudes. It’s about our reunion weekend, and it just happened to be in Calabasas. The venue was actually quite incidental compared to the impressions I came away with.
I drove south on Highway 99 for about 300 miles and entered the valley around 2:00 pm Friday. From the moment I got off the freeway the nostalgia I was feeling began to dissipate. My old stomping ground had continued to undergo the transition that started the day I left almost forty years ago. Something had happened. Not an over night thing. But something that wasn’t good. One way to describe it cinematically is that my beloved San Fernando Valley now looks like a cross between Blade Runner and Back to the Future II. I kept expecting to see billboards with pictures of Biff Tannen on them directing me to his latest real estate or business venture...or that casino. I’m sure at night there are huge flames venting out of the tops of the buildings and air-cars flying around between the skyscrapers.
There are no traffic problem times in L.A. The traffic sucks all day every day. It’s a constant swarm of cars traveling on all the roads, always honking at something or someone. The volume of automobiles transversing the streets never subsides according some old friends I met there. It’s always fucked up! They even have full-blown traffic reports on the radio and TV news on Sundays. Defensive driving was invented in L.A.; you must be a defensive driver to survive there.
All the land is taken. Where there aren’t homes, there are stores or apartments. Where once there was a familiar store, there is now an unfamiliar store. Nothing looked the same. My little home town, Canoga Park, could be located anywhere in Mexico. Other parts of the valley...Thailand or Cambodia or who knows where? Nothing...no signs...are in English any longer. To quote Bruce Hornsby...that’s just The Way That It Is now.
We made it safely to our motel room in Calabasas. The reunion weekend was afoot.
Saturday morning we managed to squeeze in a 90 minute driving tour of our old town, trying to find things that looked familiar, like the houses we lived in and our old neighborhoods. We did that. We did that five years ago at the 35th reunion, and at the 20th reunion twenty years ago. We’ll do it again at the 45th and the 50th. Our Bob’s Big Boy, Canoga High School's quintessential hangout, had long since been razed and replaced by a Mexican Super Market and strip mall. Gone. Poof! Pretty much says it all.
My house looked somewhat familiar, but more like something I had seen in a hundred disturbing dreams...that alternate reality that stems from the difference between perception and the real world. It was where I grew up, but not really. My house actually looked better this time than it did five years ago. I guess someone moved in at 6655 Melba Avenue with some semblance of pride. The street looked good. Huge birch trees planted on the parkway along the sidewalk in 1957 now over-hang the entire street, touching the ones on the other side of the street, totally shaded. It is now quite a mature, respectable looking neighborhood. Fifty years will do that! Regarding one’s old neighborhood...you can never go back.
(More to come tomorrow)...
Calabasas always seemed to be an afterthought as far as towns go. Maybe it wasn’t even officially a town. Some sort of last place to pull over and get gas and snacks on your way west on Highway 101 out of the valley. A place where Treeland was located. The location of the Motion Picture Retirement Home. A couple service stations and a bar or two. A somewhat remote spot where you could find places to “park” with your date on the weekend. That was forty years ago. Now, Calabasas is the new Studio City or Encino or Westwood. Movie stars...swimming pools...BMWs...the nouveau rich...the wannabe nouveau rich. Hulking, mansion-like homes hanging on the edge of the hills overlooking the town, hundreds more back up in the canyons that eventually find their way to Malibu. Most of the streets begin with “Park”...Park Sorrento, Park Mirasol, Park Granada, and so on. Speilberg Drive is there also. I wonder if HE lives there?
Calabasas, a mere 4.03 miles from our school, is where we decided to hold our 40th Canoga Park High School reunion last weekend. We gathered at a huge, popular watering hole and restaurant called The Sagebrush Cantina. I called it a “dump”, a “dive”, and a rustic, west valley “meat market” for the non-Hollywood, middle income types looking to hook up.
But, this blog isn’t really about a old bar with sawdust on the floor, over-priced drinks, crappy food, smelly restrooms, lousy live music, and managers and servers with typical shitty L.A. attitudes. It’s about our reunion weekend, and it just happened to be in Calabasas. The venue was actually quite incidental compared to the impressions I came away with.
I drove south on Highway 99 for about 300 miles and entered the valley around 2:00 pm Friday. From the moment I got off the freeway the nostalgia I was feeling began to dissipate. My old stomping ground had continued to undergo the transition that started the day I left almost forty years ago. Something had happened. Not an over night thing. But something that wasn’t good. One way to describe it cinematically is that my beloved San Fernando Valley now looks like a cross between Blade Runner and Back to the Future II. I kept expecting to see billboards with pictures of Biff Tannen on them directing me to his latest real estate or business venture...or that casino. I’m sure at night there are huge flames venting out of the tops of the buildings and air-cars flying around between the skyscrapers.
There are no traffic problem times in L.A. The traffic sucks all day every day. It’s a constant swarm of cars traveling on all the roads, always honking at something or someone. The volume of automobiles transversing the streets never subsides according some old friends I met there. It’s always fucked up! They even have full-blown traffic reports on the radio and TV news on Sundays. Defensive driving was invented in L.A.; you must be a defensive driver to survive there.
All the land is taken. Where there aren’t homes, there are stores or apartments. Where once there was a familiar store, there is now an unfamiliar store. Nothing looked the same. My little home town, Canoga Park, could be located anywhere in Mexico. Other parts of the valley...Thailand or Cambodia or who knows where? Nothing...no signs...are in English any longer. To quote Bruce Hornsby...that’s just The Way That It Is now.
We made it safely to our motel room in Calabasas. The reunion weekend was afoot.
Saturday morning we managed to squeeze in a 90 minute driving tour of our old town, trying to find things that looked familiar, like the houses we lived in and our old neighborhoods. We did that. We did that five years ago at the 35th reunion, and at the 20th reunion twenty years ago. We’ll do it again at the 45th and the 50th. Our Bob’s Big Boy, Canoga High School's quintessential hangout, had long since been razed and replaced by a Mexican Super Market and strip mall. Gone. Poof! Pretty much says it all.
My house looked somewhat familiar, but more like something I had seen in a hundred disturbing dreams...that alternate reality that stems from the difference between perception and the real world. It was where I grew up, but not really. My house actually looked better this time than it did five years ago. I guess someone moved in at 6655 Melba Avenue with some semblance of pride. The street looked good. Huge birch trees planted on the parkway along the sidewalk in 1957 now over-hang the entire street, touching the ones on the other side of the street, totally shaded. It is now quite a mature, respectable looking neighborhood. Fifty years will do that! Regarding one’s old neighborhood...you can never go back.
(More to come tomorrow)...
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Nostalgia Road
As much as I hate to admit it, I am a bit nervous about this weekend. My 40th high school reunion happens Saturday.
So far, only about 50 classmates are attending out of a class of 940. Many of the people I would be more nervous seeing aren't going. I guess that's a good thing.
What am I hoping to bring back from all of this? I'm not sure. There really isn't anything that needs "closure". I have no need to say things to anyone I wish I had said forty years ago. Except maybe a couple of "Just thought you'd like to know that I had a crush on you in junior high and high school!" It's doubtful I will have the bravura to do that even now.
I will be taking a lot of photos, at least that is the plan. I have promised to do that on the reunion website, then make available a DVD slide show shortly thereafter. The picture taking will make it easier for me to assimilate into this gathering; put me more at ease. Of course, I'll drop a few shots into this blog next week and write a few lines about the whole experience.
I did attend the 20th and 35th reunions, so I'm no stranger to the environment. This time it's a bit more casual and relaxed. No tie, no suit for me. I didn't really do a lot of chatting with folks at the other two reunions. This time may be different since it promises to be a more "intimate" gathering of enthusiastic supporters.
I must go now and iron a couple of tropical shirts and my "cargo" shorts. Gotta look somewhat respectable for my old classmates.
I just hope I remember to check my zipper before making the grand entrance! Beyond that...I not that concerned about what else happens.
So far, only about 50 classmates are attending out of a class of 940. Many of the people I would be more nervous seeing aren't going. I guess that's a good thing.
What am I hoping to bring back from all of this? I'm not sure. There really isn't anything that needs "closure". I have no need to say things to anyone I wish I had said forty years ago. Except maybe a couple of "Just thought you'd like to know that I had a crush on you in junior high and high school!" It's doubtful I will have the bravura to do that even now.
I will be taking a lot of photos, at least that is the plan. I have promised to do that on the reunion website, then make available a DVD slide show shortly thereafter. The picture taking will make it easier for me to assimilate into this gathering; put me more at ease. Of course, I'll drop a few shots into this blog next week and write a few lines about the whole experience.
I did attend the 20th and 35th reunions, so I'm no stranger to the environment. This time it's a bit more casual and relaxed. No tie, no suit for me. I didn't really do a lot of chatting with folks at the other two reunions. This time may be different since it promises to be a more "intimate" gathering of enthusiastic supporters.
I must go now and iron a couple of tropical shirts and my "cargo" shorts. Gotta look somewhat respectable for my old classmates.
I just hope I remember to check my zipper before making the grand entrance! Beyond that...I not that concerned about what else happens.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Garlic Shrimp and Veggie Stir Fry
Every once in a while, any food-passionate chef enjoys some success with a recipe. He or she has an almost transcendental experience. For someone like me who thoroughly enjoys the cooking, the menu planning, the mis en place...even the shopping...it isn't often that I relish the outcome. And when it comes to Asian cuisine, my favorite food, my ratio of self satisfaction to disgusted disappointment is high. I am often frustrated with the final product. In the case of this dish, I was more than pleased and proud with how it turned out...Loretta echoed my elation last night as well, although I was very judicious with the chili sauce for her sake.
I combined several elements from different recipes (borrowed) from many sources. In the end, it is a very savory, Thai-inspired dish that will make you wonder why you still go to Panda Express or any other MSG-laden Asian take out. The ingredients are all fresh. Unlike many restaurants of this type, it utilizes fresh garlic and ginger (not powder or other manufactured seasonings and shortcuts). The fresh chopped green onions and cilantro as a garnish perfectly finishes the dish. The garlic shrimp sauce is slightly sweet and sour. Add more garlic if you're so inclined.
You can make it more Thai-like by adding more heat such as sambal chile sauce or fresh or dried chile peppers. I will try adding some lemon grass the next time I prepare it. As with any cooking adventure, a true foodie "fiddles" with the recipe to suit their tastes.
One bit of advice, besides the mis en place thing, is to make sure your stir fry vegetables are not cooked too much...keep them crisp...and serve it right away.
With any multi-ingredient recipe such as this, you must mis en place all the elements before you begin to cook, ie, get everything cut up and ready to go before turning on the heat. You’ll notice there is no salt or pepper in this recipe since it uses soy sauce, therefore, salt is probably unnecessary.
1 pound large shrimp (21-25), peeled
2 tablespoons canola oil
Shrimp Sauce:
1/4 cup chicken broth
1/4 cup apple cider vinegar
1/4 cup ketchup
3 tablespoons soy sauce
2 tablespoons dry sherry
4 garlic gloves, minced
2 tablespoons fresh minced ginger
6 tablespoons sugar
1 tablespoon or more sambal or other chili sauce (depending on amount of heat desired)
2 tablespoons fresh cilantro, chopped
Stir Fry Vegetables:
3 tablespoons canola oil
1/2 cup sliced water chesnuts
2 cups broccoli florets, blanched for 1 minute, then put in ice bath
1 cup red bells, julienned
1 cup green bells, julienned
1 cup mushrooms, quartered
1 cup white or yellow onions, sliced
2 tablespoons green onions, diced
2 tablespoons fresh cilantro, chopped
Vegetable Sauce:
1/2 cup chicken broth
2 tablespoons dry sherry
2 tablespoons soy sauce
2 tablespoons corn starch
1 tablespoon sesame oil
In a small saucepan, mix the chicken broth, vinegar, ketchup, soy sauce, sherry, garlic, ginger, sugar, and sambal. Stir well. Bring to a boil, lower heat to a simmer. Keep warm.
In a wok, canola oil to 275 degrees (not smoking). Add shrimp and stir fry just until they turn pink. Add garlic sauce and toss well with shrimp. Remove from wok and set aside. Rinse out wok, return to high heat.
Add canola oil. When oil is hot, add the vegetables and stir fry until al dente. Add vegetable sauce, stir until sauce thickens and coats vegetables. Add sesame oil.
Serve shrimp and sauce on white basmati or rice of your choice. Plate vegetables along side and garnish all with green onions and fresh chopped cilantro just before serving.
Remember...no soggy vegetables! Bon Appetit.
Sorry, no photos this time. We were too anxious to eat it!
I combined several elements from different recipes (borrowed) from many sources. In the end, it is a very savory, Thai-inspired dish that will make you wonder why you still go to Panda Express or any other MSG-laden Asian take out. The ingredients are all fresh. Unlike many restaurants of this type, it utilizes fresh garlic and ginger (not powder or other manufactured seasonings and shortcuts). The fresh chopped green onions and cilantro as a garnish perfectly finishes the dish. The garlic shrimp sauce is slightly sweet and sour. Add more garlic if you're so inclined.
You can make it more Thai-like by adding more heat such as sambal chile sauce or fresh or dried chile peppers. I will try adding some lemon grass the next time I prepare it. As with any cooking adventure, a true foodie "fiddles" with the recipe to suit their tastes.
One bit of advice, besides the mis en place thing, is to make sure your stir fry vegetables are not cooked too much...keep them crisp...and serve it right away.
With any multi-ingredient recipe such as this, you must mis en place all the elements before you begin to cook, ie, get everything cut up and ready to go before turning on the heat. You’ll notice there is no salt or pepper in this recipe since it uses soy sauce, therefore, salt is probably unnecessary.
1 pound large shrimp (21-25), peeled
2 tablespoons canola oil
Shrimp Sauce:
1/4 cup chicken broth
1/4 cup apple cider vinegar
1/4 cup ketchup
3 tablespoons soy sauce
2 tablespoons dry sherry
4 garlic gloves, minced
2 tablespoons fresh minced ginger
6 tablespoons sugar
1 tablespoon or more sambal or other chili sauce (depending on amount of heat desired)
2 tablespoons fresh cilantro, chopped
Stir Fry Vegetables:
3 tablespoons canola oil
1/2 cup sliced water chesnuts
2 cups broccoli florets, blanched for 1 minute, then put in ice bath
1 cup red bells, julienned
1 cup green bells, julienned
1 cup mushrooms, quartered
1 cup white or yellow onions, sliced
2 tablespoons green onions, diced
2 tablespoons fresh cilantro, chopped
Vegetable Sauce:
1/2 cup chicken broth
2 tablespoons dry sherry
2 tablespoons soy sauce
2 tablespoons corn starch
1 tablespoon sesame oil
In a small saucepan, mix the chicken broth, vinegar, ketchup, soy sauce, sherry, garlic, ginger, sugar, and sambal. Stir well. Bring to a boil, lower heat to a simmer. Keep warm.
In a wok, canola oil to 275 degrees (not smoking). Add shrimp and stir fry just until they turn pink. Add garlic sauce and toss well with shrimp. Remove from wok and set aside. Rinse out wok, return to high heat.
Add canola oil. When oil is hot, add the vegetables and stir fry until al dente. Add vegetable sauce, stir until sauce thickens and coats vegetables. Add sesame oil.
Serve shrimp and sauce on white basmati or rice of your choice. Plate vegetables along side and garnish all with green onions and fresh chopped cilantro just before serving.
Remember...no soggy vegetables! Bon Appetit.
Sorry, no photos this time. We were too anxious to eat it!
Monday, October 1, 2007
Questions 67 & 68 plus a few more
10. If it was inexpensive to live in Monterey, wouldn't everyone live there?
9. If it was expensive to live in Modesto, would anyone live here?
8. J.T.: do you get it?
7. Why do vegans insist on eating meat-shaped bean curd products if they don't miss meat?
6. Untapped market: Vegetable-shaped meat products for us carnivorous types?
5. Flourless, sugarless cake: What's the point?
4. If there was no gravity, would Dolly Parton be able to see where she was going?
3. "Mild" hot sauce at Taco Bell: What's the point?
2. Is it going to be painful when one of those comets slams into the Earth?
1. Do you think it's really possible to suck a golf ball through a garden hose? Or suck the chrome off a trailer hitch?
9. If it was expensive to live in Modesto, would anyone live here?
8. J.T.: do you get it?
7. Why do vegans insist on eating meat-shaped bean curd products if they don't miss meat?
6. Untapped market: Vegetable-shaped meat products for us carnivorous types?
5. Flourless, sugarless cake: What's the point?
4. If there was no gravity, would Dolly Parton be able to see where she was going?
3. "Mild" hot sauce at Taco Bell: What's the point?
2. Is it going to be painful when one of those comets slams into the Earth?
1. Do you think it's really possible to suck a golf ball through a garden hose? Or suck the chrome off a trailer hitch?
Sunday, September 30, 2007
cinnamon roll - h.s. brunch memories
Soft
warm
fluffy
fresh-baked cinnamon rolls for a quarter
Must get in line early
brunch is only twenty minutes long
History
almost over
and then that
soft
warm
fluffy
fresh-baked cinnamon roll
Southern California winter morning
cool sunshine
the shaded quad
tall pine trees sit silent
a brief respite for chat
and a fresh-baked cinnamon roll for a quarter
Sticky fingers
sticky notebook
not enough napkins to do the job
Southern California winter morning
cool and bright sunshine in the shaded quad
Should have worn just a sweater
no need for gloves
though some thought so
A half pint of chilled milk
in a tiny carton nicely washes down
the fresh-baked cinnamon roll
Five minutes to go
until that blasted bell
and Algebra
The bench is cold
and wet
People walking by
books and things slung under
their teenage arms
Must get to class
Cool air
cool sunshine
now warming my coat
and my insides
The bells rings
time to go
must get to class
the old and cold classroom
and algebra
It’s cold again
inside
Tomorrow
brunch in the shaded quad
with the silent pine trees
and the cool sunshine
and the people walking by
and the chat
and the soft
warm
fluffy
fresh-baked cinnamon roll
for a quarter
Must get in line earlier next time
warm
fluffy
fresh-baked cinnamon rolls for a quarter
Must get in line early
brunch is only twenty minutes long
History
almost over
and then that
soft
warm
fluffy
fresh-baked cinnamon roll
Southern California winter morning
cool sunshine
the shaded quad
tall pine trees sit silent
a brief respite for chat
and a fresh-baked cinnamon roll for a quarter
Sticky fingers
sticky notebook
not enough napkins to do the job
Southern California winter morning
cool and bright sunshine in the shaded quad
Should have worn just a sweater
no need for gloves
though some thought so
A half pint of chilled milk
in a tiny carton nicely washes down
the fresh-baked cinnamon roll
Five minutes to go
until that blasted bell
and Algebra
The bench is cold
and wet
People walking by
books and things slung under
their teenage arms
Must get to class
Cool air
cool sunshine
now warming my coat
and my insides
The bells rings
time to go
must get to class
the old and cold classroom
and algebra
It’s cold again
inside
Tomorrow
brunch in the shaded quad
with the silent pine trees
and the cool sunshine
and the people walking by
and the chat
and the soft
warm
fluffy
fresh-baked cinnamon roll
for a quarter
Must get in line earlier next time
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Reunion anxiety
With just over a week to go until my high school reunion (40 years), I have begun to feel a bit anxious. Not as in “Gee, I can’t wait to go”. But as in “Gee, what’s up with this paranoid anxiety? What if no one remembers me? What if they *still* think I’m a dork? What if it’s not as fun as I anticipate?”
For weeks leading up to my 20th reunion fifteen years ago, I had the same feelings. I even had weird dreams about the reunion itself. One dream in particular was quite bizarre. During a fire at the hotel in which we were staying, I actually “saved” a couple of classmates by carrying them down the stairs and out of the hotel. The bizarre part was, I found myself standing in the middle of the crowd...in my underwear! The other weirdness was that no one knew who I was...despite the heroics. Don't worry, I only had this dream once!
With that in mind, I have pledged to myself that this will be a fun trip, despite the paranoia. After all, I am going to this wing ding with my best friend of 40+ years. And I will be meeting up with another best friend of equal tenure. Safety in numbers? We’ve even offered to host an afternoon Meet & Greet before the reunion itself. Gee, what if no one shows up for that?
My George McFly Feelings of Future Failures are not rampant. In fact, they’re pretty much in check compared with the last two reunions. I just don’t give a shit as much any longer! So what? Who cares? What does it matter? No big deal. It’s just a reunion; a few hours hanging around some regular folk with whom I share a common denominator: high school. All of them there for the same reason.
Sure I have some anxiety, a little paranoia. But at least I’m going! Out of a class of 940, about 50 people are going, somewhat of a modest turnout to say the least. I can only imagine, of the other 890 who aren’t going, of the ones who live near and are able to attend and DON’T go...what are their feelings about it? I can only assume their thoughts, misgivings, anxiety, paranoia, and simple apathy must be worse than mine. They truly don’t give a shit. Not going is their choice to make.
Walking into a room full of people you haven’t seen for over forty years will be an adventure in the Land of Nostalgia. And nostalgia seems to be a hobby of mine. I love it. Reliving memories, good and bad, are a real hoot sometimes...especially when you write about it.
And considering I have also appointed myself as the event photographer, I should come back with a wealth of images to savor and new memories to write about.
And now...I am anxious to go to my reunion again. Anxious as in “Gee, I can’t wait to go!”
For weeks leading up to my 20th reunion fifteen years ago, I had the same feelings. I even had weird dreams about the reunion itself. One dream in particular was quite bizarre. During a fire at the hotel in which we were staying, I actually “saved” a couple of classmates by carrying them down the stairs and out of the hotel. The bizarre part was, I found myself standing in the middle of the crowd...in my underwear! The other weirdness was that no one knew who I was...despite the heroics. Don't worry, I only had this dream once!
With that in mind, I have pledged to myself that this will be a fun trip, despite the paranoia. After all, I am going to this wing ding with my best friend of 40+ years. And I will be meeting up with another best friend of equal tenure. Safety in numbers? We’ve even offered to host an afternoon Meet & Greet before the reunion itself. Gee, what if no one shows up for that?
My George McFly Feelings of Future Failures are not rampant. In fact, they’re pretty much in check compared with the last two reunions. I just don’t give a shit as much any longer! So what? Who cares? What does it matter? No big deal. It’s just a reunion; a few hours hanging around some regular folk with whom I share a common denominator: high school. All of them there for the same reason.
Sure I have some anxiety, a little paranoia. But at least I’m going! Out of a class of 940, about 50 people are going, somewhat of a modest turnout to say the least. I can only imagine, of the other 890 who aren’t going, of the ones who live near and are able to attend and DON’T go...what are their feelings about it? I can only assume their thoughts, misgivings, anxiety, paranoia, and simple apathy must be worse than mine. They truly don’t give a shit. Not going is their choice to make.
Walking into a room full of people you haven’t seen for over forty years will be an adventure in the Land of Nostalgia. And nostalgia seems to be a hobby of mine. I love it. Reliving memories, good and bad, are a real hoot sometimes...especially when you write about it.
And considering I have also appointed myself as the event photographer, I should come back with a wealth of images to savor and new memories to write about.
And now...I am anxious to go to my reunion again. Anxious as in “Gee, I can’t wait to go!”
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Cheryl Miller's Ninth Birthday Party
I was excited everyday for the whole week leading up to the birthday party. Cheryl Miller had invited me to her ninth birthday party! She handed me an invitation one day outside of Mrs. Brown’s 5th grade class at Hamlin Elementary School. It was one of those tiny folded cards in a tiny envelope. The card had printed colored balloons on the outside and a birthday cake with candles on it. On the inside there were more balloons and spaces to fill in the birthday person’s name and address, the date, and the time. On the outside of the envelop someone had written my name, Jim.
“Jim, can you come to my birthday party?”, Cheryl asked as she handed the invitation to me.
“I think so. I’ll have to ask my mom.”
I just stood there looking at the invitation in my hand. Cheryl Miller just stood there for a moment also, her chubby freckled face framed by curly red hair beamed a cheshire-like smile at me. In her chubby, freckled hand, she held a stack of other birthday invitations for other people.
“Is Susan Smith going?, I asked with great anticipation.
Cheryl’s beaming smile disappeared. She spun around on her pink Keds and ran off across the school yard. I didn’t know it then, but I had just stuck my foot in my mouth for the very first time.
I ran all the way home from school that day. Birthday invitation in hand. I was very happy.
My mom bought me a new pair of slacks, a short-sleeved white dress shirt, and a nifty blue clip-on bow tie from J.C. Penney’s. My near-new school shoes would have to do for this occasion. She helped me get dressed the day of the party, combing my hair after smearing in a dab of or two of Brylcream.
Straightening my clip-on tie and pulling up the waist of my new pants and re-tucking my new shirt, she sent me on my way, “Have fun. Don’t forget her present!” I headed off on foot to Cheryl Miller’s ninth birthday party.
It wasn’t a long walk to Cheryl Miller’s house, maybe a mile or so. In fact, it was right across the street from our school. It seemed like 10 miles when you’re eight years old.
On the way, I passed by the huge empty field that would eventually become a mall with a Sears store and a new J.C. Penney’s, a toy store, dress shops, and a pet shop with puppies and baby rabbits in the front window. That pet shop even sold snakes, baby alligators, and monkeys. I loved going to that mall. But that wouldn’t happen for a couple of years. I walked on toward the big birthday party, trying not to get dirt on my newly-polished shoes. Victory Boulevard was still just a two lane road with dirt and gravel shoulders. I stepped gingerly around the dead cat I had seen everyday on the way to school for a week. It had gotten smelly! The late afternoon sun was making me sweat. I walked on.
As I entered Cheryl Miller’s neighborhood, my anticipation turned to anxiety. What if no one likes me? What if I don’t know anyone besides Cheryl? What if she thinks the present I got her is stupid?
I rechecked the address on the little invitation...1983 Hamlin Street. There it was, the number 1983 fastened to the front of the house in wrought iron letters. I made sure my shirt was still tucked in, my clip-on tie was still clipped on, and my zipper was zipped. My dad wasn’t there to remind me of that last little detail, but it had become a habit.
Walking up the stone sidewalk, I approached the front door. There were three steps up the front porch. The door was open, but there was a screen door. I could barely see inside the house. There was a woman in the dimly lit living room pushing a vacuum back and forth. She was wearing a flower print dress and a white apron. I remember how she reminded me of June Cleaver. I couldn’t see anyone else inside the house, just the woman vacuuming the carpet.
I knocked three times on the screen door. She didn’t notice. I knocked again, this time a little harder. Still nothing. I knocked a third time, rattling the screen door enough that the woman vacuuming the carpet finally looked up and saw me standing at the front door. She tapped the foot switch on the vacuum and approached the front door.
“Hello, young man,” she said with a polite smile, placing her hands on her hips, ”What can I do for you?”
I just stood there for what seemed like an eternity, my mouth agape, staring up at the woman behind the screen door. A wave of fear rushed through my head and down my body to my feet. Had I gone to the wrong address? I quickly pulled out the little invitation and checked the address.
“Is this 1983 Hamlin Street?”, I managed to squeak out of my trembling lips.
“Why yes it is.”
“Is this Cheryl Miller’s house?”
“Yes it is.”
That wave of fear rushing through my body had turned to stark raving fear and nausea. I felt like throwing up.
In one last desperate attempt to make some sense of the situation I asked her, “I’m here for the birthday party!” It would be the last thing I said. My mouth was so dry I wouldn’t have been able to speak again.
“Well, young man...(she paused for a moment, her face a bit sullen)...”that was yesterday.”
I don’t remember saying anything else to her or she to me. A second later, I found myself bolting down the street, away from the house. All I wanted to do was get back home. And that’s what I did. I ran all the way home, trying to catch my breath as I ran. It was hard to breathe. I was hyperventilating, trying not to cry.
When I got home, I ran to the bathroom and vomited into the sink. My mom was outside the bathroom door. “How was the party? It didn’t last very long. Are you all right?”
Cheryl Miller’s ninth birthday party was on Saturday, not Sunday. I suppose it was my fault. Since then, I always check, then double check times and dates for appointments and other events I have to attend. I’m never late. In fact, I’m always early.
At school on Monday, nobody said anything to me about not going to the party on Saturday. I did make eye contact with Cheryl Miller one time that day. I’ll never forget that smirky, little smile on her chubby, freckled face. She turned toward her friends and they all giggled in my direction.
Maybe it wasn’t my fault.
“Jim, can you come to my birthday party?”, Cheryl asked as she handed the invitation to me.
“I think so. I’ll have to ask my mom.”
I just stood there looking at the invitation in my hand. Cheryl Miller just stood there for a moment also, her chubby freckled face framed by curly red hair beamed a cheshire-like smile at me. In her chubby, freckled hand, she held a stack of other birthday invitations for other people.
“Is Susan Smith going?, I asked with great anticipation.
Cheryl’s beaming smile disappeared. She spun around on her pink Keds and ran off across the school yard. I didn’t know it then, but I had just stuck my foot in my mouth for the very first time.
I ran all the way home from school that day. Birthday invitation in hand. I was very happy.
My mom bought me a new pair of slacks, a short-sleeved white dress shirt, and a nifty blue clip-on bow tie from J.C. Penney’s. My near-new school shoes would have to do for this occasion. She helped me get dressed the day of the party, combing my hair after smearing in a dab of or two of Brylcream.
Straightening my clip-on tie and pulling up the waist of my new pants and re-tucking my new shirt, she sent me on my way, “Have fun. Don’t forget her present!” I headed off on foot to Cheryl Miller’s ninth birthday party.
It wasn’t a long walk to Cheryl Miller’s house, maybe a mile or so. In fact, it was right across the street from our school. It seemed like 10 miles when you’re eight years old.
On the way, I passed by the huge empty field that would eventually become a mall with a Sears store and a new J.C. Penney’s, a toy store, dress shops, and a pet shop with puppies and baby rabbits in the front window. That pet shop even sold snakes, baby alligators, and monkeys. I loved going to that mall. But that wouldn’t happen for a couple of years. I walked on toward the big birthday party, trying not to get dirt on my newly-polished shoes. Victory Boulevard was still just a two lane road with dirt and gravel shoulders. I stepped gingerly around the dead cat I had seen everyday on the way to school for a week. It had gotten smelly! The late afternoon sun was making me sweat. I walked on.
As I entered Cheryl Miller’s neighborhood, my anticipation turned to anxiety. What if no one likes me? What if I don’t know anyone besides Cheryl? What if she thinks the present I got her is stupid?
I rechecked the address on the little invitation...1983 Hamlin Street. There it was, the number 1983 fastened to the front of the house in wrought iron letters. I made sure my shirt was still tucked in, my clip-on tie was still clipped on, and my zipper was zipped. My dad wasn’t there to remind me of that last little detail, but it had become a habit.
Walking up the stone sidewalk, I approached the front door. There were three steps up the front porch. The door was open, but there was a screen door. I could barely see inside the house. There was a woman in the dimly lit living room pushing a vacuum back and forth. She was wearing a flower print dress and a white apron. I remember how she reminded me of June Cleaver. I couldn’t see anyone else inside the house, just the woman vacuuming the carpet.
I knocked three times on the screen door. She didn’t notice. I knocked again, this time a little harder. Still nothing. I knocked a third time, rattling the screen door enough that the woman vacuuming the carpet finally looked up and saw me standing at the front door. She tapped the foot switch on the vacuum and approached the front door.
“Hello, young man,” she said with a polite smile, placing her hands on her hips, ”What can I do for you?”
I just stood there for what seemed like an eternity, my mouth agape, staring up at the woman behind the screen door. A wave of fear rushed through my head and down my body to my feet. Had I gone to the wrong address? I quickly pulled out the little invitation and checked the address.
“Is this 1983 Hamlin Street?”, I managed to squeak out of my trembling lips.
“Why yes it is.”
“Is this Cheryl Miller’s house?”
“Yes it is.”
That wave of fear rushing through my body had turned to stark raving fear and nausea. I felt like throwing up.
In one last desperate attempt to make some sense of the situation I asked her, “I’m here for the birthday party!” It would be the last thing I said. My mouth was so dry I wouldn’t have been able to speak again.
“Well, young man...(she paused for a moment, her face a bit sullen)...”that was yesterday.”
I don’t remember saying anything else to her or she to me. A second later, I found myself bolting down the street, away from the house. All I wanted to do was get back home. And that’s what I did. I ran all the way home, trying to catch my breath as I ran. It was hard to breathe. I was hyperventilating, trying not to cry.
When I got home, I ran to the bathroom and vomited into the sink. My mom was outside the bathroom door. “How was the party? It didn’t last very long. Are you all right?”
Cheryl Miller’s ninth birthday party was on Saturday, not Sunday. I suppose it was my fault. Since then, I always check, then double check times and dates for appointments and other events I have to attend. I’m never late. In fact, I’m always early.
At school on Monday, nobody said anything to me about not going to the party on Saturday. I did make eye contact with Cheryl Miller one time that day. I’ll never forget that smirky, little smile on her chubby, freckled face. She turned toward her friends and they all giggled in my direction.
Maybe it wasn’t my fault.
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