I've been a fan of the Portland Trail Blazers for a LONG time. I've been watching them on TV and, occasionally, in person for as long as I can remember. I went to games as a kid with my dad, and I watched the Finals games against Detroit with my friends during some of the best days of my life (whoah... I was channeling Bryan Adams there for a second).
They've caused me an embarrassingly high amount of anguish when they've come up just short, or when they didn't live up to what I wanted from them.
But I remained a fan. Have discussed and argued about them online for about 12 years now. I even wrote a stats column for the team's official magazine for a year.
They had legal issues, and "character" stuff, but I didn't let it bother me. I watch them for the games. I'm not going to judge them as people or to blame them for their mistakes when speaking (many of them didn't even finish college, for crying out loud).
But about 2.5 years ago, they started getting bad. Really bad. They traded a couple critical players, who also happened to have acted like assholes. They reached in the draft for Sebastian Telfair. They traded away from Chris Paul.
Their decisionmaking aggravated me, they lost at a horrific rate. And I argued about the team. A lot.
Like, every day, I would argue about how bad the team was. About WHY they were so bad. I would argue against fellow Blazers fans that let their optimism blind them, and I was called some nasty names.
But I was right, and I maintained I was realistic rather than pessimistic.
Tonight, though, was the NBA draft. Portland traded Telfair for another high draft pick (to go with their own from their NBA-worst record).
And the Blazers made me happy.
They made six trades overall today, spending money and trading up and seemingly going in the right direction. I didn't agree with everything they did, but I liked it.
So I'm arguing again on the Blazers board tonight. Arguing that the team did well. Arguing that they've turned a corner and, while it's a ways off, the team is going to be good again. I'm arguing against people who are confused and disappointed in the team's actions. And I'm arguing against people who haven't seen the Ed O. from 3+ years ago, when I was happy to be a Blazers fan and I was optimistic about the team's chances.
It might be an overreaction and I might be all wrong in my analysis, but I feel good again about it all. Blazermania has returned for me, at least.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Monday, June 26, 2006
Creeping Death
On Saturday night (actually, Sunday morning), something terrible appeared on my LCD display. This LCD display that I use as my monitor at home is not new, and in fact it's a hand-me-down from a friend that's currently sailing somewhere in the South Pacific (sounds like I'm making that up, maybe, but it's Truth).
At work, I have three displays, which is great, but when I get home I'm used to having a single, old, display that doesn't resize pixels (so when I play games at resolutions other than 1280x1024 the graphics become centered in a gray frame). But it was free, and I can be cheap and indolent, so I've used this monitor for almost two years.
But now, I can see the end of its usefulness.
What appeared early in the morning of Sunday June 25, 2006? A little black spot in the upper left corner. I've stared at this display for hours (days... weeks) and while the spot was small, it stuck out immediately, and I weeped, for I knew where this was headed.
The black spot appears to be moving and spreading down and to the left. This morning it had moved out of the corner (almost entirely... some sort of pixel vapor trail remains, marring the once-pristine display portion) and there is a rather large black circle sitting there now. It's about an inch or so in diameter, and it covers up a few menu items in IE.
I doubt it's going to go away of its own volition, and I don't think that I can fix it, and I think it's just the end of the road. I'll hold on as long as I can, but ... *sniff*
At work, I have three displays, which is great, but when I get home I'm used to having a single, old, display that doesn't resize pixels (so when I play games at resolutions other than 1280x1024 the graphics become centered in a gray frame). But it was free, and I can be cheap and indolent, so I've used this monitor for almost two years.
But now, I can see the end of its usefulness.
What appeared early in the morning of Sunday June 25, 2006? A little black spot in the upper left corner. I've stared at this display for hours (days... weeks) and while the spot was small, it stuck out immediately, and I weeped, for I knew where this was headed.
The black spot appears to be moving and spreading down and to the left. This morning it had moved out of the corner (almost entirely... some sort of pixel vapor trail remains, marring the once-pristine display portion) and there is a rather large black circle sitting there now. It's about an inch or so in diameter, and it covers up a few menu items in IE.
I doubt it's going to go away of its own volition, and I don't think that I can fix it, and I think it's just the end of the road. I'll hold on as long as I can, but ... *sniff*
Friday, June 23, 2006
Rage building...
I've played guitar for a pretty long time. I started in like 1993 with a crappy guitar, which was good since I was a crappy player. I learned to play some chords and eventually could strum and sing at the same time. I eventually got higher-quality guitars and would goof around with them every once in a while.
Fast forward to me now. I still am pretty crappy with the instrument, especially given how long I've played.
But a couple months ago, I decided that I was going to take my meager guitar skills, I was going to use my untrained and uneven singing voice, and I was going to use a cheap mic and some free software I downloaded from the Web (legally, natch) to record some songs in my apartment. You know, for fun.
Weeks passed. Nothing was recorded. I wrote down some "lyrics" but those were entirely absent of any sort of musical underpinning and were (to be honest) more me whining than anything particularly creative.
Last week, I looked around my apartment and had nothing to do, so I picked up my guitar and I started fiddling (as normal) but then it suddenly came to me: I had to write and record a song. Like, right THEN.
So I gave myself three hours. The song that I'd been playing around with (Teenage Fanclub's "Don't Look Back", from their excellent Grand Prix disc... I just turned it on as I'm typing this after thinking about it) calls for (at least as I play it) a capo on the third fret, so I started playing around with chords there, settled on something simple, wrote some lyrics and recorded something. All within three hours.
I wasn't happy with the way I sang the chorus. I wasn't happy with how short it was nor with just HOW simple it was. But it was a good first attempt. I sent it to a friend to get his feedback (leaving his name off, so he won't get blamed if/when it's unleashed on the world) and he liked it. Or at least confirmed that it didn't totally, totally suck.
So a couple nights later I made another one. A bit over three hours. Not quite the energy of the first one, but a little more complicated and I was getting my feet under me a bit more with the editing process.
I've shared the two songs with some friends, who have all been supportive and seemed to have genuinely liked them. Getting over the hurdle of some people close to me hearing my attempts was big for me, and I decided to put them up on MySpace, at least for a while, just to overcome a bit more discomfort/fear in my life.
I created a MySpace music account and uploaded them on Wednesday, expecting a 24 hour delay. Here I am, 48 hours later, and the songs still don't load.
Goddammit.
I'm eager to get them posted and available soon because I'm still really nervous about anyone hearing them, and I fear that I'm going to lose my nerve because of MySpace technical delays.
But they'll be up, for better or for worse. Eventually.
Fast forward to me now. I still am pretty crappy with the instrument, especially given how long I've played.
But a couple months ago, I decided that I was going to take my meager guitar skills, I was going to use my untrained and uneven singing voice, and I was going to use a cheap mic and some free software I downloaded from the Web (legally, natch) to record some songs in my apartment. You know, for fun.
Weeks passed. Nothing was recorded. I wrote down some "lyrics" but those were entirely absent of any sort of musical underpinning and were (to be honest) more me whining than anything particularly creative.
Last week, I looked around my apartment and had nothing to do, so I picked up my guitar and I started fiddling (as normal) but then it suddenly came to me: I had to write and record a song. Like, right THEN.
So I gave myself three hours. The song that I'd been playing around with (Teenage Fanclub's "Don't Look Back", from their excellent Grand Prix disc... I just turned it on as I'm typing this after thinking about it) calls for (at least as I play it) a capo on the third fret, so I started playing around with chords there, settled on something simple, wrote some lyrics and recorded something. All within three hours.
I wasn't happy with the way I sang the chorus. I wasn't happy with how short it was nor with just HOW simple it was. But it was a good first attempt. I sent it to a friend to get his feedback (leaving his name off, so he won't get blamed if/when it's unleashed on the world) and he liked it. Or at least confirmed that it didn't totally, totally suck.
So a couple nights later I made another one. A bit over three hours. Not quite the energy of the first one, but a little more complicated and I was getting my feet under me a bit more with the editing process.
I've shared the two songs with some friends, who have all been supportive and seemed to have genuinely liked them. Getting over the hurdle of some people close to me hearing my attempts was big for me, and I decided to put them up on MySpace, at least for a while, just to overcome a bit more discomfort/fear in my life.
I created a MySpace music account and uploaded them on Wednesday, expecting a 24 hour delay. Here I am, 48 hours later, and the songs still don't load.
Goddammit.
I'm eager to get them posted and available soon because I'm still really nervous about anyone hearing them, and I fear that I'm going to lose my nerve because of MySpace technical delays.
But they'll be up, for better or for worse. Eventually.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Stress
Stress
Current mood: stressed
Let's just say, for the sake of argument, that the following facts are true:
Is it reasonable to feel like screaming. but instead to go post about your stress on MySpace?
Ugh.
Current mood: stressed
Let's just say, for the sake of argument, that the following facts are true:
- your grandfather owned a small grocery store with your grandmother for about 20 years
- your grandfather kept his "first dollar" on the wall of said store for all 20 of those years
- your grandparents retire
- your grandfather dies
- you go down to Oregon for your grandmother's 75th birthday party recently
- your grandmother gives YOU the "first dollar" because she trusts you to take good care of it
- you are humbled and honored, and upon your return to Seattle you put the dollar away for safe keeping until you can buy a frame
- 1.5 months later, you buy a frame and bring it home
- you can't find the "first dollar"
Is it reasonable to feel like screaming. but instead to go post about your stress on MySpace?
Ugh.
Monday, June 19, 2006
What NOT to Say
What NOT to Say
Current mood:Somber
Sometimes I, like everyone, struggle with the right thing to say. No matter what is about to come out of my mouth, it seems like it's just not going to be quite right.
So when someone says something to me, especially in a situation that's uncomfortable through no fault of their own, I try to cut them some slack. You know, not get aggravated or think to myself, "That person is a moron."
Well, today I had one of those (relatively) rare times when I let my own emotions prompt me to think of someone, "That person is a moron."
Let me put you in this person's shoes, OK? And after walking you through this, I'll write what was said, and you can be the judge of whether it was absolutely ridiculous or if I'm just being hypersensitive.
You work at a bank. You're helping a married couple that's waiting for the final days of their statutory waiting period (for their divorce) to expire do some real estate refinancing and management. You've worked primarily with the wife, but the husband has showed up to sign the documents today.
You walk the husband through the documents, and he signs or initials about 40 pages over the course of 15 or 20 minutes. He looks listless... a bit dazed. Terrifically handsome and clearly very intelligent. But listless.
After the paperwork is completed, the husband signs a quitclaim, which presumably is part of a financial arrangement where the wife is "buying out" the husband's interests in their property... in their home.
You, generously, offer to notarize the quitclaim, and as you ask the husband to initial your notary book, you can sense that the mood at the table has darkened a bit. Where a listless man sat, now a sad one sits. The wife is no cheerier on the other side of the table, either.
So you wrap things up. The husband stands and you hold out your hand. You tell the husband that it was nice to have met him, and as you shake his hand you have to say SOMETHING in closing.
So you say, "All right. Have fun!"
Current mood:Somber
Sometimes I, like everyone, struggle with the right thing to say. No matter what is about to come out of my mouth, it seems like it's just not going to be quite right.
So when someone says something to me, especially in a situation that's uncomfortable through no fault of their own, I try to cut them some slack. You know, not get aggravated or think to myself, "That person is a moron."
Well, today I had one of those (relatively) rare times when I let my own emotions prompt me to think of someone, "That person is a moron."
Let me put you in this person's shoes, OK? And after walking you through this, I'll write what was said, and you can be the judge of whether it was absolutely ridiculous or if I'm just being hypersensitive.
You work at a bank. You're helping a married couple that's waiting for the final days of their statutory waiting period (for their divorce) to expire do some real estate refinancing and management. You've worked primarily with the wife, but the husband has showed up to sign the documents today.
You walk the husband through the documents, and he signs or initials about 40 pages over the course of 15 or 20 minutes. He looks listless... a bit dazed. Terrifically handsome and clearly very intelligent. But listless.
After the paperwork is completed, the husband signs a quitclaim, which presumably is part of a financial arrangement where the wife is "buying out" the husband's interests in their property... in their home.
You, generously, offer to notarize the quitclaim, and as you ask the husband to initial your notary book, you can sense that the mood at the table has darkened a bit. Where a listless man sat, now a sad one sits. The wife is no cheerier on the other side of the table, either.
So you wrap things up. The husband stands and you hold out your hand. You tell the husband that it was nice to have met him, and as you shake his hand you have to say SOMETHING in closing.
So you say, "All right. Have fun!"
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Minor Karaoke Incident
I don't usually detail every minor adventure I go through when I head out for karaoke on weekends... I'm usually FAR too busy typing up longwinded encounters with canned goods.
But this one I think I'll make an exception.
I was at Ozzies on Friday night and it wasn't a very good night. A massive bachelor party where a bunch of guys in shirts and ties were totally plastered, not that many cute girls, and too much bad singing (there's a difference between lighthearted bad singing and depressingly bad singing; the latter was in full force Friday night).
There was a group of people, though, sitting in a corner booth. Two guys and two girls, and one of the girls was CUTE. Not like fake hot or slutty, and not like "she had a cute face but the rest of her...". If I were a participant on the "Fifth Wheel" or "Elimidate" (are those shows on anymore?) I would say she was the "total package". And of course I would be dramatically overstating things, but that's a fun phrase to use (particularly about oneself, but I don't have the chutzpah to do that very often).
Anyways, she was good-looking. And the people she was with... weren't. Not that attractive people always travel with other attractive people (sometimes we travel alone) but she appeared to be TOTALLY outclassing the guy she was with. It was weird. As I told Morgan on the phone yesterday, I had built up a funny story in my head that she was with him and he got into an automobile accident and she's sticking with him now even though he's just a shell of a man because she loved the way that he used to make her feel.
(How sad is it that I find that scenario funny? Ah, well...)
When it was my turn, I picked Madonna's "Like A Virgin" (it had treated me well two time previously, but the third time was NOT a charm... that's beside the point, though). After my name was called, the drunkards all started cheering, including the cute chick and her boyfriend. Her boyfriend, especially, seemed to love the way the two words "Ed O" flow trippingly off the tongue, because he said it (loudly) about 6 times in a row, right into my face, from about 3 feet away. It was odd.
It was either the alcohol or the pain meds that one of his doctors have him on. Or maybe the damage from the head trauma just hasn't worn off (if it ever will, poor son of a bitch...)
So he, along with everyone else, was excited for no particular reason. But as I caressed the mic, preparing to make sweet, sweet love to it, and as the song title appeared on the monitors and the music started, Mr. Brain Damage got really somber, shook his head, looked RIGHT at me and said a totally, totally awesome line:
"Ed O. ... I believed in you!"
And then he headed to the bar.
His girlfriend, of course, loved my selection (as almost all chicks do) and she wasn't shy about dancing around right next to me, smiling beautifully the whole time. At one point, Gaping Head Wound Harry came and kinda stood between us disapprovingly, but his short term memory just isn't what it should be, so he blanked out or something and wandered off again.
At the end of the song, I thanked the hot thing for dancing with me, and she said no problem, and that was that. I totally, totally should have given her my card. It would have been the perfect opportunity to (a) make a fool of myself, (b) get into a fight, and/or (c) steal an ugly guy's girlfriend.
But I missed my chance. I really hope to get over it...
But this one I think I'll make an exception.
I was at Ozzies on Friday night and it wasn't a very good night. A massive bachelor party where a bunch of guys in shirts and ties were totally plastered, not that many cute girls, and too much bad singing (there's a difference between lighthearted bad singing and depressingly bad singing; the latter was in full force Friday night).
There was a group of people, though, sitting in a corner booth. Two guys and two girls, and one of the girls was CUTE. Not like fake hot or slutty, and not like "she had a cute face but the rest of her...". If I were a participant on the "Fifth Wheel" or "Elimidate" (are those shows on anymore?) I would say she was the "total package". And of course I would be dramatically overstating things, but that's a fun phrase to use (particularly about oneself, but I don't have the chutzpah to do that very often).
Anyways, she was good-looking. And the people she was with... weren't. Not that attractive people always travel with other attractive people (sometimes we travel alone) but she appeared to be TOTALLY outclassing the guy she was with. It was weird. As I told Morgan on the phone yesterday, I had built up a funny story in my head that she was with him and he got into an automobile accident and she's sticking with him now even though he's just a shell of a man because she loved the way that he used to make her feel.
(How sad is it that I find that scenario funny? Ah, well...)
When it was my turn, I picked Madonna's "Like A Virgin" (it had treated me well two time previously, but the third time was NOT a charm... that's beside the point, though). After my name was called, the drunkards all started cheering, including the cute chick and her boyfriend. Her boyfriend, especially, seemed to love the way the two words "Ed O" flow trippingly off the tongue, because he said it (loudly) about 6 times in a row, right into my face, from about 3 feet away. It was odd.
It was either the alcohol or the pain meds that one of his doctors have him on. Or maybe the damage from the head trauma just hasn't worn off (if it ever will, poor son of a bitch...)
So he, along with everyone else, was excited for no particular reason. But as I caressed the mic, preparing to make sweet, sweet love to it, and as the song title appeared on the monitors and the music started, Mr. Brain Damage got really somber, shook his head, looked RIGHT at me and said a totally, totally awesome line:
"Ed O. ... I believed in you!"
And then he headed to the bar.
His girlfriend, of course, loved my selection (as almost all chicks do) and she wasn't shy about dancing around right next to me, smiling beautifully the whole time. At one point, Gaping Head Wound Harry came and kinda stood between us disapprovingly, but his short term memory just isn't what it should be, so he blanked out or something and wandered off again.
At the end of the song, I thanked the hot thing for dancing with me, and she said no problem, and that was that. I totally, totally should have given her my card. It would have been the perfect opportunity to (a) make a fool of myself, (b) get into a fight, and/or (c) steal an ugly guy's girlfriend.
But I missed my chance. I really hope to get over it...
Saturday, June 17, 2006
Ghana pulls ahead
Anyone who knows anything about me knows the long-running feud I've had with Ghana. It's not just its people. It's not just its failed educational system. It's not even its penchant for wearing too much cologne.
It's all of those things and more. It's personal.
Anyways, I'd get on the phone every week or two and kinda rub it in Ghana's face that I'd scored as many World Cup goals as it had. I take life's pleasures where I can find them.
But today Ghana broke through and scored a goal against the Czech Republic and then added another later in the match. So it's leading me two to nothing, and unfortunately I don't like my chances at scoring a pair of goals this World Cup. One? Maybe I could pull that off, depending on how much it would cost me to fly out to Germany and play. But two? I have many faults, but I tend to be realistic and two goals isn't going to happen.
So Ghana (and I know you're reading this!): you win this round...
It's all of those things and more. It's personal.
Anyways, I'd get on the phone every week or two and kinda rub it in Ghana's face that I'd scored as many World Cup goals as it had. I take life's pleasures where I can find them.
But today Ghana broke through and scored a goal against the Czech Republic and then added another later in the match. So it's leading me two to nothing, and unfortunately I don't like my chances at scoring a pair of goals this World Cup. One? Maybe I could pull that off, depending on how much it would cost me to fly out to Germany and play. But two? I have many faults, but I tend to be realistic and two goals isn't going to happen.
So Ghana (and I know you're reading this!): you win this round...
Ed O. vs. The Can of Chili: Part II (You Have GOT To Be Fucking Kidding Me!)
Previously on Ed O.'s Blog:
Me: I'd like a Chilito, please.
Taco Bell Crone: You'll never get a Chilito! Never! *cackle*
...
Me: Don't worry, Billy. You'll get your Chilito... and your new kidney!
Billy's Iron Lung Monitoring Device: Beep. Beep. Beeeeep.
...
Me: Hello? What's this? Nalley brand chili in a large can? If only... but no... it would never work...
Randy "Macho Man" Savage: But what, Ed O.?
Me: If only there were some way to open this container, I might... to the lab, Macho Man!
Me: If only there were some way to open this container, I might... to the lab, Macho Man!
RMMS: Oooh, yeah!
And now, the thrilling conclusion to Ed O. vs. The Can of Chili
I once had a random accident with a Pepsi bottle and a spoon. See, I was at a friend's house (the friend is on MySpace, the house has been torn down... interesting the parallel between the physical and psychological destruction of the two entities) and I was thirsty. We had bottles of Pepsi (the long necked suckers, not the mambsy-pambsy twist offs that are about a million times better), but we didn't have a bottle opener. Actually, to be fair and more precise, I didn't have a bottle opener... I think others managed to open their Pepsi-colas just fine, but I was impatient or blind or perhaps contemplating how crappy my life would be some 16 years later (and needing a Pepsi to drown my sorrys and assuage the ambiguities that I immediately recognized in my precognitive state). In any case, I looked around for a substitute to a bottle opener, and a spoon, for some reason, seemed to be a good idea. I used said spoon to try to open the bottle, and the bottle cap didn't like it much. The end of the spoon slipped from the cap (shockingly, as clearly a spoon is built to pop open bottles) and the cap bit into my right index finger, causing a severe gash. And although the scar has diminished over time--shrinking incrementally and fading from near-constant exposure to computer monitor radiation--I carry it with me as a lesson: respect the container-opener relationship, or else you will get cut open and ruin a friend's mom's towel set because you'll bleed so profusely. Pretty standard stuff, I think.
As universal as that lesson is, I surprisingly haven't had it apply in very many cases in my life since the Pepsi bottle so ruthlessly attacked me.
But as I looked around my kitchen for a can opener last week, I could hear the Nalley's chili can mocking me. (Interestingly, the La Victoria hot sauce on the other counter was giving me words of encouragement, but I feared falling victim to her wiles once more, so I feigned indifference.)
That's right. No can opener. I've got 35 spatulas and something that appears to be a potato skinning instrument (I call it: "skinotron" because it sounds naughty) and a lot of other things that I don't see myself using any time soon. But no can opener.
I felt a little like that one guy in Twilight Zone where he thinks he knows what's going on, but the world around him is actually a much darker and twisted place. You know that one? Yeah. That was me. Totally.
I have a SINGLE knife in the kitchen (I have a collection that I keep in a goatskin-bound chest under my bed, but I save those for special visitors) and I contemplated stabbing the chili can, both to quiet its mocking cries and to possibly silence the many demons that have haunted me since Arrested Development was canceled. But I looked at my ravaged right index finger and thought better of it (I actually, in addition, didn't want to have to buy a new knife since I only have one that doesn't have ceremonial residue on it). I knew there was a market on my block, so I resolved myself to making a sojourn to the store to buy myself a can opener.
By this point, I really wanted a Chilito. You can get the details on my history with the delectable treat in my previous blog entry, but here's a recap: when I first came to America from the homeland, I couldn't speak a WORD of English and I had to steal to support both myself and my pet chimpanzee. I'd constantly hum the theme of "Greatest American Hero"--but only when I had my sunglasses on... hell, I was just a kid with too much time and not enough good sense. I didn't know any better. I also liked Chilitos.
So now that we've established the dreary and (rather obvious) connection I have to Chilitos, we'll return to the primary thrust of this piece. I bought a can opener at the store (for $2.99... yeah, $2.99... I thought "what a great deal!" rather than "if $2.99 can openers actually worked, why would people buy anything else?") and returned home, eager to consume some tasty chili cheese burritos. I affixed the can opener to the can, squeezed and twisted, and... nothing. The can moved, but the lid had been entirely unaffected by my efforts. It totally reminded me of when I try to talk to women in a bar. *rim shot*
While I usually take anything short of spectacular success with a first minimal effort as an opportunity to give up and go take a nap, the Great Spirit of the Chilito (which I think was originally a deity worshipped by the Plains Indians, but I'd have to look that up) had taken hold in me, and I decided to get that can open if it was the last thing I did. Or until I got bored. Or whatever.
I squeezed harder. I twisted more skillfully. I cursed the Nalley brand for making such an impervious chili delivery mechanism. And after about 5 minutes, I had punctured the can, but little else. That had the added benefit of spoiling the can. It was do or die. The ships had been burned, and I was taking the city or dying before its walls. Or I'd get bored... whatever.
30 minutes later (OK... 4 minutes later... 30 minutes sounded better) I was still unable to actually procure any chili, but I HAD fucked up the can a little bit. Check it out:
After I started to actually SEE the meaty brown nectar, I must confess that my blood got up. I flew into some sort of simmered southwestern fare frenzy, the likes of which few outside the inner circle of the Church of Scientology (you know: Tom Cruise, John Travolta, John McCain) actually achieve. I decided to use the sharp edge of the can opener (I call it the "Hi-C" opener... I'm pretty sure that's the technical term) to expand the existing gaps and pry open enough space to allow meat, beans and tips of fingers (or cow tails; whatever Nalley uses to make it taste good) could be scraped out. To wit:
With the help of an advanced tool called a "butter knife" I was able to extract the chili, and with the help of other techniques (too confusing for this space, which is really saying something) I was able to cook the chili. Make my Chilitos. Fool myself into thinking that I was a man for 45 minutes more.
Friday, June 16, 2006
Ed O. vs. The Can of Chili: Part I (Chilito, My Chilito)
One of my favorite approaches in narratives is when two separate foundations are laid and then they eventually come together. For example, a character is introduced in the first chapter from one country and then another character from a different country is introduced in second one... rarely, indeed, does a story establish two separate viewpoints or sets of facts and then not bring them together. Part of the fun, for me as a reader, it trying to make the connection... how on Earth is the author going to make a schoolgirl from Kansas relevant to a little person from Oz? (OK. I made that up, but that's the way Baum should have started it off...)
I'm not a great writer, or even a particularly good one, but I can mimic that convention to a certain extent. So please indulge me...
I've lived in my own place for several months now. On a day-to-day basis I've got all of the essentials (a bed, kitty litter, porn--I mean Web access for educational purposes). My itty-bitty kitchen, in particular, has seemed to be in good shape. I can prepare a reasonable number of (simple) dishes for myself and I need only make the occasional supply run to QFC to restock the freezer/fridge/cupboards.
One of my favorite places to eat when I was in high school was Taco Bell. (I went for a smoother transition, but you can see that I'm transporting you, the (reluctant and probably annoyed) reader on a magical journey from my grimy and cat-hair-infested inner sanctum to a magical place that once offered pseudo-Mexican fare at 59/79/99 prices.) Along with Wendy's, my friends and I (all of whom are either dead, homeless, or signed up on MySpace) spent a LOT of time ordering from the Taco Bell menu. We learned some secrets along the way, including the secret behind the off-menu "Green Burrito". We also ordered a special little treat called a "Chilito", which consisted of chili, cheese, and a flour tortilla. As part of our eating festivities, we would hold the Chilito up to our cheeks, paying homage and taking advantage of the soft, warm exterior. (I don't think that we knew enough girls, in retrospect.)
My kitchen has plates. Silverware. A George Foreman grill. A few pots and pans. Magnetic chip bag clips. Spatulas. A dish drying rack. I thought it had just about everything... even a kitchen sink. (*wince*) But little did I know...
Some time in the 1990s, Taco Bell decided to start fucking with my mind. The 59/79/99 menu was scrapped, and some corporate egghead decided that the name "Chilito" wasn't working. It became the "Chili Cheese Burrito", which might be more descriptive, but it lacked ... something. I'm not sure what "it" is, but "Chilito" had it (in spades), and "Chili Cheese Burrito" didn't. It still treated us right every time, but something was afoot.
I have food in my kitchen, as one might guess. Hamburger buns and Donettes and about 30 packages of Lays Stax (it was all about the extreme use of "x" in the name of the product... "Lays Stacks" just doesn't appeal to me). I also have stuff that I bought when I FIRST moved in, but haven't eaten... a Duncan Hines boxed cake, some crackers, and (**dramatic music cue**) a big can of chili.
Sometime between when I went to college about 55 years ago and Memorial Day of this year, Taco Bell made a horrible decision. I was back in my old stomping grounds of Oregon City, visiting family and trying to recapture some of the glorious days and nights I spent as a Chilito-snuggling young man (glorious, I tell you!). I, naturally enough, stopped by Taco Bell and ordered a Chilito, which prompted a look of confusion from the 75 year-old worker. I kinda snickered knowingly and corrected myself by saying "Chili Cheese Burrito" and shaking my head at my brother, trying to communicate how much had changed.
The other day I was, for some bizarre reason, cleaning my kitchen. I think that it was immediately following a small stroke or something, because (a) I kept smelling cashews that I knew weren't there, and (b) cleaning my apartment is generally right below hanging my cats by their tails for 15 minute stretches in my list of priorities. But cleaning the kitchen I was, and I spotted the chili can. A few minutes later, as I was glancing in the fridge, I noticed that I had some cheese and some flour tortillas. I'd already eaten that day, but a seed had been planted.
After a beat of utter blankness, the septuagenarian behind the counter lit up with the spark of recognition. I think I could hear her jawbones creak as she smiled and see dust come from her sides as she slapped them (see... she's old... that's where I'm going with those jokes. Actually, she WAS old. I would be shocked if she's managed to live another 3 weeks since this story at her age). She exclaimed, to stunned silence from the 3 people (including my brother and his wife) waiting in line, "Why, we haven't had that in 10 years!" And as she pointed and laughed and taunted me for my ignorance in the ways of Taco Bell, I swore then and there that I would have a Chili Cheese Burrito... nay, a Chilito before next I slept. I swore a blood oath, with kin and strangers alike as bearing solemn witness.
But then I totally forgot about it, and a couple of days after I saw the three ingredients in my kitchen, I thought it might be a tasty thing to have for dinner.
Little did I know how the Fates would intervene...
Next time, on Ed O.'s blog:
Ed O. vs. The Can of Chili: Part II (You Have GOT To Be Fucking Kidding Me!)
I'm not a great writer, or even a particularly good one, but I can mimic that convention to a certain extent. So please indulge me...
I've lived in my own place for several months now. On a day-to-day basis I've got all of the essentials (a bed, kitty litter, porn--I mean Web access for educational purposes). My itty-bitty kitchen, in particular, has seemed to be in good shape. I can prepare a reasonable number of (simple) dishes for myself and I need only make the occasional supply run to QFC to restock the freezer/fridge/cupboards.
One of my favorite places to eat when I was in high school was Taco Bell. (I went for a smoother transition, but you can see that I'm transporting you, the (reluctant and probably annoyed) reader on a magical journey from my grimy and cat-hair-infested inner sanctum to a magical place that once offered pseudo-Mexican fare at 59/79/99 prices.) Along with Wendy's, my friends and I (all of whom are either dead, homeless, or signed up on MySpace) spent a LOT of time ordering from the Taco Bell menu. We learned some secrets along the way, including the secret behind the off-menu "Green Burrito". We also ordered a special little treat called a "Chilito", which consisted of chili, cheese, and a flour tortilla. As part of our eating festivities, we would hold the Chilito up to our cheeks, paying homage and taking advantage of the soft, warm exterior. (I don't think that we knew enough girls, in retrospect.)
My kitchen has plates. Silverware. A George Foreman grill. A few pots and pans. Magnetic chip bag clips. Spatulas. A dish drying rack. I thought it had just about everything... even a kitchen sink. (*wince*) But little did I know...
Some time in the 1990s, Taco Bell decided to start fucking with my mind. The 59/79/99 menu was scrapped, and some corporate egghead decided that the name "Chilito" wasn't working. It became the "Chili Cheese Burrito", which might be more descriptive, but it lacked ... something. I'm not sure what "it" is, but "Chilito" had it (in spades), and "Chili Cheese Burrito" didn't. It still treated us right every time, but something was afoot.
I have food in my kitchen, as one might guess. Hamburger buns and Donettes and about 30 packages of Lays Stax (it was all about the extreme use of "x" in the name of the product... "Lays Stacks" just doesn't appeal to me). I also have stuff that I bought when I FIRST moved in, but haven't eaten... a Duncan Hines boxed cake, some crackers, and (**dramatic music cue**) a big can of chili.
Sometime between when I went to college about 55 years ago and Memorial Day of this year, Taco Bell made a horrible decision. I was back in my old stomping grounds of Oregon City, visiting family and trying to recapture some of the glorious days and nights I spent as a Chilito-snuggling young man (glorious, I tell you!). I, naturally enough, stopped by Taco Bell and ordered a Chilito, which prompted a look of confusion from the 75 year-old worker. I kinda snickered knowingly and corrected myself by saying "Chili Cheese Burrito" and shaking my head at my brother, trying to communicate how much had changed.
The other day I was, for some bizarre reason, cleaning my kitchen. I think that it was immediately following a small stroke or something, because (a) I kept smelling cashews that I knew weren't there, and (b) cleaning my apartment is generally right below hanging my cats by their tails for 15 minute stretches in my list of priorities. But cleaning the kitchen I was, and I spotted the chili can. A few minutes later, as I was glancing in the fridge, I noticed that I had some cheese and some flour tortillas. I'd already eaten that day, but a seed had been planted.
After a beat of utter blankness, the septuagenarian behind the counter lit up with the spark of recognition. I think I could hear her jawbones creak as she smiled and see dust come from her sides as she slapped them (see... she's old... that's where I'm going with those jokes. Actually, she WAS old. I would be shocked if she's managed to live another 3 weeks since this story at her age). She exclaimed, to stunned silence from the 3 people (including my brother and his wife) waiting in line, "Why, we haven't had that in 10 years!" And as she pointed and laughed and taunted me for my ignorance in the ways of Taco Bell, I swore then and there that I would have a Chili Cheese Burrito... nay, a Chilito before next I slept. I swore a blood oath, with kin and strangers alike as bearing solemn witness.
But then I totally forgot about it, and a couple of days after I saw the three ingredients in my kitchen, I thought it might be a tasty thing to have for dinner.
Little did I know how the Fates would intervene...
Next time, on Ed O.'s blog:
Ed O. vs. The Can of Chili: Part II (You Have GOT To Be Fucking Kidding Me!)
Monday, June 12, 2006
Juggling
I've never been much of a juggler. Speaking from ignorance, then, I think that the two primary ways of juggling (especially for people that can't juggle and have never really been taught) are (a) the method of tossing the objects (balls, beanbags, chainsaws) up and between one's two hands and (b) tossing one object at a time up from one hand, passing the subsequent object from the off hand to the tossing hand (creating a circular motion).
As I wrote, I've never been much of a juggler. Whatever meager capabilities I have, though, are based in option (b) from the above list. I've been told that it's the more difficult of the two methods, but I'm too old, too impatient, and my apartment has too low of ceilings for me to try the alternative.
While I haven't been practicing my juggling skills, I've thought a lot about what makes juggling interesting for the juggler... there's the thrill of impressing others, the feeling of accomplishment the juggler gets at doing something well, and (I'd bet) the thrill and uncertainty of having to not only anticipate the timing and location of the latest falling object, but also executing the catch and then the toss... all with a mind to having to anticipate where and when it's going to fall.
For a practiced juggler, I would imagine the micro (the "per object") thrill is dramatically reduced because of the confidence and competence with which she does the toss. Excluding the possibility of external forces (wind, low-flying birds, earthquakes), a well-executed toss makes the anticipation and catch merely mechanical. And, of course, the toss itself becomes mechanical with enough practice.
I guess, at that point, the juggler needs to try new and different things to keep the thrill.
For a third time, I'll state I'm not much of a juggler. As I think of juggling, I still see three hurdles to be cleared, each of which are discrete and fraught with peril.
Overthinking one step trips me up and causes me to lose that object (and possibly more). Underthinking might result in the cadence breaking or in an object being dropped for want of attention.
Practice is critical, but so is accepting my current limitations not as inherent deficiencies but as part of a natural learning curve. And the type of practice seems important, too; focusing on one object at a time will either build bad habits (since I would be tossing too low and/or holding on too tightly) or, at minimum, prevent me from improving my juggling ability. At the same time, I lack the skill and confidence to keep many objects airborne at once.
It appears, then, that I am at an impasse. My juggling capabilities will be frozen, where they are, in perpetuity (or until nature drags down my physical traits, necessarily reducing my juggling with it).
Unless, of course, I accept not only my current shortcomings but also that objects are occasionally going to get dropped. If and when that happens, I will have to make sure that they don't land on my toes and I will endeavor to not remonstrate myself too harshly nor take pleasure at the plight of the objects that are dropped for my want of skill.
I just hope that no object I toss (and drop) breaks on impact and then turns out to be irreplaceable.
As I wrote, I've never been much of a juggler. Whatever meager capabilities I have, though, are based in option (b) from the above list. I've been told that it's the more difficult of the two methods, but I'm too old, too impatient, and my apartment has too low of ceilings for me to try the alternative.
While I haven't been practicing my juggling skills, I've thought a lot about what makes juggling interesting for the juggler... there's the thrill of impressing others, the feeling of accomplishment the juggler gets at doing something well, and (I'd bet) the thrill and uncertainty of having to not only anticipate the timing and location of the latest falling object, but also executing the catch and then the toss... all with a mind to having to anticipate where and when it's going to fall.
For a practiced juggler, I would imagine the micro (the "per object") thrill is dramatically reduced because of the confidence and competence with which she does the toss. Excluding the possibility of external forces (wind, low-flying birds, earthquakes), a well-executed toss makes the anticipation and catch merely mechanical. And, of course, the toss itself becomes mechanical with enough practice.
I guess, at that point, the juggler needs to try new and different things to keep the thrill.
For a third time, I'll state I'm not much of a juggler. As I think of juggling, I still see three hurdles to be cleared, each of which are discrete and fraught with peril.
Overthinking one step trips me up and causes me to lose that object (and possibly more). Underthinking might result in the cadence breaking or in an object being dropped for want of attention.
Practice is critical, but so is accepting my current limitations not as inherent deficiencies but as part of a natural learning curve. And the type of practice seems important, too; focusing on one object at a time will either build bad habits (since I would be tossing too low and/or holding on too tightly) or, at minimum, prevent me from improving my juggling ability. At the same time, I lack the skill and confidence to keep many objects airborne at once.
It appears, then, that I am at an impasse. My juggling capabilities will be frozen, where they are, in perpetuity (or until nature drags down my physical traits, necessarily reducing my juggling with it).
Unless, of course, I accept not only my current shortcomings but also that objects are occasionally going to get dropped. If and when that happens, I will have to make sure that they don't land on my toes and I will endeavor to not remonstrate myself too harshly nor take pleasure at the plight of the objects that are dropped for my want of skill.
I just hope that no object I toss (and drop) breaks on impact and then turns out to be irreplaceable.
Ambiguity(with minor conniption fit)
So Stephen Hawking is talking about humans having to go into space to survive in the long run (which I agree with, unless you define "long run" as when all humans die out, in which case I don't). He's talking about how close we (meaning scientists; I certainly have nothing to do with it) close we are to solving the origin of the universe, the meaning of life, etc.. And he's talking about how he wants to understand women. A joke, sure, but one that resonates with people from both sides of the gender aisle.
I have never bought into the whole "I don't understand women" thing. Not saying that I do understand women. But I don't think there's much to understand about them as a class. There are almost certainly biological and cultural influences that are shared by the majority of the women that I will encounter, but I think that I have a reasonable grasp on these (or at least working hypotheses). There are two associated sources of mystery, though, one at a more macro level (people in general are confusing) and one at the micro level (each woman is a unique specimen, with her own experiences and personality that influences decisionmaking). Neither of these are because they are women, though.
So I reject women, as a class, being particularly ambiguous. But I fully, achingly, embrace that women can be ambiguous on an individual level.
To wit, here are paraphrases of two conversations I've recently had (with two different people, across different media, with some time lapse for the reading experience):
Exchange 1:
Exchange 2:
Now, I don't need SPECIFIC information (call me on the second night of the new moon at 8 minutes before nine of the clock) but "any time" and "later" are ambiguities that could EASILY be avoided by saying things like, "Tuesday".
I'm not complaining, mind you. I know that I might be oversensitive to ANY lack of clarity in response to these types of questions (I'm not experienced asking them). And I'd prefer an open-ended "yes" to a "no" in almost every case.
But ... *waaah*! I want clarity! And I'm frightened that pushing for it will seem the act of an insecure and emotionally immature man who's desperate for female companionship. (Of course, I am an insecure and emotionally immature man who's desperate for female companionship, but I don't want THEM to know that...)
I have never bought into the whole "I don't understand women" thing. Not saying that I do understand women. But I don't think there's much to understand about them as a class. There are almost certainly biological and cultural influences that are shared by the majority of the women that I will encounter, but I think that I have a reasonable grasp on these (or at least working hypotheses). There are two associated sources of mystery, though, one at a more macro level (people in general are confusing) and one at the micro level (each woman is a unique specimen, with her own experiences and personality that influences decisionmaking). Neither of these are because they are women, though.
So I reject women, as a class, being particularly ambiguous. But I fully, achingly, embrace that women can be ambiguous on an individual level.
To wit, here are paraphrases of two conversations I've recently had (with two different people, across different media, with some time lapse for the reading experience):
Exchange 1:
Me: So I'd like to hang out some time.
Her #1: Sounds good.
Me: I've been having trouble catching you. Is there a good time to call?
Her #1: Call any time.
Me: ...
Exchange 2:
Me: How about dinner tonight?
Her #2: Can't tonight. I'll call you later.
[fast forward 5 days]
Me: Does "I'll call later" mean "bug off"? Or what?
Her #2: I've been sick. Call me later.
Me: ...
Now, I don't need SPECIFIC information (call me on the second night of the new moon at 8 minutes before nine of the clock) but "any time" and "later" are ambiguities that could EASILY be avoided by saying things like, "Tuesday".
I'm not complaining, mind you. I know that I might be oversensitive to ANY lack of clarity in response to these types of questions (I'm not experienced asking them). And I'd prefer an open-ended "yes" to a "no" in almost every case.
But ... *waaah*! I want clarity! And I'm frightened that pushing for it will seem the act of an insecure and emotionally immature man who's desperate for female companionship. (Of course, I am an insecure and emotionally immature man who's desperate for female companionship, but I don't want THEM to know that...)
Saturday, June 10, 2006
Admission and Nevermind
OK. I will admit for the first (and maybe the last) time that I occasionally sandbag in this blog. Meaning I downplay the positives that I have, the stuff that's actually worked, and my odds of success... especially in terms of when I go out.
I don't have any illusions about myself being some super-dreamboat, but I look around bars and such and I'm at least middle of the pack in terms of looks and with certain types of ladies (smart ones with good-to-great senses of humor) my personality is pretty good. When I actually work up the nerve to talk to women, it tends to go reasonably well. But most of the time I'm just a bump on a log. I'm working on it, but that's the truth.
I'm saying this because in my previous entry, I was acting like I expected things to go poorly tonight because of the good start to my day. I don't really expect good things when I go out, but there have been but a few nights where I've not had some kind of adventure.
Tonight was an adventure. I'm not going to go into details in this space, but it involved me doing a repeat performance of a karaoke song for the first time... and "Like a Virgin" has treated me very well two times in a row. It also involves a spilled Sprite and a phone number exchange.
So it was a good night, indeed.
On another front: I have been obsessed with Nirvana's "Nevermind" for the last day or two. It's such an odd feeling of nostalgia (remembering the first time I heard it in my college dorm room) and music that I still find appealing today. I hadn't listened to it in a long time, but I heard "On a Plain" on pandora.com and it reminded me. Funny how we need reminding of things sometimes...
I don't have any illusions about myself being some super-dreamboat, but I look around bars and such and I'm at least middle of the pack in terms of looks and with certain types of ladies (smart ones with good-to-great senses of humor) my personality is pretty good. When I actually work up the nerve to talk to women, it tends to go reasonably well. But most of the time I'm just a bump on a log. I'm working on it, but that's the truth.
I'm saying this because in my previous entry, I was acting like I expected things to go poorly tonight because of the good start to my day. I don't really expect good things when I go out, but there have been but a few nights where I've not had some kind of adventure.
Tonight was an adventure. I'm not going to go into details in this space, but it involved me doing a repeat performance of a karaoke song for the first time... and "Like a Virgin" has treated me very well two times in a row. It also involves a spilled Sprite and a phone number exchange.
So it was a good night, indeed.
On another front: I have been obsessed with Nirvana's "Nevermind" for the last day or two. It's such an odd feeling of nostalgia (remembering the first time I heard it in my college dorm room) and music that I still find appealing today. I hadn't listened to it in a long time, but I heard "On a Plain" on pandora.com and it reminded me. Funny how we need reminding of things sometimes...
Friday, June 9, 2006
Free Friday
There's still plenty that can go wrong (it is me, we're talking about) but today's been pretty good so far.
When I went to pay for parking this morning, someone had placed an all-day pass out for some lucky person (me, in this case) to use. Free parking... $11 saved.
When I got to work, we were having a meeting and there were scones. Free food.
For lunch, we went out to say goodbye to a co-worker (who's going back on her sailboat, living a life that sounds exciting by that I wouldn't do except perhaps at gunpoint). Free food.
(Two more "free" things: one the way back from the restaurant, I was discussing "The Office" with a co-worker and she mentioned David Brent's song "Freelove Freeway". When I got back to my desk, I read an article about federal monitoring of the net and Louis Freeh was quoted.)
The weather has been nice, which is great even when I'm stuffed behind three monitors all day. I am home at a reasonable hour and I'm going to take a nice nap before I go out... there's something delicious about taking a nap in the evening when it's sunshining out.
Like I said: plenty of time for the day/evening to go wrong. But so far, so good.
Thursday, June 8, 2006
Sad Dream
(Crap I hate the "cancel" button. Typing this up once wasn't a ton of fun, and now I'm re-typing it? Ugh.)
It's uncommon for me to remember my dreams. This morning I had one that I remember and it was short and pretty transparent and pretty darn sad.
The dream (at least what I remember of it) involved my (future-) ex-mother-in-law. I had expected her, in my dream, to be angry with me. In real life, I haven't talked to her in several months and not about the divorce at all.
In the dream, she wasn't angry. She was just... sad. Which made me sad, of course, and we hugged and I said to her, "I don't have the words. I'm so sorry." It was a weird sentence, and it kinda stuck in my head as meaning much more than the sum of the words. Which happens in a dream, I suppose.
As uncommon as it is for me to remember a dream, it's much less common for me to wake up with tears in my eyes over one. But I woke up this morning after I dream-spoke "sorry". And I wasn't crying, but I was on the verge of it.
What a kick-ass way to start a Thursday, huh?
Monday, June 5, 2006
C2H6O and me
One of the most interesting dichotomies in the human psyche (or at least in my psyche) is the concurrent desire to be special and to fit in.
I think that it's safe to say that most of us want to be different. To be unique (or, rather, to appear to be unique; clearly we all are singular). To stand out so that people are impressed.
At the same time, different can be scary. Different can be isolating. And I think that it's safe to say that most of us want to fit in. To belong. To be accepted.
I guess it's easy to say, "Everyone should be accepted for their differences! The collective is enriched by each individual expressing herself/himself!" To a certain extent, this is true; life is more interesting because of differences in people, and quirks (positive and negative) are often endearing to us.
The fact is, though, that we each make judgments on people based on what we see and hear from them, and in my opinion we reach those judgments on standards generally based on our own looks/capabilities/personality and/or on what we see as "normal" in those areas.
If I speak to someone that I think is terribly boring, or not bright (i.e., stupid), it's going to make an impression on me. And it's not going to be, "I'm so glad that my life has been improved by that conversation with a human doorknob." Ireally try not to judge people, and I understand that first impressions are often inaccurate, but I think I'm probably going to be less likely to talk to that person again because most of the time I don't like speaking to people like that if I have any choice.
But this blog isn't about me. Or, rather, it is about me, but it's less about me judging than it is me feeling judged.
I, like everyone, have my idiosyncracies. Some of them come and go... for most of my college days at Northwestern, I kept some silly vow not to get my hair cut outside of the state of Oregon. Which meant that I was constantly shaggy. When I finally broke the vow, it was disasterous... a certain future ex-wife of mine gamely tried to cut my hair (if I remember correctly, it was because I had died it black after getting it cut in the state of Oregon, and my brown roots made me look even more ridiculous than normal as it grew out). And while she succeeded in "cutting" it, she did so only in the strictest sense... my hair was cut, but it looked like ass.
Some of my quirks have had a longer shelf life. My abstention from alcohol is first and foremost. I've thought a lot about why I do not and (save for some sips of beer as a kid and a single half-shot of something or other in middle school) have not imbibed. Sure, part of it is deeply rooted childhood memories (nasty taste of beer, seemingly embarrassing behavior by family members after consuming booze). And part of it is a fear (of lack of control, of killing of brain cells, of drinking to excess too often... ).
As one might detect from, say, every entry of this blog, I am absolutely capable of making an ass of myself without the help of chemical alteration. I am totally willing to put my foot in my mouth with little or no justification. And I am almost incapable of not beating myself up over each and every one of the things that I do wrong.
Heck, I remember one time in law school where I hadn't done the reading and I got called on to answer questions about a case, and as I glanced through the material and tried to BS my way through I ended up making a cogent but entirelywrong argument. I remember one time at a high school party where I made a joke about counting the number of people at the party with fewer than ten fingers or toes, and seeing a guy smile at me oddly... and that guy turned out to be missing a finger, as it turns out. I remember rolling my ankle and falling down on the sidewalk, tearing a hole in my shirt and scraping my elbow... of course, that was only like 2 weeks ago, and my scab is still lingering, so that doesn't take much of a memory.
I think that I've got some fear that my natural ability to make mistakes is going to grow exponentially with the intoxicating effects of alcohol.
But I think that it's laso largely a combination of inertia and stubborness. Not drinking is part of who I am. I've been relatively happy without it, and I get some sort of odd pleasure at carrying my Sprite around the bar (I sometimes fancy that someone thinks that I'm, like, in recovery or something, rather than a guy who's frightened). I also take some pride in having been the way I am for so long in spite of everyone I know (save one, who actually might drink wine occasionally; I haven't discussed it with him recently) partaking.
It goes back to the dichotomy of desiring to be special, but also to fit in.
Because, let's be honest: drinking does have at least two benefits. The first is that it acts as a social lubricant. With a bit of the sauce in me, maybe I'll have the guts to talk to more people (girls)... and even if I make a fool of myself more often, I would imagine that I could meet and get to know more people, too. The second benefit is that it's just something that helps one fit in... not so much that all the cool kids are doing it, but just as I've spent entirely too much money on my wardrobe recently so I don't have to worry about whether my jeans look ridiculous (actually, I think that some of my jeans DO look ridiculous, but the places I go they seem to fit right in), at some level it would be kinda cool to sip on a beer and not have to worry about what I'd say if someone asked my why I'm drinking a Sprite.
Another potentially positive aspect of drinking is wine. There's so much history and science and current information about the process and the vineyards and the wines themselves... almost everything appeals to me about drinking wine except, well, drinking wine.
I'm not saying, here and now, that I'm giving up the ghost. I'm not ready to start boozing it up just yet. But as I continue to emerge from the post-separation funk (and feel like I'm really not just turning to alcohol to replace something else) and I continue to think about it, I think that it might happen. And happen relatively soon.
Sunday, June 4, 2006
Reno recap, belatedly
I went to Reno a few weeks back with a couple of friends (Morgan and Josh; they're MySpace friend-approved, so I knew they were of reasonable quality) and we, as three semi-married men (long story) went there to, like, do stuff. I know that's kind of a crazy concept.
And stuff we did do. Stuff was done did.
I'd intended to recount the weekend as a sort of (attemptedly) humorous recap upon my return, but most of the most interesting stuff had absolutely nothing to do with me, and while there's no official "blah blah blah, stays in Reno" rule, I didn't want to embarrass anyone with the first letter of "J" who was in attendance.
With that being said, I posted a few pics of me/some mountain/my suite in my pics area. It might be your only chance to laugh at my soul patch, so take advantage!
Also, I did have a peculiar/funny adventure on the Saturday night in Reno. Morgan and I were in a bar in the casino, listening to the live band play and trying to find non-local girls to hit on (OK, "hit on" is too strong... maybe "talk to for at least 3 seconds" is more accurate). It was about 1:30 AM--30 minutes before closing, and Morgan commented to me that there were a pair of cute young women at a table near us, and there was only one guy sitting with them. After the man and one of the women got up to get drinks, I told Morgan it was his chance and that he should talk to her.
I wandered into the dance area (certainly not to dance) but I kept an eye on Morgan, as he traversed the 5 feet between the tables towards the woman. I didn't know what he said, but it was short and didn't appear to be too sweet. He said something and did a quick U-turn back to his table. It was funny. It was heartbreaking. It was entirely too much like what I'd do to be anything short of at least a bit painful.
If the story ended here, it would be about like 95 percent of the stories I tell: inane and irrelevant. But it was just the beginning... of a longer inane and irrelevant story.
I went back to talk to Morgan and he explained that he used the classic, "Having a good time?" opening. Classic in that it's such a closed question and classic in that it seems like a good question to ask in spite of that. Predictably, she had smiled at him and said, "Yes" and then he didn't have anywhere to go.
So rather than sit back down at the table, I was standing, leaning against it, talking to Morgan. I was about 3 feet from the woman that Morgan had just approached and her amigos had returned with their drinks as we talked. I noticed in my peripheral vision that the woman was looking at me as she laughed, and had done it several times in a row... of course, I notice a lot of things in my life, and they're not always consistent with reality. But after like the third time, Morgan said something like, "She keeps looking at you when she laughs" and I was more sure that I hadn't been affected by some sort of contact hallucinogen--or if I was, it didn't prevent me from noticing some things clearly (or, I suppose, that Morgan had been dinged by it, too... but I didn't think of that at the time).
Her friends for some reason got up and left again a few minutes later, and she was just sitting there, and I said to myself, "Self, this sort of pending disaster is exactly the reason you came to Reno." Power of positive thinking, huh? Self-motivating through shame and fear is always the best way to approach women, from what I've read.
But I introduced myself. And she smiled and we talked and when her friends came back they introduced me to sit down. And, since he was like 3 feet away, Morgan sat with us and we got a bit of a scoop on the three people.
The woman Morgan and I had each approached was from out of town. We'll call her Christine, although to be honest I don't remember her name at this point. The other woman was her cousin and lived in Reno. We'll call her Adele, although that's almost certainly not right. The gentleman was a local, too... I think his name was Rafael, and he's the crux of why this gets interesting (it does get more interesting, trust me).
Rafael is a married man. He'd been married about a year. Not to either of these women, though. Christine and he had been dating, and they were dating at the time he got married. They were now "best friends". Pretty standard stuff.
2:00 came quickly. We were regaled by a few embarrassing stories about Christine and the bizarre facts about Rafael's relationship(s). Rafael was pretty quiet, but he was smiling and seemed happy even if he wasn't nearly as effusive as his companions were. Christine and I were sitting kinda close and it seemed she was digging me just a little bit. But the bar closed, and we went our separate ways.
The casino only had one other club that was open past two... a dance club. So after some consideration, Morgan and I doubled back to check it out. In line (of course, given the incomplete nature of this story to this point) were Christine, Adele, and Rafael. They greeted us warmly (or, rather, the girls did... Rafael continued his "man of silence" routine), and I hopped in line behind them. Morgan wasn't dressed appropriately (he had open-toed sandals; I'm sure he would have been denied entry on any of a variety of other fronts, as well, if it had come to it) so I became the fourth wheel.
I paid for Christine's cover as well as my own, and was feeling pretty positive about it all as we entered.
First stop: restrooms. Rafael and I went to the little boys' room and I asked, in the crappy seriously-man-tell-me-the-truth tenor that people take in otherwise lighthearted moments, if he was cool with me being there. He gave me a smile from his urinal stall and performed a veritable soliloquy given his lack of speaking to that point when he said, "It's all good."
It was all good. And it was going to get just a bit better.
We waited for the ladies, and when they emerged, Adele instructed the three of us to grab a table as she said "Hi" to some friends. We started to weave our way to the tables, with Rafael in front, Christine behind, and me taking the rear (*giggle*) as Adele hugged the bar and moved to the other side of the room.
This was the first time that I noticed that things were a bit... off. Christine was right behind Rafael... kinda grabbing his shirt or his belt as they moved through the massed people. I shrugged it off, thinking that Christine (being a small person) was just taking advantage of Rafael's wake.
We got a table. Christine sat down on a stool, and Rafael (brave, tragic, magnificent Rafael) remained standing. So close, and yet just out of reach. But not literally out of reach, as was demonstrated shortly thereafter.
Of course, I just saw that there was a spot next to Christine and I assumed that, like in the bar, she would want me to sit next to her. So I did.
Music was loud. It was dark. There were people all around us, and I wasn't really sure what to do. It was too loud to talk, and we were waiting for Adele so even if (through some twisted miracle) I was inclined to dance, I didn't want to leave.
But the moments dragged. Christine was kinda still and she wasn't looking at me. I whispered into her ear (actually, shouted into her ear) something like, "Is it OK I sat by you? Everything going OK?" and she smiled at me and assured it was fine. Excellent. Something positive.
More moments dragged. It was weird how it could be insanely loud and deathly silent at the same time. Rafael remained standing, apart from us.
I then noticed that Christine was looking at Rafael. And that she had tears in her eyes. Dear Lord.
I whispered/shouted again: "So what's the deal with Rafael? Is he your ex- or your current-?" To which she replied, "He's my best friend." I managed to stifle a knee-jerk eyeroll...
Now, I don't think Rafael could hear this, but I swear at that moment he reached up and wiped a tear from his eye. It was so deliciously scripted, so magnificently uncomfortable... I couldn't get enough, and yet I couldn't take it any more.
As I was considering taking off, Christine reached out to Rafael from her chair, and they clasped hands for a brief moment. Touching physically in a way that they remained emotionally connected. Or something.
In spite of this oddly humorous situation, I was very close to leaving when Adele got back. She was all happy and energetic and she was pretty damn cute, so I perked back up. She encouraged us to hit the dance floor, and when Christine and Rafael somberly declined, she grabbed my hand and led me to the floor. I think that I've noted in previous blog entries that I am no dancer (if there is an opposite that didn't involve absence of limbs, I would be that) when a hot chick is pulling me somewhere so she can rub up against me, I tend to put aside my qualms about making a fool of myself. At least temporarily.
So she kinda rocked my world a bit, and after several songs Christine and Rafael appeared, as if from nowhere. They danced a bit (although to be honest at this point I wasn't looking at Christine very much because I had other more ... pressing... matters to attend to) and then somehow Christine communicated to Adele that they had to talk, and they headed back to the bathroom.
Rafael and I waited outside the facilities in an awkward (if, at this point, predictable) silence. I was totally convinced that the night was ending, and that the best night of dancing of my life was going to be over after 15 minutes. They emerged from the restroom, and Adele assured me that the night was young and that she eagerly anticipated grinding on me some more (OK, that's a paraphrase), but then Christine revealed that she was going home. Adele, who was driving, was confused until it was revealed that Christine planned on getting a ride (*giggle*) from Rafael.
Adele, being the responsible one in spite of being something approaching 7 years younger than Christine, put her foot down, and when Christine reiterated she wanted to leave, that meant that the night was over for Adele and, essentially, for me.
Of course, it was only 3:00. There were still lesser adventures to be had with prostitutes and bowlers that night. But that little teaser is actually more interesting than the experience, I think, and maybe I'll save it for another time.
And stuff we did do. Stuff was done did.
I'd intended to recount the weekend as a sort of (attemptedly) humorous recap upon my return, but most of the most interesting stuff had absolutely nothing to do with me, and while there's no official "blah blah blah, stays in Reno" rule, I didn't want to embarrass anyone with the first letter of "J" who was in attendance.
With that being said, I posted a few pics of me/some mountain/my suite in my pics area. It might be your only chance to laugh at my soul patch, so take advantage!
Also, I did have a peculiar/funny adventure on the Saturday night in Reno. Morgan and I were in a bar in the casino, listening to the live band play and trying to find non-local girls to hit on (OK, "hit on" is too strong... maybe "talk to for at least 3 seconds" is more accurate). It was about 1:30 AM--30 minutes before closing, and Morgan commented to me that there were a pair of cute young women at a table near us, and there was only one guy sitting with them. After the man and one of the women got up to get drinks, I told Morgan it was his chance and that he should talk to her.
I wandered into the dance area (certainly not to dance) but I kept an eye on Morgan, as he traversed the 5 feet between the tables towards the woman. I didn't know what he said, but it was short and didn't appear to be too sweet. He said something and did a quick U-turn back to his table. It was funny. It was heartbreaking. It was entirely too much like what I'd do to be anything short of at least a bit painful.
If the story ended here, it would be about like 95 percent of the stories I tell: inane and irrelevant. But it was just the beginning... of a longer inane and irrelevant story.
I went back to talk to Morgan and he explained that he used the classic, "Having a good time?" opening. Classic in that it's such a closed question and classic in that it seems like a good question to ask in spite of that. Predictably, she had smiled at him and said, "Yes" and then he didn't have anywhere to go.
So rather than sit back down at the table, I was standing, leaning against it, talking to Morgan. I was about 3 feet from the woman that Morgan had just approached and her amigos had returned with their drinks as we talked. I noticed in my peripheral vision that the woman was looking at me as she laughed, and had done it several times in a row... of course, I notice a lot of things in my life, and they're not always consistent with reality. But after like the third time, Morgan said something like, "She keeps looking at you when she laughs" and I was more sure that I hadn't been affected by some sort of contact hallucinogen--or if I was, it didn't prevent me from noticing some things clearly (or, I suppose, that Morgan had been dinged by it, too... but I didn't think of that at the time).
Her friends for some reason got up and left again a few minutes later, and she was just sitting there, and I said to myself, "Self, this sort of pending disaster is exactly the reason you came to Reno." Power of positive thinking, huh? Self-motivating through shame and fear is always the best way to approach women, from what I've read.
But I introduced myself. And she smiled and we talked and when her friends came back they introduced me to sit down. And, since he was like 3 feet away, Morgan sat with us and we got a bit of a scoop on the three people.
The woman Morgan and I had each approached was from out of town. We'll call her Christine, although to be honest I don't remember her name at this point. The other woman was her cousin and lived in Reno. We'll call her Adele, although that's almost certainly not right. The gentleman was a local, too... I think his name was Rafael, and he's the crux of why this gets interesting (it does get more interesting, trust me).
Rafael is a married man. He'd been married about a year. Not to either of these women, though. Christine and he had been dating, and they were dating at the time he got married. They were now "best friends". Pretty standard stuff.
2:00 came quickly. We were regaled by a few embarrassing stories about Christine and the bizarre facts about Rafael's relationship(s). Rafael was pretty quiet, but he was smiling and seemed happy even if he wasn't nearly as effusive as his companions were. Christine and I were sitting kinda close and it seemed she was digging me just a little bit. But the bar closed, and we went our separate ways.
The casino only had one other club that was open past two... a dance club. So after some consideration, Morgan and I doubled back to check it out. In line (of course, given the incomplete nature of this story to this point) were Christine, Adele, and Rafael. They greeted us warmly (or, rather, the girls did... Rafael continued his "man of silence" routine), and I hopped in line behind them. Morgan wasn't dressed appropriately (he had open-toed sandals; I'm sure he would have been denied entry on any of a variety of other fronts, as well, if it had come to it) so I became the fourth wheel.
I paid for Christine's cover as well as my own, and was feeling pretty positive about it all as we entered.
First stop: restrooms. Rafael and I went to the little boys' room and I asked, in the crappy seriously-man-tell-me-the-truth tenor that people take in otherwise lighthearted moments, if he was cool with me being there. He gave me a smile from his urinal stall and performed a veritable soliloquy given his lack of speaking to that point when he said, "It's all good."
It was all good. And it was going to get just a bit better.
We waited for the ladies, and when they emerged, Adele instructed the three of us to grab a table as she said "Hi" to some friends. We started to weave our way to the tables, with Rafael in front, Christine behind, and me taking the rear (*giggle*) as Adele hugged the bar and moved to the other side of the room.
This was the first time that I noticed that things were a bit... off. Christine was right behind Rafael... kinda grabbing his shirt or his belt as they moved through the massed people. I shrugged it off, thinking that Christine (being a small person) was just taking advantage of Rafael's wake.
We got a table. Christine sat down on a stool, and Rafael (brave, tragic, magnificent Rafael) remained standing. So close, and yet just out of reach. But not literally out of reach, as was demonstrated shortly thereafter.
Of course, I just saw that there was a spot next to Christine and I assumed that, like in the bar, she would want me to sit next to her. So I did.
Music was loud. It was dark. There were people all around us, and I wasn't really sure what to do. It was too loud to talk, and we were waiting for Adele so even if (through some twisted miracle) I was inclined to dance, I didn't want to leave.
But the moments dragged. Christine was kinda still and she wasn't looking at me. I whispered into her ear (actually, shouted into her ear) something like, "Is it OK I sat by you? Everything going OK?" and she smiled at me and assured it was fine. Excellent. Something positive.
More moments dragged. It was weird how it could be insanely loud and deathly silent at the same time. Rafael remained standing, apart from us.
I then noticed that Christine was looking at Rafael. And that she had tears in her eyes. Dear Lord.
I whispered/shouted again: "So what's the deal with Rafael? Is he your ex- or your current-?" To which she replied, "He's my best friend." I managed to stifle a knee-jerk eyeroll...
Now, I don't think Rafael could hear this, but I swear at that moment he reached up and wiped a tear from his eye. It was so deliciously scripted, so magnificently uncomfortable... I couldn't get enough, and yet I couldn't take it any more.
As I was considering taking off, Christine reached out to Rafael from her chair, and they clasped hands for a brief moment. Touching physically in a way that they remained emotionally connected. Or something.
In spite of this oddly humorous situation, I was very close to leaving when Adele got back. She was all happy and energetic and she was pretty damn cute, so I perked back up. She encouraged us to hit the dance floor, and when Christine and Rafael somberly declined, she grabbed my hand and led me to the floor. I think that I've noted in previous blog entries that I am no dancer (if there is an opposite that didn't involve absence of limbs, I would be that) when a hot chick is pulling me somewhere so she can rub up against me, I tend to put aside my qualms about making a fool of myself. At least temporarily.
So she kinda rocked my world a bit, and after several songs Christine and Rafael appeared, as if from nowhere. They danced a bit (although to be honest at this point I wasn't looking at Christine very much because I had other more ... pressing... matters to attend to) and then somehow Christine communicated to Adele that they had to talk, and they headed back to the bathroom.
Rafael and I waited outside the facilities in an awkward (if, at this point, predictable) silence. I was totally convinced that the night was ending, and that the best night of dancing of my life was going to be over after 15 minutes. They emerged from the restroom, and Adele assured me that the night was young and that she eagerly anticipated grinding on me some more (OK, that's a paraphrase), but then Christine revealed that she was going home. Adele, who was driving, was confused until it was revealed that Christine planned on getting a ride (*giggle*) from Rafael.
Adele, being the responsible one in spite of being something approaching 7 years younger than Christine, put her foot down, and when Christine reiterated she wanted to leave, that meant that the night was over for Adele and, essentially, for me.
Of course, it was only 3:00. There were still lesser adventures to be had with prostitutes and bowlers that night. But that little teaser is actually more interesting than the experience, I think, and maybe I'll save it for another time.
Why I love historical nonfiction
I've been reading biographies of colonial- and revolutionary-era leaders for the past year or two. Hamilton, Arnold, the first four presidents... all have been consumed to some extent by yours truly.
I'm working my way through a James Monroe biography--I started it an embarrassingly long time ago, but with the life stuff that's got in the way I haven't had the motivation to pick up the ~600 page, pretty dry piece.
But I'm back into it, and I read a paragraph that just encapsulates much of what I love about reading this sort of book. Here's the paragraph portion:
On arriving at Highlands in August, Monroe was cheered to find his wife and Maria Hester in good health. He had little chance, however, to look after his plantation, for he had been home only a few days when he was knocked from his horse by a tree limb, suffering a bruised shoulder and a deep cut on his leg which confined him for nearly a month.
OK. So why did this pair of sentences stick out to me? Because there are so many interesting things that indicate how different things were then. Listing some of them:
I'm working my way through a James Monroe biography--I started it an embarrassingly long time ago, but with the life stuff that's got in the way I haven't had the motivation to pick up the ~600 page, pretty dry piece.
But I'm back into it, and I read a paragraph that just encapsulates much of what I love about reading this sort of book. Here's the paragraph portion:
On arriving at Highlands in August, Monroe was cheered to find his wife and Maria Hester in good health. He had little chance, however, to look after his plantation, for he had been home only a few days when he was knocked from his horse by a tree limb, suffering a bruised shoulder and a deep cut on his leg which confined him for nearly a month.
OK. So why did this pair of sentences stick out to me? Because there are so many interesting things that indicate how different things were then. Listing some of them:
- His estate was called "Highlands". Not enough places have names nowadays in my book (although maybe all estates do, and I just am not exposed to enough estates). But it's not even "The Highlands". Seriously classy name.
- He didn't know whether his wife and daughter were healthy. While I think we're all pleased to see our relatives "looking good" when we visit them, it's so bizarre to me that the uncertainty over health matters was so serious then... communications moved so slowly.
- Monroe, who was Secretary of State at the time of his visit, was planning on managing his estate during his return visit. The US was on the brink of war with Great Britain, but the guy had to make sure that the crops were on schedule and the slaves were managed properly. I know that George Bush goes to a ranch to, like, clear brush or something, but Monroe's financial health was dependent on the efficiency of his land, and it's amazing that he had so many domestic responsibilities at the time he was helping steer the entire country.
- He was knocked to the ground by a tree limb? This is a guy who grew up riding horses. He presumably knew his estate well, too. But he gets knocked down by a branch? I'd be interested to know the deets here, but he sounds like a bit of a clutz.
- He was confined for a month. Again: this was probably the second most powerful man in the USA. The year was 1811. Even non-students of history should remember the general timeframe of the War of 1812, and it wasn't a huge shock that conflict was coming. But in spite of the dark clouds on the horizon, the only option to treat Monroe was a month of bed rest. Damn.
Night out II
So no real play-by-play of tonight's adventures, but I wanted to share some highlights. I did kinda my normal routine (hit a bar or two for a Sprite, then go to the karaoke place) and the following atypical events occurred:
Overall it was an up-and-down night. I realized tonight that just when I'm starting to get frustrated, or just when I'm feeling a bit isolated and depressed in the sea of people churning around me, I see a cute smile from a young woman. Even if I don't go talk to that person (meaning: even after I don't go talk to that person), it lifts my spirits and reminds me that it's OK that it's tough and it's confusing and whatever.
- I wore a new shirt tonight. It is a white cotton fabric that is nice for summer, but not very nice when it rains. I didn't think of that when I left, though... I was a block from my apartment when I looked down and wondered how long it was going to take before someone made a "pirate" joke about the shirt (now that I made it through a night without being mocked for it (at least to my knowledge), I feel that fear was irrational. But at the time it was all too real and if I hadn't spent too much money on it, I might have gone back and changed into something else.)
- I actually saw someone I knew on the street. It's a long, ongoing story with this person, and I won't get into the "why's" but in a twist of fate, the friend I saw tonight was the only friend I have that I would hesitate to say "hello" to preemptively. So I saw the person I knew walk by and I just gave her a half-smile and a nod. Kinda weird, I know.
- The first two bars were busts. Nice places, some nice-looking people, but I still am not in a position where I can just walk up to people and introduce myself. Someday, maybe. But not tonight.
- The karaoke bar was a little lighter tonight, and I juggled between the two singing rooms for the first time, so I got to sing three songs in my time there. The upstairs area has lower ceilings and gets a lot warmer. More dancing females and a cozier atmosphere. But bad acoustics and it can get extremely loud. Still was a fun change, though.
- My third song was probably my most (oddly) successful song I've sung in public to date. It was "Like a Virgin", and while I sang it reasonably well, it struck a chord with people, for some reason, because in the 3 minutes or so the song lasted, I had the following occur:
-- Three women came up to me while I was singing and started to dance pretty damn close to me, claiming that they "thought I needed some backup dancers" several times. They actually distracted me from singing for some seconds, which with my laser-like focus and business-like demeanor is hard to do.
-- One random drunk guy thought that I needed his help, so he kept leaning in and singing at random times. I wasn't too proud to share the mic with him, but I was amazed once again at what alcohol can do to people.
-- A woman ran up on me and took a photo of me singing (and, maybe, the drunk guy who was helping me out. I'd like to think it was me, but who knows...) - I almost made it through the night without feeling ogled by any gay men. Almost. I was about 75% of the way home when two guys were walking arm-in-arm towards me and I, being a relatively polite fellow, made eye contact with one and gave a half smile, which means "Hey. What's up." Well, in a move that is almost always captivating to me in a woman but an entirely wasted effort coming from a man, the guy arches his eyebrows at me, prompting me to have to respond because he looked so expectant. I offered a "Good morning." and he responded with a playful "Good morning" and we both kept walking. I don't know if it really elicited any specific emotion in me... not curiousity, and not disgust. Just weirdness. Like how two people can be so out of sync with the same input. Not sure that's an emotion, though.
- A minute later, I got some hetero ego stroking. I was crossing the last major street on the way home and a woman hooted at me from a car stopped at the red light. That's not a terribly uncommon thing given how much I walk around the city and the amount of alcohol that people consume on the nights I'm walking around, but this time I turned around and looked at her as I was walking away. She said something and I asked her to repeat it and she said, "You're hot!" and gave me a thumbs-up. I flashed her a smile and thanked her and kept on walking, feeling good that in the dark of night, with the rain pouring down, I can fool both straight and gay people into thinking that I'm cute.
- Speaking of the rain, I looked a bit ridiculous when I got home. My shirt held up better than I'd expected, but it had still soaked through. My jeans, which seemingly have about 10 pounds of indigo in them, decided to bleed a bit onto my legs, and I'm currently sporting the "bad circulation" look that's so popular with druggies and senior citizens throughout the land.
Overall it was an up-and-down night. I realized tonight that just when I'm starting to get frustrated, or just when I'm feeling a bit isolated and depressed in the sea of people churning around me, I see a cute smile from a young woman. Even if I don't go talk to that person (meaning: even after I don't go talk to that person), it lifts my spirits and reminds me that it's OK that it's tough and it's confusing and whatever.
Saturday, June 3, 2006
Night out
So I've been going out lately, as anyone who's read these blog entries lately knows. I've been documenting some of the highlights in various emails to close friends, but that's sort of petered out over time because (a) I can be very verbose, and (b) I feel like I'm imposing on them. At first maybe it was cute to receive massive emails from me about my adventures with drunk women, homeless guys, and blisters on my feet. But given my (probably) perceived fragile state, I fear that my friends didn't really want to tell me to shut up.
As I walked the 2 miles or whatever it was from the karaoke bar I finished at tonight, I thought it might be fun to type up the highlights from tonight... and if anyone else out there finds it funny or whatever: fantastic. In the mean time, I won't have to worry about filling up my friends' email inboxes with nonsense (I just had a flashback about an extended email exchange with "inbox" as a double entendre... mmm. OK. Sorry.)
6:00 to 8:00: I take a nap.
8:00 to 9:45: Eat, shower, get gussied up.
9:45: Depart for downtown Seattle. My mechanism for transportation on nights out is by foot. It's not that I'm cheap, and therefore don't want to park or take a cab. I also enjoy the exercise and the mobility that being entirely unencumbered by a motor vehicle allows me to be. Since I have almost no idea what I'm doing, being able to change my mind without consequence is part of the fun.
10:10: Arrive at Twist, a rather cool bar on 1st Avenue. I do a quick pass through the premises to see if (by some miracle) I actually knew someone there. After that, I order a drink (actually, I ordered a Sprite, although I consider ordering an adult beverage as I approached the location), which was free, and tip the bartender a buck. I also think as I did so that I have a friend who's friends with a bartender there, and I wonder if I was tipping that guy, or if he was off that night.
10:15: I go to the back of the place, grab a table (it was still pretty empty) and do what I always do to kill time: pop open my cell phone and act like I've got something to do. I end up sending a couple friends a txt message, bemoaning how I so often get my Sprite and then just sit there until it's time to leave.
10:20: The place is starting to get busier, and a party of four people (2 men and 2 women) wander past me and wonder aloud whether they can use the larger table next to mine. I immediately chimed in, saying of course they could, and if anyone had a problem with it, they could talk to me (I'm a moron). They thought it was kinda funny, I suppose. One of the women, who was actually very cute asked if I was waiting for someone (I was sitting at a table for two, of course, and I suppose if I looked like I was waiting for someone, then I was doing my job of looking not entirely like a dork). I answered the entirely reasonable question in a sloppy fashion... it wasn't something I'd premeditated an answer for, but I could instinctively tell that a "No" would be a weird thing to say. So I said something lame like, "Kinda" and that would have been that... except the two guys (who were sitting in the middle of the booth, and had established themselves clearly as a couple) scooted over, and she scooted over, and I joined them.
10:25: We chat for a while about nothing terribly important. We introduced ourselves, and I learned where the cute young lady works. I also learned that she's a big sports (and huge Mariners) fan, and has the SportsCenter jingle as her ringtone. Seriously, the more I think about it, the cooler she was. And cute. I wasn't terribly funny, but I think she was enjoying talking to me as she nursed her beer. The problem was that she was insanely sleepy. I would be the first to admit that I can be a bit dry at times, and individuals of both genders might occasioanlly find me boring, but I can't take credit for the massive yawns and head-on-the-table sleepiness action.
10:50: The gang of four decides to leave. I didn't feel comfortable attaching myself to them, so I let them leave and then I started hoofing it to Ozzies, which is a karaoke bar that I frequent.
11:20: Arrive at Ozzies. Pick out a song, turn in the slip of paper as soon as I could, knowing that there was just over 2 hours until it closed. The place was busy and when I turned in my slip (for "Centerfold") the DJ told me I might not get to sing. I cheerily said, "It's OK". Bought a Sprite and planted myself on the wall.
12:20ish: Two pretty drunk chicks start to dance on the nearly-empty dance floor area, and the hotter of the two motioned me over to dance with her. Even I can rarely say no when a hot chick asks me to dance, so I put down my almost-empty Sprite (I really nursed that puppy!) and clumsily wandered out a few steps and let her rub against me for about 30 seconds as I kinda tried to move minimally so as to not make a fool of myself. As far as awkward things go, that sort of dancing is more pleasant than most things, but she'd invited me out when there was only about 30 seconds left in the song, so I had the always weird feeling that occurs when the song is over and the woman is clearly done with you and I made the long walk back to my spot. Actually, it was a short walk (about 6 feet) but it still was kinda weird.
1:30: Ozzies stops songs for the night, and I wasn't called. Woe is me! I start the long trek home.
1:50: I pause, along with about 2 dozen other people, to watch a potential fight. A guy's getting into the cab, and another guy was taunting him to come and fight. After about 5 minutes the guy (predictably) got into the cab and left, but there was a lot of intermediaries trying to get them to break up. Alcohol is a crazy thing.
2:00: I'm nearing Pine, which is my street to go home from First, and a guy kinda got into stride with me, and we had the following conversation:
2:20: Arrive home. Start this blog.
2:50: Distracted by email. Decide to see if I can find the contact info for the cute chick from Twist based on the info I have on where she works. I'm successful and I make a first pass at an email to her. I don't send it, though, because it's so late and even at this hour I know it might be too stalkerish to ever send.
3:00: Last of four Hostess Donettes are eaten.
3:29: I curse myself as I remember I want to be up in 4 hours to prep for an event at 9:00 AM Saturday.
3:30: Blog entry completed.
As I walked the 2 miles or whatever it was from the karaoke bar I finished at tonight, I thought it might be fun to type up the highlights from tonight... and if anyone else out there finds it funny or whatever: fantastic. In the mean time, I won't have to worry about filling up my friends' email inboxes with nonsense (I just had a flashback about an extended email exchange with "inbox" as a double entendre... mmm. OK. Sorry.)
6:00 to 8:00: I take a nap.
8:00 to 9:45: Eat, shower, get gussied up.
9:45: Depart for downtown Seattle. My mechanism for transportation on nights out is by foot. It's not that I'm cheap, and therefore don't want to park or take a cab. I also enjoy the exercise and the mobility that being entirely unencumbered by a motor vehicle allows me to be. Since I have almost no idea what I'm doing, being able to change my mind without consequence is part of the fun.
10:10: Arrive at Twist, a rather cool bar on 1st Avenue. I do a quick pass through the premises to see if (by some miracle) I actually knew someone there. After that, I order a drink (actually, I ordered a Sprite, although I consider ordering an adult beverage as I approached the location), which was free, and tip the bartender a buck. I also think as I did so that I have a friend who's friends with a bartender there, and I wonder if I was tipping that guy, or if he was off that night.
10:15: I go to the back of the place, grab a table (it was still pretty empty) and do what I always do to kill time: pop open my cell phone and act like I've got something to do. I end up sending a couple friends a txt message, bemoaning how I so often get my Sprite and then just sit there until it's time to leave.
10:20: The place is starting to get busier, and a party of four people (2 men and 2 women) wander past me and wonder aloud whether they can use the larger table next to mine. I immediately chimed in, saying of course they could, and if anyone had a problem with it, they could talk to me (I'm a moron). They thought it was kinda funny, I suppose. One of the women, who was actually very cute asked if I was waiting for someone (I was sitting at a table for two, of course, and I suppose if I looked like I was waiting for someone, then I was doing my job of looking not entirely like a dork). I answered the entirely reasonable question in a sloppy fashion... it wasn't something I'd premeditated an answer for, but I could instinctively tell that a "No" would be a weird thing to say. So I said something lame like, "Kinda" and that would have been that... except the two guys (who were sitting in the middle of the booth, and had established themselves clearly as a couple) scooted over, and she scooted over, and I joined them.
10:25: We chat for a while about nothing terribly important. We introduced ourselves, and I learned where the cute young lady works. I also learned that she's a big sports (and huge Mariners) fan, and has the SportsCenter jingle as her ringtone. Seriously, the more I think about it, the cooler she was. And cute. I wasn't terribly funny, but I think she was enjoying talking to me as she nursed her beer. The problem was that she was insanely sleepy. I would be the first to admit that I can be a bit dry at times, and individuals of both genders might occasioanlly find me boring, but I can't take credit for the massive yawns and head-on-the-table sleepiness action.
10:50: The gang of four decides to leave. I didn't feel comfortable attaching myself to them, so I let them leave and then I started hoofing it to Ozzies, which is a karaoke bar that I frequent.
11:20: Arrive at Ozzies. Pick out a song, turn in the slip of paper as soon as I could, knowing that there was just over 2 hours until it closed. The place was busy and when I turned in my slip (for "Centerfold") the DJ told me I might not get to sing. I cheerily said, "It's OK". Bought a Sprite and planted myself on the wall.
12:20ish: Two pretty drunk chicks start to dance on the nearly-empty dance floor area, and the hotter of the two motioned me over to dance with her. Even I can rarely say no when a hot chick asks me to dance, so I put down my almost-empty Sprite (I really nursed that puppy!) and clumsily wandered out a few steps and let her rub against me for about 30 seconds as I kinda tried to move minimally so as to not make a fool of myself. As far as awkward things go, that sort of dancing is more pleasant than most things, but she'd invited me out when there was only about 30 seconds left in the song, so I had the always weird feeling that occurs when the song is over and the woman is clearly done with you and I made the long walk back to my spot. Actually, it was a short walk (about 6 feet) but it still was kinda weird.
1:30: Ozzies stops songs for the night, and I wasn't called. Woe is me! I start the long trek home.
1:50: I pause, along with about 2 dozen other people, to watch a potential fight. A guy's getting into the cab, and another guy was taunting him to come and fight. After about 5 minutes the guy (predictably) got into the cab and left, but there was a lot of intermediaries trying to get them to break up. Alcohol is a crazy thing.
2:00: I'm nearing Pine, which is my street to go home from First, and a guy kinda got into stride with me, and we had the following conversation:
Him: Do you know where any strip clubs are?I'm always glad to help a veteran, whether it's finding a strip club or with major life choices.
Me: Yes... just keep walking down First and you'll bump into one.
Him: Are you still in high school?
Me: No.
Him: Are you still in college?
Me: No. I'm well out of college and graduate school.
Him: Oh! What do you do for a living.
Me: I work at an advertising agency.
Him: Ah.
Me: What do you do?
Him: I don't have a job. I don't do anything.
Me: ...
Him: I'm retired from the Marine Corp.
Me: Wow. Congratulations. [Totally wrong thing to say, let the record show.]
Him: Well, I didn't really want to be.
Me: Why are you retired?
Him: I got him by a drunk driver. A drunk driver going 45 miles an hour.
Me: Um. That sucks.
Him: Yeah. I was in the Marines for eight years and I wanted to reenlist but they didn't want me.
Me: Because of the accident? You seem to be walking just fine, although I guess you must be in a lot of pain if you were discharged because of it.
Him: I don't know why they didn't want me back.
Me: ...
Him: ...
Me: Well, what do you WANT to do?
Him: Just get my life back...
Me: ...
Him: What should I do? [That's right. This guy is asking a total stranger what he should do with his life at 2:00 in the AM]
Me: Did you get any training in the Corp? [I was acting cool by calling it "The Corp", I thought]
Him: I learned how to kill people. And how to train people to kill people. And how to train people to drive boats.
Me: Ah... so you have experience teaching. Maybe you could--
Him: Yeah, teaching.
Me: Maybe you could rejoin the Marines?
Him: Maybe. What should I do? Get an attorney?
Me: Talk to a recruiter. They have quotas to fill and maybe they would at least explain if they didn't want you back.
Him: Yeah.
[handshake]
Him: Thanks
2:20: Arrive home. Start this blog.
2:50: Distracted by email. Decide to see if I can find the contact info for the cute chick from Twist based on the info I have on where she works. I'm successful and I make a first pass at an email to her. I don't send it, though, because it's so late and even at this hour I know it might be too stalkerish to ever send.
3:00: Last of four Hostess Donettes are eaten.
3:29: I curse myself as I remember I want to be up in 4 hours to prep for an event at 9:00 AM Saturday.
3:30: Blog entry completed.
Thursday, June 1, 2006
Excuses
There are many things that I've never done in my life, but over the course of the past few months this list is getting shorter at an increased clip. I guess I've decided to shake up my life and now that it's shaken up I'm trying not to slip back to where I was before... I might not end up happy, but at least I won't be unhappy from lack of effort.
Some of the things I've done have been intentional and some have not (e.g., locking my car keys inside my car this past weekend... I've been driving for 16 years and that's the first time I'd done that). Some of the things I've done have been easy and some have not (e.g., going out on my own... I still get freaked out at some level thinking about this weekend and what humiliations await me).
The unintentional and easy stuff is pretty boring, right? It's either out of my control or it's something that comes as a natural result of something else.
The fun stuff to think about (and by "fun" I mean gut-wrenching and boundary-pushing) is the intentional, scary stuff. Like going out on my own.
Or asking a woman for her phone number.
I've actually only asked a woman for her phone number once in my life. The second time I went out, on Cinco de Mayo, actually, I met a lovely young woman, we had some pleasant conversation, and at the end of the night I asked if I could call her. I was politely rebuffed, but she accepted my card, eventually called me, and we're hanging out. So it was a good (if delayed) experience.
The next step, I was thinking, was to ask for a woman's phone number (with the business card backup) in a non-bar/club scene. There's an attractive woman at my dentist's office who I spent entirely too much time staring at last time I was in the waiting area there (partly because I was about an hour early... another small bit of evidence that I'm a moron).
So as I'm looking to push my boundaries, I thought that next time I went into the office I'd ask. Of course, that sort of plan sounds good when I was weeks away from returning, or late at night/early in the morning when the darkness makes me much braver than I actually am. (Actually, my bedroom is far from dark; there's a safety light that blasts in... but you get the point.)
I needed some whitening gel refill stuff, and today was the day. I had prepped myself to learn her name, express interest, and maybe, you know.
As anyone with half a brain and a decent understanding of my personality would have predicted, it didn't happen that way.
She was there, along with another woman at the counter. She looked me up in the computer and started to get my stuff... and I was still teetering between whether I was going to be able to pull it off or not.
When she stepped away from the desk to get the goods, the second woman said something along the lines of, "Oh! Ed! I recognized the last name. We need to get your new address and info. We didn't know about the separation, and M__ let us know she didn't have your contact info."
Wow.
Not that I'm against my dentist's office knowing, like, every detail of my personal life, but that kinda took the wind out of my sails. The woman returned, I paid for my whitening stuff, and walked out... taking solace in the fact that they had no idea of my plans but also a bit disappointed that I didn't even really get a chance to fail. Or, rather, I failed to try, and that is worse in some ways.
I can tell myself that it was a bad setup. That the shock of my separation (and it's not even "divorce" yet... separation is accurate in a strict sense but doesn't capture the nature of our relationship) being known was reasonable. Whatever. I'm still a bit upset at myself for not just pushing through.
Some of the things I've done have been intentional and some have not (e.g., locking my car keys inside my car this past weekend... I've been driving for 16 years and that's the first time I'd done that). Some of the things I've done have been easy and some have not (e.g., going out on my own... I still get freaked out at some level thinking about this weekend and what humiliations await me).
The unintentional and easy stuff is pretty boring, right? It's either out of my control or it's something that comes as a natural result of something else.
The fun stuff to think about (and by "fun" I mean gut-wrenching and boundary-pushing) is the intentional, scary stuff. Like going out on my own.
Or asking a woman for her phone number.
I've actually only asked a woman for her phone number once in my life. The second time I went out, on Cinco de Mayo, actually, I met a lovely young woman, we had some pleasant conversation, and at the end of the night I asked if I could call her. I was politely rebuffed, but she accepted my card, eventually called me, and we're hanging out. So it was a good (if delayed) experience.
The next step, I was thinking, was to ask for a woman's phone number (with the business card backup) in a non-bar/club scene. There's an attractive woman at my dentist's office who I spent entirely too much time staring at last time I was in the waiting area there (partly because I was about an hour early... another small bit of evidence that I'm a moron).
So as I'm looking to push my boundaries, I thought that next time I went into the office I'd ask. Of course, that sort of plan sounds good when I was weeks away from returning, or late at night/early in the morning when the darkness makes me much braver than I actually am. (Actually, my bedroom is far from dark; there's a safety light that blasts in... but you get the point.)
I needed some whitening gel refill stuff, and today was the day. I had prepped myself to learn her name, express interest, and maybe, you know.
As anyone with half a brain and a decent understanding of my personality would have predicted, it didn't happen that way.
She was there, along with another woman at the counter. She looked me up in the computer and started to get my stuff... and I was still teetering between whether I was going to be able to pull it off or not.
When she stepped away from the desk to get the goods, the second woman said something along the lines of, "Oh! Ed! I recognized the last name. We need to get your new address and info. We didn't know about the separation, and M__ let us know she didn't have your contact info."
Wow.
Not that I'm against my dentist's office knowing, like, every detail of my personal life, but that kinda took the wind out of my sails. The woman returned, I paid for my whitening stuff, and walked out... taking solace in the fact that they had no idea of my plans but also a bit disappointed that I didn't even really get a chance to fail. Or, rather, I failed to try, and that is worse in some ways.
I can tell myself that it was a bad setup. That the shock of my separation (and it's not even "divorce" yet... separation is accurate in a strict sense but doesn't capture the nature of our relationship) being known was reasonable. Whatever. I'm still a bit upset at myself for not just pushing through.
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