Awkward questions

Last night was a good night. Going out for a birthday party thing with a big group of people, only a few of whom I knew. Had some drinks, saw an improv show, had some more drinks, played Apples to Apples, and had a late-night bbq.

Good times.

Of course, with every sunny day there's always an uncomfortable moment where your eyes need to adjust. At least that's what I hear (I tend to be inside (working or asleep)) on sunny days.

Last night there were just a few bumps in the road of bliss. They weren't horrible moments, but sometimes I am asked questions that I just don't know exactly how to answer. Let's examine some of them.

The question: "Do you have any animals?"
The difficulty: First of all, the question implies that I asked her the question first. Setting oneself up for a difficult question makes that question more painful to answer, for some reason. Secondly, I have three cats. Three. Cats. How can I possibly tell an attractive, single woman that I have three cats? It opens up a huge can of worms that just isn't that fun to go into.
The given answer: "Yeah. I love cats."
The post-mort: I basically misdirected. I didn't want to be dishonest, of course, and I didn't want to not answer her question. I also wasn't too keen on explaining why I have three cats. Three. Cats.

The question: "Do you ever sit around and think about how awesome you are?"
The difficulty: I can take a joke... more easily than I can take a compliment, actually. When the joke might contain a NUGGET of a compliment--or might be a massive compliment with a veneer of a joke--I have difficulty being my normal (relatively) eloquent self.
The given answer: "Um. What? No. I mean, yeah. What?"
The post-mort: I think I actually blushed when I was giving this answer, even though with the rum-and-diet induced redness, it might have been impossible to tell.

The question: "I don't know if you all are aware of this, but you woke me up from a block away."
The difficulty: Well, it's not a question. That's the first difficulty. Beyond that, is it fair for us to be out raising a ruckus, barbequing at 11:30 PM on a Sunday night? I don't know. Is it fair for someone at 11:30 PM Sunday night to walk a block to tell us to pipe down? In Lower Queen Anne? I don't know. But she might want to move out of the city... I have firetrucks outside my apartment trying to resuscitate old people at all hours. Maybe I should have her talk to the fire people for me... or to the old people.
The given answer: (Delivered by the birthday boy) "Do you want a sausage?"
The post-mort: Anything delivered in an Austrailian accent is awesome in my book. I don't know if the recently awoken LQA denizen was amused, but she should have been. It was better than the alternate responses that were bandied about afterwards ("Shut up before I kill you, ugly old lady" and "Call the cops. Do it." were a couple of the more unruly ones.)

The question: "Do you like asians?"
The difficulty: I've blogged about lots of things in my 250+ blog entries. Chili cheese burritos. Stalin. My cats. With the exception of karaoke, asian girls seem to be a pretty consistent topic in this space. The "Do you like asians?" question in real life, though, can be a little awkward when an attractive asian woman is sitting right there. It required a multi-part answer.
The given answer, part I: "You mean asian girls?"
The given answer, part II: "Well, if I say 'yes' I sound like I have yellow fever, and if I say 'no' I sound racist."
The given answer, part III: "I like hot asians, sure."
The post-mort: This is what I like to call (as of right now, when I pulled it out of my butt typing this out) the "sandwich technique". Start with a joke, give a non-answer with qualifications, and then give a humorour real answer. Part I set the stage by making the listeners (including both the question-asker and the attractive girl) laugh out loud (OK... smile... close enough). Part II lays out the dilemma that I'm facing, while demonstrating that I am sensitive to the plight of minority females in this country. Part III is honest, and a bit funny, but if it were given as the entire answer would have painted me as a horny dirtbag (and I'm very rarely a dirtbag).

In spite of these social landmines, I think I was able to make it through the evening relatively unscathed.

Reign( Man)-ing on my parade

The other night I was hanging out with ... . We had a couple of drinks and started walking down LQA to a sushi place.

She and I have been friends for a few months now, but we haven't really walked around my neighborhood, and when I greeted someone I knew (a bouncer from Ozzies) as we walked down the street it was no big deal. Ten seconds later, when I saw someone else I knew (Marriage Material, as mentioned in the April 19, 2008 "Memory + Apathy = Creeping Out Civilians" blog) ... made a comment about how I was sort of a celebrity.

No big deal, but a minor ego boost (fueled by the whiskey being metabolized in my system, no doubt).

After sushi, we walked the same street back to my place and I saw a third person I knew (an attractive waitress from Ozzies, and I will heretofore refer to her as "Whatshername" because I have no idea what her name is)... I waved, thinking that it was another friendly acquaintance, cementing ...'s hero-worship of me once and for all.

Instead, Whatshername kinda started busting on me. And by "kinda" I mean "totally". There was a rapid string of chides, all focused on my denim (I was wearing boot-cut jeans which were a bit less tight than some I wear):

"Your pants aren't tight enough!"
"I can't see where you're keeping your wallet!"
"I didn't know you had non-paint-on pants!"

Stuff like that. I kept walking, knowing (somehow) that she had worked this material up in advance, just waiting to spring it on me some time when she noticed that I was dressing with less-than-tight jeans on.

Awesome. ... was not impressed. Although she WAS confused by the lack of capitalization on "Pants".

I got over it (not really, but seemingly) and we went to get some gum at a mini-market. As we entered, who was exiting the store?

Shawn Kemp. The Reign Man. One-time NBA superstar. Long-time fatherer of out of wedlock children (12 or 13 at last count).

I said, "Hello, Mr. Kemp" as we walked by, and he replied, "Hi, guys" as he walked out of the store.

He then did something odd: he came back into the store as we checked out the gum selection, or I looked at nutritional info on Twinkies, or something equally important.

Reign Man didn't buy anything. He didn't say anything. He just stood there.

Once we made our purchase, we left. Kemp followed, a few steps behind. We waited for the "walk" signal and he stood outside his big black SUV (symbolism) and then he got into his ride and ... just sat there.

If he wasn't checking ... out, I would be shocked.

Or maybe he, too, knew me and was trying to figure out where I was keeping my wallet.

Crossfire, demi-date style

In World War I, crossfire was king. Troops waited in trenches on either side of the battlefield and until one rushed the opposing side, which had machine guns set up every so often to shoot the onrushing masses.

Of course, the shooting didn't just take place straight on. The machine guns were ideally set up to take advantage of where the enemies would approach. By using crossfire from multiple locations at once, defenders were able to shoot at targets from multiple angles. Attackers had to cross this "no-man's land", suffering heavy casualties until they were routed or finally got to the machine guns.

Until tanks and proximity detonators and the World Wide Web were introduced in the 1930's, crossfire was king. Fortunately, I was born in the late 1930's, so I never had to see crossfire in action. Until recently.

By "recently" I mean a trip I made as part of a group to a comedy show. There were about eight of us who knew one another to a greater or lesser extent. We were all single except for one pair and my friend LOL, who brought a demi-date.

Demi, of course, comes from the Latin dimidium--to cut in half. A demi-date is, naturally, an outing (or participant in an outing) where one of the two people think that (s)he is on a date... and the other does not. Yeah. Good times.

There was seemingly no malice in the presence of the demi-date (who we will call "Number Six"). There were no rivals for LOL's affections--no one to make jealous. She seemingly was interested enough to see if she was into him... but still the "demi" tag was applicable as far as I can tell.

Now, a demi-date is not news in and of itself. To paraphrase OJ Simpson (which I so rarely do... I usually prefer to quote him precisely), "People go on demi-dates every day."

When a demi-date is subjected to crossfire, though, I think that a tribunal needs to be set up to look into "All's Fair in Love and War"-crimes. Because it, as it turns out, was a bit brutal.

Let's look at what crossfire is, graphically. I'll put the image and then define the different players for you in a moment.

So a quick rundown of what you're seeing:

1. ... (LOL's co-worker).
2. TravelMate 2000 (LOL's ex-bf's best friend).
3. Me.
4. LOL's best friend and her bf (who happens to be good friends with LOL's ex).
5. LOL.
6. Number 6 (why ELSE would he have that nickname?).

We were all seated, at tables, in almost literally this formation.

The comedy stage is towards the bottom of the image, above, so Number Six was facing away from the machine guns... err, group... to watch the show, and in order to talk to or interact with LOL at all, he had to turn around in his chair, drawing the attention of the entire group. He had to enter no-man's land.

I saw this configuration early, but I knew there was nothing I could do about it. Number Six seemed like a good enough guy, but he was in trouble. I felt as WWI soldiers must have felt before battle, knowing their positions were about to be charged, but knowing, too, that they were going to get chopped to pieces.

How many times Number Six tried to cross no man's land that day is an question I can't answer. I can only relate an anecdote of the terrors of a demi-date.

The show had been going for over an hour. Mini-burgers had been delivered (as fate would have it, I would successfully mooch two of the three, although I left the fries to LOL for fear of losing a finger) and alcohol (watered-down alcohol, of course, but alcohol) had been served. Number Six seemed content with his lot, facing the stage and chuckling as the comedian did material about pipe layers and Starbucks.

It was the calm before the storm, however, as Number Six pivoted in his chair, made a comment about the show, and lightly placed his hand upon LOL's leg.

I don't know how many of us saw that precise moment. I know that it was at least three of us, not including LOL herself. There was a quick collective intake of air (I call it a "gasp"... that's one in the bank for me!) and rumblings after Number Six went back to the show, his kino plow failing to find fertile ground. LOL changed her seating position to move her legs just a bit farther from Number Six... just out of reach, by my reckoning.

Details are fuzzy, but I believe that I let out a, "Woah!" under my breath, and there were quiet snickers from most of us in the defensive positions as Number Six was chewed up and spit out in demi-date no man's land.

One person once said about WWI, "Viewed as a drama, the war is somewhat disappointing." I will turn that on its head a bit here and say, "Viewed as a war, the [demi-date] drama was not disappointing."

New Blog (now with flowchart!)

This blog ballooned. As a result, I've put together a flow chart to let you know how and where the topics came from. The two rounded items are actually stimuli, and the topics came out of those events and/or my ramblings on the topics immediately rooted in those events.

Haircut

I think I need a haircut. It's getting a bit long, and it's almost lost the "flip" that made it so pathetically endearing for the greater part of May. I became so fed up with it this morning that I actually used a hair brush to batter it into shape. While that might not seem to be a big deal, I think it's the first time in two years that I've used a hair brush... but desperate times call for desperate measures.
Talking about getting a haircut makes me feel ridiculous. Like talking about getting a new job, or moving, or posing naked for a startup porn Web site... sometimes you just have to do it, rather than talk about it.
Since I've broken the seal, thought, I can say this: I think I've got a haircut lined up. Not an exact date, but I think it's going to happen before I go to Hawaii and I think it's going to be free.

Basketball

TM2000 and I shot hoops last night for 30 or 40 minutes. It was the first time I'd touched a basketball (other than the two that have been rolling around, 2/3 flat, in my trunk for the last 18 months or so) in some time. Like a year. Or two.

I was horrible.

Not that we were playing one-on-one or anything, and not like the park that we shot at (with its tight rims and sloping pavement ground) were regulation.

But I was horrible.

There aren't many things in life that I'm confident in. Standardized tests? Sure. My knowledge of late 18th century American politics? Probably. Basketball? Once upon a time, yes.

I went to a small school. Population-wise, I mean. I grew up playing soccer and baseball and then, in third grade, starting playing hoops. I lived across the street from our elementary school, and I spent hundreds (thousands?) of hours shooting baskets. Playing "around the world" by myself. Hooping it up with friends and my brother and brothers of friends.

My dad coached when I was younger and it was great. I was always one of the better kids for our grade, and our grade was pretty good. By the time I was a sophomore in high school, I was still on JV, partly because of the strength of the class two years ahead of ours... my sophomore year, though, I had my growth spurt kicking in and I actually had some muscles (where have they gone?)

Junior year was the first year that our grade all got a chance to play together (a pair of my friends had been bumped to varsity previously). We started off slowly, but eventually made it to the state tournament and then to the state tournament.

That week was, one two second portion excepted, the best I've ever played basketball. I'd cut my tongue in the postseason earlier, and I'd taken to wearing a mouth guard to prevent my teeth from cutting myself open, and I still have some sort of odd sense memory: I remember being a bit orally fixated on the mouth guard and I remember (again, that two seconds excepted) feeling a near-constant rush of adrenaline and accomplishment.

The first game of the tournament we were losing, as I recall, at halftime. I wasn't playing particularly well, but I was the third-best player on the team so I didn't really think much of it. As we walked to the locker room, I remember my friend Deek D.K. David Lawrence Bradley K. (last name withheld, but the number of nicknames on full display) looking at me, quite intensely (he was always SO intense before and during games... it usually made me laugh, but not this time) and said something to the effect of, "Shoot the ball when you're open! C'mon!"

In the second half I started shooting. And I started making. It was great. Confidence was sky-high. We went onto win that one. And the next one.
The semi-final game was one that continued to go well. We were up big in the first half, and I remember that in the second half—we were up by 13 or so—I had a wide-open three at the top of the key, and I shot it... and I missed. I remember our coach letting me know, "We don't NEED that." Which made sense... except I was open. And I knew I was going to make it.

Was that the two seconds that I felt bad about? No.

Those two seconds came late in the game. Our opponent had destroyed the lead we'd built and we had the ball at the end of regulation in a tie game. Our best player was taking his man off the dribble into the middle of the key, and I was sliding along the left baseline, trying to get into position for the offensive rebound. My shoulders were ¾ of the way to the hoop and only a quarter of the way to the ball and our best player, who I was confident was going to take the shot.

Of course, he didn't shoot.

My offensive rebounding position had left me wide open. I had sealed my defender off and when Grant had dribbled into the key, the defender on the top side of me had collapsed on him. Leaving me wide open. He made a wise choice and I love that he made it.

As I saw the ball leaving his hand coming to ME, rather than the basket (as I'd anticipated), I had to twist clockwise to catch the ball (since my shoulders were not facing him). I knew time was almost up, and after I caught the ball I found myself along the left baseline, sort of underneath the basket.

In the NBA, players take a half step and go up and dunk it. Unfortunately for me, I wasn't in the NBA.

I had the ball and sort of leaned out from under the hoop and shot without using the backboard. From about three feet away.

And missed.

I tried to get the rebound, but failed. The buzzer went off. Overtime. And a loss.

We cleaned up in the third place game. We sat through a championship game where we KNEW we were better than either of the teams. I was second team all-tournament. And I was frustrated and deflated and disappointed in myself.

It's been... hmm... 18 years. I'm still frustrated and deflated and disappointed in myself.

Including summer leagues, we went like 48-1 the next year. We won state. I went onto win a couple IM championships in college and (for a glorious week or two) could slam dunk the basketball.

But I still look back at those two seconds—the positioning, the catch, the miss, the failed rebound attempt—and it upsets me to this day.

Absent-mindedness

Yesterday I noticed that I couldn't find my favorite pair of jeans. Today I noticed that I couldn't find my black jacket. Who is breaking into my apartment and stealing my clothes?

I'm crossing my fingers that I left these things in my car—and it sort of makes sense. I've worn shorts several times in the last week, and I think I had the pair of jeans in the car as a backup. The jacket, though? Uh... I just dunno.

Mad at Me

Last Sunday evening I attended a birthday party and a couple of female acquaintances attended. Partly because I knew I had to work the next day, I didn't have the world's greatest time (I did have one person swear up and down that "she knew me", which was both oddly flattering and vaguely unsettling).

I also got the sense that the pair of female acquaintances weren't 100% pleased with me. They didn't spit on my food or kick me in the shins, but they were ... hmm... less friendly than normal.

The next day I mentioned it to ... and she thought that I was being paranoid. I don't know that she used that word. Maybe "crazy". Reflecting upon it, I thought it was paranoia and egocentricism.

This weekend, though, I confirmed that they WERE upset with me. Am I twisted for being more pleased at not being paranoid and egocentric than at being sad that people are upset with me?

The Weather

Speaking of twisted, Sunday was gorgeous. Tens of thousands of students were celebrating graduation, including dozens that I went to grad school with. Rather than being out in the sunshine, basking in the rays of el sol or our accomplishments, I was in my apartment sleeping.

I believe that I've expounded on this before, but I LOVE sleeping when the weather is nice outside. I know that 95% of the people that I might talk to about the weather would comment that I should be enjoying it... but I prefer to sleep as others are outside. I'm twisted that way.

Of course, just as I don't revel too much in the nice weather, I try not to complain about when it rains. I don't know if that makes me consistent or just boring.

Graduation

I received my MBA diploma thing some time ago, but with the ceremonies completed yesterday, I suppose I'm officially/finally done with grad school. For now.

I've thought about why I never really was excited to graduate the way I was with undergrad or law school. It actually felt a bit like high school graduation, although with that it had the novelty and sense of obligation that resulted in my attendance.

I suppose I felt a sense of inevitability. As long as I kept writing checks to Seattle U I knew that, eventually, I would be done. Is merely showing up a huge accomplishment? Not to diminish my classmates who are, presumably, seeing graduation as a next step in their life. For me it's been (to date) little more than another pending monthly student loan bill.

Puppeteerin’

I was hanging out last night at a certain karaoke bar. Standing upstairs, talking to a certain Crazy Karaoke Host, when he looked at me and we had this little chat:

CKH: Dude, you should be a puppeteer.
Me: Uh, what?
CKH: You're dressed all in black.
Me: Yes ... ?
CKH: So tell people you're a puppeteer.
Me: Why?
CKH: I dunno... you're dressed all in black and someone would totally believe you.
Me: Hmm... I guess. Yeah. Maybe.
CKH: Inverted marionette.
Me: What's that?
CKH: I have no idea. I just made it up.
Me: I like the idea!

I liked the idea, and I'm a fan of random stuff... and I LOVE lying to people (and NGOs and car stereos (see? Random)). But it also sounded like a bit of work and I am lazy. So I didn't think much of it.

Fast forward 20 minutes or so. It's still pretty light in the room, so I'd been cruising around the rest of the bar, and CKH is talking to a woman. He introduces us and I'm standing there and the convo went a little something like this:

CKH: Yeah, so you should hear about what Ed O. does...
The Mark: Oh, yeah?
Me: ... ?
CKH: He's a puppeteer.
TM: Really? Wow.
Me: Oh, yeah... I mean, I don't like to talk about it, but...

At this point, I had to go with it, right? I wasn't going to call CKH out over it. At this point, though, CKH floated into the background and my semi-inebriated and entirely random sense of creativity took over.

TM: So ... what exactly do you do?
Me: I'm a puppeteer... or a marionetter.
TM: Really? Like do you travel--
Me: ... yeah...
TM: --all over the country?
Me: Well... yeah. All over the greater Seattle area.
TM: Oh, I see, and...
Me: You know Sesame Street, right?
TM: Yeah...
Me: And the Muppet Show?
TM: Sure...
Me: Yeah. Henson Productions. That's us.
TM: Where do you perform?
Me: Well... there are two main audiences.
TM: Oh, yeah?
Me: There are the kids, of course, and then there are adults who see it all ironically.
TM: Ah, I see.
Me: You should have seen this one time this guy took it a bit too far.
TM: How?
Me: Well, he was working Fozzy and he decided, "This is how to make a bear funny!" and he went all off-script and threw in cusswords and stuff...
TM: Did he get fired?
Me: Yeah. He kinda knew he was on the way out, anyway, so he decided to go out with a bang, and--
TM: Wait... so you do voices, too?
Me: Oh, sure.
TM: Who's your best voice?
Me: Oh, I dunno...
TM: C'mon! Which character?
Me: [in a rather crappy Kermit voice] Kermit the Frog.
TM: That's really good!
Me: *shrug* It's what I do.
TM: So... how do you control the characters?
Me: Well, it depends on the character and the scene, but it's usually a combination of in-head puppetry and [gesturing wildly] stringwork.
TM: So...
Me: Yeah, some people hear "Henson Productions" and get all snobby. When I talk to my buddies from the Marionette Institute--
TM: Wait. There's a school you went to?
Me: Sure. The Marionette Institute, in St. Paul, Minnesota. Anyway, they say I sold out. But from MY perspective? You know. I did my own shows. I made my own art. Been there done that.
TM: And so--
Me: Have you seen "Being John Malkovich"?
TM: Yes.
Me: I hate that movie.
TM: What?
Me: Yeah... people see it and they think they know what puppetry is all about.
TM: And it's not?
Me: No. Total bullshit.

She was very sweet. And she asked enough questions that she kept ALMOST tripping me up. Almost.

I think at that point I talked some more technical puppetry detail (about Double Inverted Marionettes, and how live puppetry relies more on stringwork than TV and movies, and a bunch of other stuff I was totally making up as I went) and we talked about other things for a moment or two before I bounced back downstairs.

I talked to CKH later to confirm that he'd tell her I was full of crap at some point.

Things I think I’m thinking

We all have random things that we think about over the course of a day. I decided to capture some of the random things that I thought about today, this second of June in the year CE 2008.

1. Cereal. I forget how much I like cereal sometimes. The times I forget tend to be (a) when I have 1/8 of a box (or of two boxes) left and I lack the fortitude to polish off the box and the sense to just throw the remainder away, and (b) when I have two sugared cereals (as I did with Cap'n Crunch and Cinnamon Toast Crunch, which have both gone untouched the last two weeks). A trip to the store and $4.50 worth of currency has bought me two new kinds of cereal and has reminded me how I love it so.
2. Safeway employees. SOP at Safeway is to read the receipt and say, "Thank you, Mr. Smith," or "Would you like help out, Ms. Jones?". That sounds OK, I guess, on paper. It gives customers the illusion that the company and its employees really care about them, rather than the most efficient way to get their monies. Maybe I'd be a bit less cynical if my last name was Jones or Smith... but it's not. Instead, I have nine letters of Frechie-ness that causes me to squirm a little bit every time I get my receipt. The newer the employee, the harder they try to get it right, and the longer I have to stand there, unsure whether to cut them off or wait it out. Managers know, when they see my last name, to avoid saying it and to just leave it off. Much better.
3. My hair. I was thinking about my hair today. Three things, actually. First of all, I love how easy it is to "manage"... I wash it, kinda dry it with a towel, push it more or less to one side, and then I'm good to go. Secondly, I am never sure which way I want to push it... parting it on the left tends to minimize the flip on the weak side but makes the overall look more helmet-like. I like to say it depends on my mood, but I really am not that reflective and I rarely know my mood (until I think about it, at which time I would peg my mood as "thoughtful" or "introspective"). Thirdly, I received a compliment on my hair today from somone I hadn't seen in a while and I think I insulted her by saying "That's nice of you to say." I just gotta learn to say "Thank you" when I get a compliment and risk having the person snicker at my gullibility afterwards.
4. Leftover clothes. I wonder what the rule is with clothes that are left somewhere. If, hypothetically, someone left clothes at an apartment and then fell out of contact with the resident of that apartment, what does that resident do with the clothes? Throw them away? Give them to Goodwill? And how long out he (or she) wait? A week seems too short. A year seems excessive. How would that resident ever admit that he (or she) got rid of the clothes, though, if he (or she) ran into her (or him) months down the road? It's quite a quandary.
5. Orbitz. I get stressed out using online travel sites. I enjoy the savings, but I always fear that I am missing out on a great coupon that I could find if I just did one more Google search or something. Further, the price listed on a selection screen seems to inexplicable change when you click on a selection... I was looking to buy a package to a certain Pacific island state today and the listed price was $1228... until I clicked on it, when it became $1464 ("due to availability). When I returned later to check, it was listed at $1228... until I clicked on it, when it became $1384. It was maddening.
6. Fantasy baseball team. I have played baseball and basketball and football and I've won my fair share of championships. I have never ever come in last place. Right now I am in last place in my fantasy baseball league, and I can't believe it. I've had injuries, and I've had bad luck, but I cannot believe I'm in last place. While winning the league is about out of the question, I honestly think I can avoid the cellar. We'll see.
7. Lottery commercial. I just saw a commercial that I thought was really good. There was an acoustic guitar musical background and guys hang-gliding... taking off from a hill in a pasture and floating around in the air. The interesting thing was that the guys would strap a flightless bird onto their belt when they flew... so a chicken could feel what it was like to fly, for example. There was one particularly cute part where a penguin was spreading its wings, as if it were revisiting some primal avine moment. Towards the end of the commercial, they showed an ostrich (or maybe an emu) being led to the hang-gliding area. It was funny and it was sort of touching. The tag line was something like "Everyone deserves to fly." Nice. The commercial was for the Washington Lottery. Ugh. A regressive tax on people who are bad at math. Oh, well. I am not dumb enough to buy lottery tickets and I still think the commercial was pretty good.