Currently, I'm basking in beautiful Banning, California. My father has undergone hip replacement #2, and I'm helping! For those of you who are paying attention, you will recall that this is my second hip-related journey to the sun-drenched Southland, my first such visit being last September.
Things have gone swimmingly this time around, much smoother than last time, and Dad came home a mere three days after the surgery, and has been hotdogging around on his walker ever since.
Our main pastimes have consisted of (1.) supping on the two megatons of coldcuts my sister thoughtfully provided before my arrival; (2.) alternating helpings of wine and ice cream; (3.) partaking of my mother's very favorite form of entertainment: court television.
My mother is a woman who loves her court TV. It's the perfect retired-person diversion: teeny, sordid, three-person dramas that never last more than 15 minutes. And lots of yelling, which ensures that you'll always be able to hear what people are saying.
It was during one of these marathon viewings that I encountered ... Judge Hatchett. She's sassy. She's opinionated. She's not afraid to heap disdain on the plaintiff and defendent alike.
And what kind of lawsuit does she preside over? Paternity suits. Paternity suits, paternity suits, paternity suits, all the livelong day. Baby momma comes on. "Baby Daddy is the daddy of my baby." "No, I'm not." "Yes, you are." Much debate as to morals, ethics and standards. Judge Hatchett pulls out a red envelope that has the outcome of a DNA test. Case closed. Bring out the next Baby Momma.
I've said it before, I'll say it again: We are a culture in decline.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #182: The part where I infringe on all sorts of copyright laws so I can share a fart joke
Lately, I've been reckoning with the heavy influence Julie Andrews had on my early years. At age 6 or so, my parents took me to the re-release of The Sound of Music. In case you aren't aware, that tune-infused biopic is a cinematic marathon, clocking in at 3 hours long. As I recall, the theatrical release including an intermission.
And yet, I recall quite clearly sitting rapt on my mom's lap, nary a squirm or complaint.
I became a child obsessed. My sister and I endlessly played the soundtrack. I dug through my parents' record collection, and came across two more Andrews' masterpieces, the original soundtracks of My Fair Lady and Camelot. For many years, everything I knew about medieval and Edwardian England, I knew through Julie.
Later, we added the Julie Andrews Christmas album to the collection, and in grammar school, I stumbled across Julie's first children's book, Mandy, which I read and loved.
Then I grew up, and poor Julie became kind of passe. Sure, I'd later marvel to her freakishly flutelike 19-year-old voice in The Boyfriend, but I'd moved on.
So it was with some delight of rediscovery that I happened upon an interview with Ms. Andrews on NPR, in which she was plugging her new book, Home: A Memoir of My Early Years. Despite her reputation as the sugar-coma queen, Julie came across in interview in a way I'd always supected she would. Very humble, realistic, practical, and good-humored. As she talked about her fairly brutal childhood (alcoholic parents, overwork, poverty, London blitzes), she projected a remarkable air of blithe survival. I knew I really had to read her book.
And so it is that I discovered that our Miss Julie also has a healthy love for potty humor, bless her soul. And so it is that I, in defiance of copyright law, print my favorite excerpt, which I hope and trust is still well within the parameters of "fair use." Enjoy.
Not long into the run [of My Fair Lady], I became aware that Rex had a rather windy stomach. I expected that much of his balletic "dancing" stemmed from attempts to clench through gaseous moments.
One night his timing was impeccable.
In the penultimate scene of the show, Eliza runs away to Higgins's mother's house. Higgins barges in and confronts Eliza, and she launches into a long speech about the difference between a lady and a guttersnipe; i.e., it is not how she behaves but how she is treated. All Rex had to do at this point was pace up and down at the back of the scene. He didn't have to say a word.
On this particular evening, as I finished my speech, Rex released a veritable machine-gun volley of pent-up wind. Members of the orchestra heard it--every musician looked up to the stage in bewilderment; even the first few rows of the audience heard it. There was a shocked silence, and at that precise moment, Cathleen Nesbitt, as [Higgins' mother], had the line "Henry, dear, please don't grind your teeth."
It was outrageously funny. The orchestra roared with laughter. I could not look at Rex, and every single line I uttered in the scene after that had a double meaning.
HIGGINS: Eliza, you ungrateful wretch, you talk about me as if I were a motor bus.
ELIZA: So you are a motor bus; all bounce and go and no consideration for anyone!
...Eliza's song "Without You" follows this dialogue, and I could see the lyrics coming at me before I sang them: "No, my reverberating friend, you are not the beginning and the end!"
I took so many pauses in that scene trying to contain myself that the show ran over by about ten minutes.
I found myself punching Rex during the curtain calls.
"How could you do such a thing?"
He pulled at his tie and straightened it. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I was always a windy boy--even when I was young."
And yet, I recall quite clearly sitting rapt on my mom's lap, nary a squirm or complaint.
I became a child obsessed. My sister and I endlessly played the soundtrack. I dug through my parents' record collection, and came across two more Andrews' masterpieces, the original soundtracks of My Fair Lady and Camelot. For many years, everything I knew about medieval and Edwardian England, I knew through Julie.
Later, we added the Julie Andrews Christmas album to the collection, and in grammar school, I stumbled across Julie's first children's book, Mandy, which I read and loved.
Then I grew up, and poor Julie became kind of passe. Sure, I'd later marvel to her freakishly flutelike 19-year-old voice in The Boyfriend, but I'd moved on.
So it was with some delight of rediscovery that I happened upon an interview with Ms. Andrews on NPR, in which she was plugging her new book, Home: A Memoir of My Early Years. Despite her reputation as the sugar-coma queen, Julie came across in interview in a way I'd always supected she would. Very humble, realistic, practical, and good-humored. As she talked about her fairly brutal childhood (alcoholic parents, overwork, poverty, London blitzes), she projected a remarkable air of blithe survival. I knew I really had to read her book.
And so it is that I discovered that our Miss Julie also has a healthy love for potty humor, bless her soul. And so it is that I, in defiance of copyright law, print my favorite excerpt, which I hope and trust is still well within the parameters of "fair use." Enjoy.
Not long into the run [of My Fair Lady], I became aware that Rex had a rather windy stomach. I expected that much of his balletic "dancing" stemmed from attempts to clench through gaseous moments.
One night his timing was impeccable.
In the penultimate scene of the show, Eliza runs away to Higgins's mother's house. Higgins barges in and confronts Eliza, and she launches into a long speech about the difference between a lady and a guttersnipe; i.e., it is not how she behaves but how she is treated. All Rex had to do at this point was pace up and down at the back of the scene. He didn't have to say a word.
On this particular evening, as I finished my speech, Rex released a veritable machine-gun volley of pent-up wind. Members of the orchestra heard it--every musician looked up to the stage in bewilderment; even the first few rows of the audience heard it. There was a shocked silence, and at that precise moment, Cathleen Nesbitt, as [Higgins' mother], had the line "Henry, dear, please don't grind your teeth."
It was outrageously funny. The orchestra roared with laughter. I could not look at Rex, and every single line I uttered in the scene after that had a double meaning.
HIGGINS: Eliza, you ungrateful wretch, you talk about me as if I were a motor bus.
ELIZA: So you are a motor bus; all bounce and go and no consideration for anyone!
...Eliza's song "Without You" follows this dialogue, and I could see the lyrics coming at me before I sang them: "No, my reverberating friend, you are not the beginning and the end!"
I took so many pauses in that scene trying to contain myself that the show ran over by about ten minutes.
I found myself punching Rex during the curtain calls.
"How could you do such a thing?"
He pulled at his tie and straightened it. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I was always a windy boy--even when I was young."
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #181: The part where I can see my house from here
So Eamon IM's me with a URL and a note:
"What is in our backyard?"
http://maps.live.com/default.aspx?v=2&FORM=LMLTCP&cp=qzyq0w7ptwrn&style=b&lvl=2&tilt=-90&dir=0&alt=-1000&scene=11370564&phx=0&phy=0&phscl=1&encType=1
An aerial shot of our house from some new online directory. A little spooky, no doubt. But there is definitely something in our backyard. I squint. Could it be?
Apparently, this aerial shot was taken on the day of our annual block party, two years ago. And there, for all to see, is an overhead view of our contribution to the block party theme--the Olympics. A Mexican Triathalon.
Viva, la satellite!
"What is in our backyard?"
http://maps.live.com/default.aspx?v=2&FORM=LMLTCP&cp=qzyq0w7ptwrn&style=b&lvl=2&tilt=-90&dir=0&alt=-1000&scene=11370564&phx=0&phy=0&phscl=1&encType=1
An aerial shot of our house from some new online directory. A little spooky, no doubt. But there is definitely something in our backyard. I squint. Could it be?
Apparently, this aerial shot was taken on the day of our annual block party, two years ago. And there, for all to see, is an overhead view of our contribution to the block party theme--the Olympics. A Mexican Triathalon.
Viva, la satellite!
Crazy Crap Item #180: The part where we can't go wrong at the Bong
A few weekends ago, Roxi attended a wee gig at a local coffeehouse. My friend and fellow Faces-for-Radio-er Jackie Matejko was singing. It was a lovely evening, and we mused as to what we could do for afters.
Kay: We could wander over to Clark, and see what tickles our fancy in Andersonville.
Roxi: Agreed.
Upon arriving at Clark Street, we mused. We were stuffed from snackings at the coffeehouse, the bars were crowded, and when I suggested perhaps a browse at the local bookstore, Roxi informed me she needed a new book like she needed the proverbial hole in the head.
Kay: Perhaps then, we could wander to my house, which is a mere 20 minute walk or so, and partake of a film or some such cinematic entertainment.
Roxi was amenable, so off we set on a northward course up Clark Street.
I mused it was a pity there was no good karaoke in Andersonville, and what was that about anyway?
It was then that Roxi made a fateful suggestion.
"We could stop by the Bong Ho. It's on the way."
A Korean-owned hole-in-the-wall. Delightfully divey. And according to Roxi, home to some of the most insanely fun, surreally strange karaoke in existence. She reported how she learned of "The Bong" from a friend, who insisted on a birthday celebration there. She regaled Eamon and me with tales of the delightfully welcoming and ludicrously inebriated owner. She recounted the remarkable karaoke song collection, the strange videos that accompanied them, and the fact that she and her small party had the run of the place for hours on end.
Intrigued, Eamon and I had tried the Bong. Which had just changed hands. And was dreary, dark, stinky, sad, and -- worst of all -- completely karaoke-free.
I told Roxi as much.
Roxi: "I heard the old owner bought it back."
This, I thought, was promising. I suggested we stroll by, since it was on the way to my house. We could peek in. If there were signs of karaoke, mayhap we would stop.
So stroll we did, nonchalantly passing the open door where a thirty-something-ish woman stood guard and smoked a cigarette. We took a few steps past the door. We peeked back. A karoke screen.
Roxi: Oh, my god. I saw karaoke.
Kay: Me, too. Let's check it out.
So, making no attempt at nonchalance, we spin on our heels and trot up to the doortender. Who, it turns out, is also the bartender. And is also the only person in the entire place. Except, now, for us.
This will not last, I thought. This cannot be fun. This was a very bad idea, and after one or two extremely awkward and uncomfortable attempts at songs, we will leave, feeling like idiots.
But while I am still processing this thought, Roxi asks the bartendress for the karaoke book.
And she hands us something. Perhaps it was once a book. Now, it is a pile of crisp, yellowing pages. They have clearly been dowsed and dried many times. There's a strip of heavy cellophane tape that holds a few of the pages together. Imagination supplies that it was once the book's spine.
We paw through the pages. The songs are listed in alphabetical order. In some cases, songs are listed under a variety of titles ("Pretty Woman," "Oh Pretty Woman").
There is no cross-reference of listings by artist, as is typically the case with karaoke joints. This is kind of a pain in the ass, as one song inevitably makes one think of the artist, not the title, and there's no easy way to find what you need.
And the songs are very, very strange. There are the usuals -- Patsy Cline's "Crazy", some ABBA -- but there are also some fairly current pop songs. And children's nursery songs. And lots and lots of Christmas carols.
And strangely enough, there are showtunes. But not normal showtunes. Remarkably obscure showtunes that no normal person would ever know or consider. "Pilate's Song" from Jesus Christ Superstar. "I Won't Send Roses" from Mack and Mabel.
The bartendress comes back to get drink orders, and I comment that she must be disappointed, as she thought she was going to have a quiet evening, but then these annoying women came in to sing.
Oh, no, she assured me. They had people come in to sing all the time.
Eamon is texted. He will join us after eating tacos.
We choose a song for him in advance. "Rock Your Body."
Roxi and I put in a range of selections, scribbling down song numbers on an index card thoughtfully supplied by our bartendress. She dials them in, and hands me a mic.
You see, at the Bong, they have no "Karaoke stage." There is no "mylar curtain." Just a couple of tv screen behind the bar, and a mic with a 50 foot cord.
Other things to note about the karaoke set-up:
* Songs were accompanied by a series of stock videos, featuring such scenarios as: lions hunting, a New England winter, Victoria Falls, sea slugs battling on the ocean floor, and so forth.
* At the end of each song, the singer is given a score, presumably on a scale of 1 to 100, accompanied by an encouraging phrase corresponding to the level of the score ("Excellent," "Good Try," etc.). There seemed to be little to no correlation between the score and the actual quality of the singing.
But back to our scene. So I take the mic, lean back on the barstool and begin to sing. I don't even remember what I sang. But I mused how pleasant it was to just caterwaul away, perched on a stool, with faithful Roxi by my side and my Jack and Coke in front of me.
Later, Eamon arrived, revealed that "Rock Your Body" is nowhere in his key, and discovered the bartendress' name was Carmen.
Other highlights of the evening:
* We were joined by an aging Eastern European fellow, who squired both Roxi and I about in wild renditions of the mambo. "If there's a man who loves to dance more than I do," he solemnly, "I want to meet him."
* I requested the showtune "Till There Was You" (from The Music Man) and was delightes to discover that the version in the karaoke machine was, most unaccountably, the exact arrangement and key from the original score. Only rendered in wonderfully tinny sythesizer.
* Eamon sang all night long, and "All Night Long." Roxi sang back up ("All night... All night"). I was whirled about the floor by aforementioned Eastern European gentleman.
* We developed a new game, in which we improvise lyrics which reflect the action on screen. ("Lovely, never never change, fight with that big lion, on the ocean floor, I am a sea slug, Just the way you look tonight.")
* Eamon notes that the one TV screen not dedicated to karaoke videos is turned to the Sci Fi channel. "I like me some Sci Fi," Carmen the Bartendress admits. Eamon notes to Carmen that she is a bit of a dork.
* At the end of each song, we enlist the few other attendees in the bar to join us in anticipating the score, and loudly express our approval or displeasure, assuring low scorers that they "were robbed."
The singing thusly went on till about 1:30 in the morning. When we left, the six or so other people in the bar were still going strong. For all I know, they're singing still.
Kay: We could wander over to Clark, and see what tickles our fancy in Andersonville.
Roxi: Agreed.
Upon arriving at Clark Street, we mused. We were stuffed from snackings at the coffeehouse, the bars were crowded, and when I suggested perhaps a browse at the local bookstore, Roxi informed me she needed a new book like she needed the proverbial hole in the head.
Kay: Perhaps then, we could wander to my house, which is a mere 20 minute walk or so, and partake of a film or some such cinematic entertainment.
Roxi was amenable, so off we set on a northward course up Clark Street.
I mused it was a pity there was no good karaoke in Andersonville, and what was that about anyway?
It was then that Roxi made a fateful suggestion.
"We could stop by the Bong Ho. It's on the way."
A Korean-owned hole-in-the-wall. Delightfully divey. And according to Roxi, home to some of the most insanely fun, surreally strange karaoke in existence. She reported how she learned of "The Bong" from a friend, who insisted on a birthday celebration there. She regaled Eamon and me with tales of the delightfully welcoming and ludicrously inebriated owner. She recounted the remarkable karaoke song collection, the strange videos that accompanied them, and the fact that she and her small party had the run of the place for hours on end.
Intrigued, Eamon and I had tried the Bong. Which had just changed hands. And was dreary, dark, stinky, sad, and -- worst of all -- completely karaoke-free.
I told Roxi as much.
Roxi: "I heard the old owner bought it back."
This, I thought, was promising. I suggested we stroll by, since it was on the way to my house. We could peek in. If there were signs of karaoke, mayhap we would stop.
So stroll we did, nonchalantly passing the open door where a thirty-something-ish woman stood guard and smoked a cigarette. We took a few steps past the door. We peeked back. A karoke screen.
Roxi: Oh, my god. I saw karaoke.
Kay: Me, too. Let's check it out.
So, making no attempt at nonchalance, we spin on our heels and trot up to the doortender. Who, it turns out, is also the bartender. And is also the only person in the entire place. Except, now, for us.
This will not last, I thought. This cannot be fun. This was a very bad idea, and after one or two extremely awkward and uncomfortable attempts at songs, we will leave, feeling like idiots.
But while I am still processing this thought, Roxi asks the bartendress for the karaoke book.
And she hands us something. Perhaps it was once a book. Now, it is a pile of crisp, yellowing pages. They have clearly been dowsed and dried many times. There's a strip of heavy cellophane tape that holds a few of the pages together. Imagination supplies that it was once the book's spine.
We paw through the pages. The songs are listed in alphabetical order. In some cases, songs are listed under a variety of titles ("Pretty Woman," "Oh Pretty Woman").
There is no cross-reference of listings by artist, as is typically the case with karaoke joints. This is kind of a pain in the ass, as one song inevitably makes one think of the artist, not the title, and there's no easy way to find what you need.
And the songs are very, very strange. There are the usuals -- Patsy Cline's "Crazy", some ABBA -- but there are also some fairly current pop songs. And children's nursery songs. And lots and lots of Christmas carols.
And strangely enough, there are showtunes. But not normal showtunes. Remarkably obscure showtunes that no normal person would ever know or consider. "Pilate's Song" from Jesus Christ Superstar. "I Won't Send Roses" from Mack and Mabel.
The bartendress comes back to get drink orders, and I comment that she must be disappointed, as she thought she was going to have a quiet evening, but then these annoying women came in to sing.
Oh, no, she assured me. They had people come in to sing all the time.
Eamon is texted. He will join us after eating tacos.
We choose a song for him in advance. "Rock Your Body."
Roxi and I put in a range of selections, scribbling down song numbers on an index card thoughtfully supplied by our bartendress. She dials them in, and hands me a mic.
You see, at the Bong, they have no "Karaoke stage." There is no "mylar curtain." Just a couple of tv screen behind the bar, and a mic with a 50 foot cord.
Other things to note about the karaoke set-up:
* Songs were accompanied by a series of stock videos, featuring such scenarios as: lions hunting, a New England winter, Victoria Falls, sea slugs battling on the ocean floor, and so forth.
* At the end of each song, the singer is given a score, presumably on a scale of 1 to 100, accompanied by an encouraging phrase corresponding to the level of the score ("Excellent," "Good Try," etc.). There seemed to be little to no correlation between the score and the actual quality of the singing.
But back to our scene. So I take the mic, lean back on the barstool and begin to sing. I don't even remember what I sang. But I mused how pleasant it was to just caterwaul away, perched on a stool, with faithful Roxi by my side and my Jack and Coke in front of me.
Later, Eamon arrived, revealed that "Rock Your Body" is nowhere in his key, and discovered the bartendress' name was Carmen.
Other highlights of the evening:
* We were joined by an aging Eastern European fellow, who squired both Roxi and I about in wild renditions of the mambo. "If there's a man who loves to dance more than I do," he solemnly, "I want to meet him."
* I requested the showtune "Till There Was You" (from The Music Man) and was delightes to discover that the version in the karaoke machine was, most unaccountably, the exact arrangement and key from the original score. Only rendered in wonderfully tinny sythesizer.
* Eamon sang all night long, and "All Night Long." Roxi sang back up ("All night... All night"). I was whirled about the floor by aforementioned Eastern European gentleman.
* We developed a new game, in which we improvise lyrics which reflect the action on screen. ("Lovely, never never change, fight with that big lion, on the ocean floor, I am a sea slug, Just the way you look tonight.")
* Eamon notes that the one TV screen not dedicated to karaoke videos is turned to the Sci Fi channel. "I like me some Sci Fi," Carmen the Bartendress admits. Eamon notes to Carmen that she is a bit of a dork.
* At the end of each song, we enlist the few other attendees in the bar to join us in anticipating the score, and loudly express our approval or displeasure, assuring low scorers that they "were robbed."
The singing thusly went on till about 1:30 in the morning. When we left, the six or so other people in the bar were still going strong. For all I know, they're singing still.
Monday, April 07, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #176: The part where Jack reveals that he truly is a Chicagoan
The scene: the patch of dirt next to my back porch
The time: a recent, rare sunny afternoon
Jack: James and I are building a house.
Kay: That's great! Who's going to live in it?
Jack: Me and James.
Kay: You and James? But don't you like living with your mom and dad?
[A pause]
Jack: We're building a rental.
The time: a recent, rare sunny afternoon
Jack: James and I are building a house.
Kay: That's great! Who's going to live in it?
Jack: Me and James.
Kay: You and James? But don't you like living with your mom and dad?
[A pause]
Jack: We're building a rental.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #175: The part where I make a culinary observation
Bacon is the new pomegranate. You heard it here first.
Crazy Crap Item #174: The part where I experience an adventurous El ride
Last night, I had the pleasure of joining my good friend Mr. Piatt for a viewing of The Drowsy Chaperone (a charming show, and recommended to one and all). As the show was playing at the glamorous Cadillac Palace Theatre in the world-famous Chicago loop, this outing required a trip on the El.
The El, my friends, is friend and foe. It's convenient, reasonably cheap, and has that big city charm a bus just can't capture. It's also slow, kind of stinky, and occasionally, the scene of remarkable personal adventures.
As may be recalled, I was once reminded how very hot I am for an old chick while riding the El.
Well, last night, I was privvy to attentions of a very different sort. I boarded the train at Thorndale, and noted a man in the car with me. I did not note at that time that we were the only ones in the car. I felt he was eyeing me oddly, but put it down to paranoia on my part.
I put on my headphones, still strangely aware of the fellow seated half an El car away from me. I realized I had been humming along to my tunes, and thought perhaps I was annoying him, so I glanced at him to see if he actually was looking--with perhaps annoyance in his eyes--at me.
He was looking at me, with a sort of furtive look on his face, and I looked away. It only half registered with me that he was doing something with his hand. An odd, fast gesture. Close to his lap. "Does he realize," I pondered, "that his nervous tic makes it look like he's pleasuring himself?"
Only then did it begin to dawn on me that it was not a nervous tic. I glanced back at him. Now, I didn't get a good look, but I'm fairly certain that it was, indeed, not a tic. I looked away. I pondered. I felt the need to tell my story, so removed my phone from my purse to send Eamon a text.
No sooner did the phone come out but the man abruptly stood up and fled to the adjacent El car. Eamon responded to my text, fairly shouting, "Hit the button," meaning the call button in the car that allows one to alert the driver to malfeasance. I replied that the man had fled after I whipped out my phone. Eamon was glad.
We trundled along, and I pondered precisely why one chooses such an act in such a place. Had he expected to find the El car empty? Was he dismayed to have to attend to his "business" with someone close by? Or did he like company?
As I pondered these things, the train stopped on the tracks, overlooking what appeared to be one of the many ubiquitous movie shoots that seem to be cropping up all over the city. A side street was blocked off, and people in jeans and black jackets were preparing to set up what appeared to me to be a ridiculous number of director's chairs. And there was an antique car parked by the curb. And lots of lighting instruments. I watched, hoping for some "sighting," but nothing was forthcoming.
There is nothing witty or pithy that I can say to connect these two El adventures. Except that they both happened, within 2 minutes of each other. And it was very weird.
The El, my friends, is friend and foe. It's convenient, reasonably cheap, and has that big city charm a bus just can't capture. It's also slow, kind of stinky, and occasionally, the scene of remarkable personal adventures.
As may be recalled, I was once reminded how very hot I am for an old chick while riding the El.
Well, last night, I was privvy to attentions of a very different sort. I boarded the train at Thorndale, and noted a man in the car with me. I did not note at that time that we were the only ones in the car. I felt he was eyeing me oddly, but put it down to paranoia on my part.
I put on my headphones, still strangely aware of the fellow seated half an El car away from me. I realized I had been humming along to my tunes, and thought perhaps I was annoying him, so I glanced at him to see if he actually was looking--with perhaps annoyance in his eyes--at me.
He was looking at me, with a sort of furtive look on his face, and I looked away. It only half registered with me that he was doing something with his hand. An odd, fast gesture. Close to his lap. "Does he realize," I pondered, "that his nervous tic makes it look like he's pleasuring himself?"
Only then did it begin to dawn on me that it was not a nervous tic. I glanced back at him. Now, I didn't get a good look, but I'm fairly certain that it was, indeed, not a tic. I looked away. I pondered. I felt the need to tell my story, so removed my phone from my purse to send Eamon a text.
No sooner did the phone come out but the man abruptly stood up and fled to the adjacent El car. Eamon responded to my text, fairly shouting, "Hit the button," meaning the call button in the car that allows one to alert the driver to malfeasance. I replied that the man had fled after I whipped out my phone. Eamon was glad.
We trundled along, and I pondered precisely why one chooses such an act in such a place. Had he expected to find the El car empty? Was he dismayed to have to attend to his "business" with someone close by? Or did he like company?
As I pondered these things, the train stopped on the tracks, overlooking what appeared to be one of the many ubiquitous movie shoots that seem to be cropping up all over the city. A side street was blocked off, and people in jeans and black jackets were preparing to set up what appeared to me to be a ridiculous number of director's chairs. And there was an antique car parked by the curb. And lots of lighting instruments. I watched, hoping for some "sighting," but nothing was forthcoming.
There is nothing witty or pithy that I can say to connect these two El adventures. Except that they both happened, within 2 minutes of each other. And it was very weird.
Crazy Crap Item #173: The part where I receive expert weight-loss advice
Friends, I am pudgy. Not obese, mind you. Just a bit squishy. I get this way from time to time, and I've found I can beat back the waves of flab, fairly successfully anyway, through Weight Watchers. They have a nifty online version, which means I can continue on in my ongoing effort to never leave the house.
Anyhoo, after denying the fact that my clothes were feeling just a bit too snug for several months now, I decided to hop back on that weight-loss bandwagon. I was reasonably good last week; not abstemious, but making some wise choices and making a better acquaintance with our treadmill. And lo, I am rewarded. Since last wednesday I lost a whole pound! Smirk if you will, one pound is a very nice start, indeed.
But what was ever more pleasing was the message I received upon logging in this week's weight on the WW site:
WAY TO GO! Congratulations for losing weight this week. We hope you're thrilled with the result. Here's a quote by Aristotle that we thought might strike a chord with you: "We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence then, is not an act, but a habit."
Aristotle is helping me lose weight. Awesome.
Anyhoo, after denying the fact that my clothes were feeling just a bit too snug for several months now, I decided to hop back on that weight-loss bandwagon. I was reasonably good last week; not abstemious, but making some wise choices and making a better acquaintance with our treadmill. And lo, I am rewarded. Since last wednesday I lost a whole pound! Smirk if you will, one pound is a very nice start, indeed.
But what was ever more pleasing was the message I received upon logging in this week's weight on the WW site:
WAY TO GO! Congratulations for losing weight this week. We hope you're thrilled with the result. Here's a quote by Aristotle that we thought might strike a chord with you: "We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence then, is not an act, but a habit."
Aristotle is helping me lose weight. Awesome.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #172: The part where I discover how singing is like fire-walking
Years ago, friends, I used to sing in public all the time. You couldn't stop me. Indeed, during the summer between my first and second years of graduate school, I'd go on auditions for shows I had no intention of being in, just for the practice. I'd sign up, sing my lungs out, then go home and leave a message for the director saying I'd just accepted a role in another show, so I'd have to remove myself from consideration. Such a sly boots, I am.
Well, then came life. At a certain point during grad school, I realized that if I was going to have any hope of, oh, say, writing a dissertation, I'd have to stop playing with all my little undergrad theater major friends. Buckle down. Get a life.
A life, it seems, is hard to get rid of once you've got it. I finished that dissertation, found a job, found a career, found a husband (in that order and all in one place, incidentally), and found that I'd left the world of performing behind.
Sure, I continued to dabble. I took voice lessons, for no reason besides fun and the fact that my voice teacher is a vastly entertaining, certifiable nut job. I joined an a cappella group, then ditched it for another one.
But aside from the occasional karaoke outing, I didn't take the stage. And thus it was that I got ... bored. Really bored. So I had the bright idea of staging my own showcase. Rent a studio. Pay them to record. Invite all my near and dear. And spend 45 minutes singing before a LIVE AUDIENCE.
And, apart from the nervous breakdown the endeavor engendered, it seemed to be a success. I was overwhelmed by the many friends who attended, and basked in the glow of undivided attention before many staring eyes. And then I collapsed.
So, the question inevitably arose: How could one reap all the fun and benefits of flaunting one's musical wares and not teeter into a state of nervous exhaustion. If only, I thought, someone would do all the work--book the space, get an accompanist, round up an audience, and supply a line-up of other singers so I wouldn't have to carry the burden of an entire show.
Well, who knew it, someone read my mind. Open mic cabaret, don't you know? It exists. Offering everything I want and nothing I don't.
So it was that, just last night, I bundled up some choice ditties, put on my eyeliner, and carted my attention-seeking ass down to Petterino's for Monday Night Live.
To back up: Actually getting to Petterino's is not was simple as I made out. The journey started about three weeks ago. That's when I first heard about the event on WFMT. Of course, I must go. At least to check it out, if not sing. By the time Monday rolled around, I was FIRED UP, ready to sing. I prettied up my person, warmed up my voice, and headed down.
Only to discover, yes, Monday Night Live is every Monday night. But not tonight. Sorry.
The following week, I labored to prepare, only to succumb to an ague just before leaving.
Week 3, I pretended to want to go, but it was a rare sunny afternoon, and the Casey boys were out cavorting, so I managed to "miss" my window of prep time in order to get to Petterino's by 7pm.
Now, anyone who's performed knows that the worst enemy a performer has is the headcase. And if you give in to the urge to delay getting on stage, the headcase will invariable step in. And thus it is that your glorious career will be infelicitously cut short.
So all this delaying, I knew it was ... not good. I needed to leap in, or I'd never leap again.
Thus it was that I found myself at Petterino's last night. And, friends, it was a delightful surprise. Everyone was overwhelmingly friendly. Upon arrival, I was "adopted" by a regular who insisted i sit at her table, and who offered encouragement and reassurance. I had the pleasure of singing not one but two songs (it was a slow night) and the equal pleasure of hearing a lot of really good singing.
After my first song, flush with adrenaline, watching the singer after me wrestle with the headcase, it struck me how this whole endeavor is, as my title suggested, like a firewalk. You don't have to do it. Nothing material is gained by doing it. You will save a lot of stress and drama by simply not doing it. Most sane people would never even consider it. But doing it feels fantastic. Afterwards, anyway.
And then you'll want to do it again.
Well, then came life. At a certain point during grad school, I realized that if I was going to have any hope of, oh, say, writing a dissertation, I'd have to stop playing with all my little undergrad theater major friends. Buckle down. Get a life.
A life, it seems, is hard to get rid of once you've got it. I finished that dissertation, found a job, found a career, found a husband (in that order and all in one place, incidentally), and found that I'd left the world of performing behind.
Sure, I continued to dabble. I took voice lessons, for no reason besides fun and the fact that my voice teacher is a vastly entertaining, certifiable nut job. I joined an a cappella group, then ditched it for another one.
But aside from the occasional karaoke outing, I didn't take the stage. And thus it was that I got ... bored. Really bored. So I had the bright idea of staging my own showcase. Rent a studio. Pay them to record. Invite all my near and dear. And spend 45 minutes singing before a LIVE AUDIENCE.
And, apart from the nervous breakdown the endeavor engendered, it seemed to be a success. I was overwhelmed by the many friends who attended, and basked in the glow of undivided attention before many staring eyes. And then I collapsed.
So, the question inevitably arose: How could one reap all the fun and benefits of flaunting one's musical wares and not teeter into a state of nervous exhaustion. If only, I thought, someone would do all the work--book the space, get an accompanist, round up an audience, and supply a line-up of other singers so I wouldn't have to carry the burden of an entire show.
Well, who knew it, someone read my mind. Open mic cabaret, don't you know? It exists. Offering everything I want and nothing I don't.
So it was that, just last night, I bundled up some choice ditties, put on my eyeliner, and carted my attention-seeking ass down to Petterino's for Monday Night Live.
To back up: Actually getting to Petterino's is not was simple as I made out. The journey started about three weeks ago. That's when I first heard about the event on WFMT. Of course, I must go. At least to check it out, if not sing. By the time Monday rolled around, I was FIRED UP, ready to sing. I prettied up my person, warmed up my voice, and headed down.
Only to discover, yes, Monday Night Live is every Monday night. But not tonight. Sorry.
The following week, I labored to prepare, only to succumb to an ague just before leaving.
Week 3, I pretended to want to go, but it was a rare sunny afternoon, and the Casey boys were out cavorting, so I managed to "miss" my window of prep time in order to get to Petterino's by 7pm.
Now, anyone who's performed knows that the worst enemy a performer has is the headcase. And if you give in to the urge to delay getting on stage, the headcase will invariable step in. And thus it is that your glorious career will be infelicitously cut short.
So all this delaying, I knew it was ... not good. I needed to leap in, or I'd never leap again.
Thus it was that I found myself at Petterino's last night. And, friends, it was a delightful surprise. Everyone was overwhelmingly friendly. Upon arrival, I was "adopted" by a regular who insisted i sit at her table, and who offered encouragement and reassurance. I had the pleasure of singing not one but two songs (it was a slow night) and the equal pleasure of hearing a lot of really good singing.
After my first song, flush with adrenaline, watching the singer after me wrestle with the headcase, it struck me how this whole endeavor is, as my title suggested, like a firewalk. You don't have to do it. Nothing material is gained by doing it. You will save a lot of stress and drama by simply not doing it. Most sane people would never even consider it. But doing it feels fantastic. Afterwards, anyway.
And then you'll want to do it again.
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