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.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #171: The part where we have fun with food
Sub-Part A
Eamon and I regularly gather with a gaggle of his friends from high school. About every three months, we have a rotating dinner party for which each couple takes a turn hosting. Two of the couples live in the Milwaukee environ; the other two (including the valiant Dalys) live in the whereabouts of Chicago.
At each gathering, the hosting couple supplies the entree and, usually, a side dish. Other couples volunteer dessert, appetizer, salad.
As will be no surprise to anyone who has met him, Eamon sees this a sort of competitive event. That is, it's competitive when it's our turn to host. He could care not one fig for desserts, appetizers, and salads, which are relegated to me. But when entree turn comes around, it's Eamon's time to shine.
In the past, this has meant attempts at outlandishly picturesque meals, such as the Pineapple Juice-Can Quail (like beercan chicken, but smaller). At least I got to set the table.
This time around, he fixated on fried chicken. Not picturesque, you say? Well, imagine if its paired with mashed potatoes served in a bacon cup!?! Eamon had caught wind of this remarkable innovation via the intertrons, and had to give it a go. He experimented with several methods--weaving, encircling, toothpick, no pick--and two varieties of bacon--real and turkey, with varying results. I vote woven pig meat.
And how did our guests enjoy it? Well, in a week of fiascos (to which I've alluded here), it was no surprise that all six of our planned guests declined to attend. As a last ditch attempt to dazzle the masses, we invited Eamon's intertron buddy Andrew (founder and publisher of the notorious website Gaper's Block) and his presumably lovely but as yet unmet wife Cinnamon. I say "unmet" because, in keeping with a week of disappointments, she suffered a bout of stomach flu and could not attend.
But Andrew joined us anyway, bringing with him another culinary delight, little walnut-shaped shortbread cookies filled with a delightful chocolate fudge, purchased from neighborhood standby, Devon Market. They, and the bacon cups, were a delight.
Sub-Part B
Last Sunday, we attended Easter dinner at the home of Eamon's Aunt Kathy and Uncle Ken.
"What can we bring?" I asked Aunt Kathy.
"How about dessert," was the reply.
Music to my ears, as I love nothing better than the concocting of sweets. Citrus-scented angel food cake, I decided. A light, airy dessert, perfect for the season.
Eamon was not so pleased. "What makes it Easter??" he demanded.
It did not have to "be Easter," I replied. It's light, airy, spring-like flavor and texture would be Easter-y enough, I assured him.
To no avail. Easter-y it would be.
Behold the Easter-y goodness.
Eamon and I regularly gather with a gaggle of his friends from high school. About every three months, we have a rotating dinner party for which each couple takes a turn hosting. Two of the couples live in the Milwaukee environ; the other two (including the valiant Dalys) live in the whereabouts of Chicago.
At each gathering, the hosting couple supplies the entree and, usually, a side dish. Other couples volunteer dessert, appetizer, salad.
As will be no surprise to anyone who has met him, Eamon sees this a sort of competitive event. That is, it's competitive when it's our turn to host. He could care not one fig for desserts, appetizers, and salads, which are relegated to me. But when entree turn comes around, it's Eamon's time to shine.
In the past, this has meant attempts at outlandishly picturesque meals, such as the Pineapple Juice-Can Quail (like beercan chicken, but smaller). At least I got to set the table.
This time around, he fixated on fried chicken. Not picturesque, you say? Well, imagine if its paired with mashed potatoes served in a bacon cup!?! Eamon had caught wind of this remarkable innovation via the intertrons, and had to give it a go. He experimented with several methods--weaving, encircling, toothpick, no pick--and two varieties of bacon--real and turkey, with varying results. I vote woven pig meat.
And how did our guests enjoy it? Well, in a week of fiascos (to which I've alluded here), it was no surprise that all six of our planned guests declined to attend. As a last ditch attempt to dazzle the masses, we invited Eamon's intertron buddy Andrew (founder and publisher of the notorious website Gaper's Block) and his presumably lovely but as yet unmet wife Cinnamon. I say "unmet" because, in keeping with a week of disappointments, she suffered a bout of stomach flu and could not attend.
But Andrew joined us anyway, bringing with him another culinary delight, little walnut-shaped shortbread cookies filled with a delightful chocolate fudge, purchased from neighborhood standby, Devon Market. They, and the bacon cups, were a delight.
Sub-Part B
Last Sunday, we attended Easter dinner at the home of Eamon's Aunt Kathy and Uncle Ken.
"What can we bring?" I asked Aunt Kathy.
"How about dessert," was the reply.
Music to my ears, as I love nothing better than the concocting of sweets. Citrus-scented angel food cake, I decided. A light, airy dessert, perfect for the season.
Eamon was not so pleased. "What makes it Easter??" he demanded.
It did not have to "be Easter," I replied. It's light, airy, spring-like flavor and texture would be Easter-y enough, I assured him.
To no avail. Easter-y it would be.
Behold the Easter-y goodness.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #170: The part where I question the last 20 years of my life.
It's remarkable how in one single moment, you can see in a flash what a monumental idiot you are.
In this case, a musical idiot.
So, as is well known, I like to warble. Showtunes. Yes, embarassing, I know, but a girl can't fight what she is.
This has been a long-term obsession, stretching back to the womb, or at least back to my first viewing of The Sound of Music at age 5. Looking back, it was strange that at that tender age, I didn't want to play the actual 5-year-old in the play (the youngest von Trapp child Gretl). No. I wanted to be Maria. Sigh.
Fast-forward to college, where I have the enviable opportunity to participate in "Musical Theatre Workshop," a course offered through the Music department, where you basically get up twice a week and make an ass of yourself by trying out your audition material. Besides being a forum for receiving feedback every 18-year-old kid should have to learn to deal with (Did you know I'm "too thick for my type"? It's true!), it was a great place to learn really obscure songs that no one in their right mind ever sings. I still dazzle friends with my ability to recognize ditties from How Now, Dow Jones and Flora the Red Menace.
And that, my friends, is how I came in contact with a song which came to be something of a signature piece: "The Joint Is Really Jumping Down at Carnegie Hall." Before it belonged soley to me with all rights in perpetuity, it belonged to one Adrianna Villem, a classmate. And before Adrianna got her hands on it, it belonged to one Judy Garland.
Funny enough, though I've sung the song for some 20 years now, I'd never actually heard Judy sing it. It's from a movie called Thousands Cheer, which I've never been able to find hide nor hair of.
So I've always wondered: how did Judy sing it? What tempo? Does she slur the way I do? Does she mess with the rhythms?
But my biggest question was: How does she handle that crazy high F? You see, "Joint" is swinging boogie-woogie belt tune. Most voices don't adapt nicely to the practice of belting for three minutes then jumping up into soprano-land. In singer parlance, it causes one to over one's "break"--a harrowing and often unsuccessful venture. So it's odd and cruel that this song, so deliciously belty as it is, requires a random high F.
This break-crossing has always been my bete-noire-- particularly in my younger years. I've gotten much better at it, but the extremity of this strange popped high F, and the adrenalin rush of performing (which typically resulting in way more vigorously than is healthy or advisable) usually means the F is, well, not quite right. A little sharp. A little off. Not "swinging."
Each time I'd pop--and miss--the F, I'd think, "If you were Judy, you could do it."
But exactly how did she handle? Anyone who knows the repertoire of Ms. Garland knows that, while she did many musical things, singing high Fs was not among them. Assuming she sang it in a lower key, the question remains: how did she leap out of belt into soprano?
Well, just the other day, I googled the song title--again. Past searches had turned up nothing but a few stray mentions of the song titles in "Lists of songs about New York," "Judy Garland's repertoire," and so forth. So imagine my shock when on this latest search, what to my wondering eyes should appear but a video of Judy singing it! Apparently, someone swiped the clip from the movie where she sings it and put it online.
So of course I wanted to hear it--in general to hear how she sings it but also to solve my age-old question: how does she handle that high note that has give me such grief over the last 20 years?
So, first off, she sings it one step key lower than I do, which is not surprising, as she /is/ Judy Garland, and has the vocal range of a long shoreman. But that still means her "High F" is a "High E", which is still pretty high. So I'm listening. And I'm listening. And I get to that dreaded high note... AND SHE DOESN'T SING IT! She drops it an octave down. Which, in the context of the song makes perfect sense. And actually sounds more natural and a little better. And IT'S SO OBVIOUS that that is what any sane person would do.
So I just start laughing. Just laughed as I sat there. Of course! An octave down. I'm such an idiot.
See, friends, there are songs where you have to sing the high notes. It's expected. They're famous. There's no point in doing the song unless you do. However, that is not the case with this particular song. And how I missed the obvious, well, I guess that's just the folly of youth.
So I'll keep singing that song. But the high F? Screw it. Just call me Judy.
Wanna hear the song? Here's Judy singing it. And here's my squeakier version (click on it from the song list on the right-hand side of the page).
In this case, a musical idiot.
So, as is well known, I like to warble. Showtunes. Yes, embarassing, I know, but a girl can't fight what she is.
This has been a long-term obsession, stretching back to the womb, or at least back to my first viewing of The Sound of Music at age 5. Looking back, it was strange that at that tender age, I didn't want to play the actual 5-year-old in the play (the youngest von Trapp child Gretl). No. I wanted to be Maria. Sigh.
Fast-forward to college, where I have the enviable opportunity to participate in "Musical Theatre Workshop," a course offered through the Music department, where you basically get up twice a week and make an ass of yourself by trying out your audition material. Besides being a forum for receiving feedback every 18-year-old kid should have to learn to deal with (Did you know I'm "too thick for my type"? It's true!), it was a great place to learn really obscure songs that no one in their right mind ever sings. I still dazzle friends with my ability to recognize ditties from How Now, Dow Jones and Flora the Red Menace.
And that, my friends, is how I came in contact with a song which came to be something of a signature piece: "The Joint Is Really Jumping Down at Carnegie Hall." Before it belonged soley to me with all rights in perpetuity, it belonged to one Adrianna Villem, a classmate. And before Adrianna got her hands on it, it belonged to one Judy Garland.
Funny enough, though I've sung the song for some 20 years now, I'd never actually heard Judy sing it. It's from a movie called Thousands Cheer, which I've never been able to find hide nor hair of.
So I've always wondered: how did Judy sing it? What tempo? Does she slur the way I do? Does she mess with the rhythms?
But my biggest question was: How does she handle that crazy high F? You see, "Joint" is swinging boogie-woogie belt tune. Most voices don't adapt nicely to the practice of belting for three minutes then jumping up into soprano-land. In singer parlance, it causes one to over one's "break"--a harrowing and often unsuccessful venture. So it's odd and cruel that this song, so deliciously belty as it is, requires a random high F.
This break-crossing has always been my bete-noire-- particularly in my younger years. I've gotten much better at it, but the extremity of this strange popped high F, and the adrenalin rush of performing (which typically resulting in way more vigorously than is healthy or advisable) usually means the F is, well, not quite right. A little sharp. A little off. Not "swinging."
Each time I'd pop--and miss--the F, I'd think, "If you were Judy, you could do it."
But exactly how did she handle? Anyone who knows the repertoire of Ms. Garland knows that, while she did many musical things, singing high Fs was not among them. Assuming she sang it in a lower key, the question remains: how did she leap out of belt into soprano?
Well, just the other day, I googled the song title--again. Past searches had turned up nothing but a few stray mentions of the song titles in "Lists of songs about New York," "Judy Garland's repertoire," and so forth. So imagine my shock when on this latest search, what to my wondering eyes should appear but a video of Judy singing it! Apparently, someone swiped the clip from the movie where she sings it and put it online.
So of course I wanted to hear it--in general to hear how she sings it but also to solve my age-old question: how does she handle that high note that has give me such grief over the last 20 years?
So, first off, she sings it one step key lower than I do, which is not surprising, as she /is/ Judy Garland, and has the vocal range of a long shoreman. But that still means her "High F" is a "High E", which is still pretty high. So I'm listening. And I'm listening. And I get to that dreaded high note... AND SHE DOESN'T SING IT! She drops it an octave down. Which, in the context of the song makes perfect sense. And actually sounds more natural and a little better. And IT'S SO OBVIOUS that that is what any sane person would do.
So I just start laughing. Just laughed as I sat there. Of course! An octave down. I'm such an idiot.
See, friends, there are songs where you have to sing the high notes. It's expected. They're famous. There's no point in doing the song unless you do. However, that is not the case with this particular song. And how I missed the obvious, well, I guess that's just the folly of youth.
So I'll keep singing that song. But the high F? Screw it. Just call me Judy.
Wanna hear the song? Here's Judy singing it. And here's my squeakier version (click on it from the song list on the right-hand side of the page).
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #169: The part where I announce a major award.
In response to my recent thumb-related fiasco, Mr. Michael Shattner wins the award for the best off-the-cuff invention of a name for the event:
Drama Amidst the Empenadas
As recipient, Mr. Shattner wins a shiny new dime!
Drama Amidst the Empenadas
As recipient, Mr. Shattner wins a shiny new dime!
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #168: The part where I discover that I am a Top Chef!
It's been one of those weeks.
Ever since, say, Sunday, my life has been riddled with fiascos and broken plans. I'm a survivor, though. I bounce back.
But things really spun wildly out of control yesterday. I'd been planning to have my good friends and fellow America's Next Top Model (ANTM) fans Jackie and Roxi over for a girlie tv night of Tyra-gone-wild accompanied by homemade empenadas.
But then Roxi got a last-minute, early-morning job interview scheduled for Thursday morning, so had to beg off. We suggested some alternate viewing plans, but since there was a still a chance that Jackie and I might gather (and since I'd already thawed out some meat for the empenadas), I thought I'd prep my little meat pies just in case. They do nice quitely, unbaked, in the fridge, thank you very much.
In my haste -- and due in no small part to my piss-poor knife skills and remarkably dull cutlery -- I sliced my thumb. Strike that. I sliced off my thumb. Or at least a the very tip of it. And some fingernail to boot.
Now, let me clear, friends: I'm an no stranger to damaged digits. See my note above about piss-poor knife skills. Scarcely a meal goes by during which I haven't slice and diced something on my person. So rather than panic, I simply stanch the blood with a wad of toilet paper and press.
I lift the wad. Still bleeding. I press some more.
Still bleeding.
It will stop, I assume. I attempt to dab on some Neo-sporin, but greasy ointments, I find, don't stick to blood. Funny that.
I manage to unwrap a bandaid with my remaining fingers and stretch it over my mangled tip. As the blood pools out the edge, a thought crosses my mind: This is no ordinary owie.
I rip off the bandaid and reapply the wad. Emergency room crosses my mind. I feel a wave a panic. I bat it down. I sit on the toilet lid and force myself to breathe very deeply. The panic passes.
I go back to the kitchen, where I had set up my laptop (a girl needs showtunes while cooking). I text Eamon with a brief explanation of my predicament. He expresses concern. I elaborate. He asks follow-questions. Tired of trying to IM with one hand (while keeping toilet paper wadded on my thumb), I ditch the laptop and pick up the phone.
Eamon: Do you think you need stiches?
Kay: There's nothing to stitch.
Eamon: Sounds like you need to go to the emergency room.
Kay: [weepy gulp] OK.
Eamon: Do you need me to come get you.
Kay: [weepier gulp] Yes.
As I wait for Eamon, I open the front blinds so I can watch our neighbor children cavort. Because, of course, this is the first day with cavort-worthy weather we've had in ages. Which I knew. And which I'd planned to join in for, pre-thumb-amputation.
To kill time, I go back to inspect ground-zero of my accident. Hey! There's my thumb tip, nestled amongs the diced onion. Actually, it's a big hunk of fingernail, with some scraps of skin attached. Still, pretty gross. I discard the tip, nail and onions. I even toss the potatoes I'd chopped before all the carnage, just for good measure.
Eamon arrives, and off we go to St. Francis, where within a mere hour and 45 minutes, I'm nicely equipped with more bandaids, hospital-grade Neo-sporin, and a shiny new tetanus shot.
Fast-forward to tonight. I watch ANTM solo, as I just couldn't imagine hosting poor Jackie with no delicious chopped items for her to savor. Later, I watch the season premiere Top Chef.
When what to my wondering eyes should appear? Chicago chef Stephanie Izzard (with whom I share a one degree of separation!) succumbs to nerves in the first Quick Fire challenge and... gasp! ... cuts her finger while chopping onions!!!!
Mayhap I'm a Top Chef after all!
Ever since, say, Sunday, my life has been riddled with fiascos and broken plans. I'm a survivor, though. I bounce back.
But things really spun wildly out of control yesterday. I'd been planning to have my good friends and fellow America's Next Top Model (ANTM) fans Jackie and Roxi over for a girlie tv night of Tyra-gone-wild accompanied by homemade empenadas.
But then Roxi got a last-minute, early-morning job interview scheduled for Thursday morning, so had to beg off. We suggested some alternate viewing plans, but since there was a still a chance that Jackie and I might gather (and since I'd already thawed out some meat for the empenadas), I thought I'd prep my little meat pies just in case. They do nice quitely, unbaked, in the fridge, thank you very much.
In my haste -- and due in no small part to my piss-poor knife skills and remarkably dull cutlery -- I sliced my thumb. Strike that. I sliced off my thumb. Or at least a the very tip of it. And some fingernail to boot.
Now, let me clear, friends: I'm an no stranger to damaged digits. See my note above about piss-poor knife skills. Scarcely a meal goes by during which I haven't slice and diced something on my person. So rather than panic, I simply stanch the blood with a wad of toilet paper and press.
I lift the wad. Still bleeding. I press some more.
Still bleeding.
It will stop, I assume. I attempt to dab on some Neo-sporin, but greasy ointments, I find, don't stick to blood. Funny that.
I manage to unwrap a bandaid with my remaining fingers and stretch it over my mangled tip. As the blood pools out the edge, a thought crosses my mind: This is no ordinary owie.
I rip off the bandaid and reapply the wad. Emergency room crosses my mind. I feel a wave a panic. I bat it down. I sit on the toilet lid and force myself to breathe very deeply. The panic passes.
I go back to the kitchen, where I had set up my laptop (a girl needs showtunes while cooking). I text Eamon with a brief explanation of my predicament. He expresses concern. I elaborate. He asks follow-questions. Tired of trying to IM with one hand (while keeping toilet paper wadded on my thumb), I ditch the laptop and pick up the phone.
Eamon: Do you think you need stiches?
Kay: There's nothing to stitch.
Eamon: Sounds like you need to go to the emergency room.
Kay: [weepy gulp] OK.
Eamon: Do you need me to come get you.
Kay: [weepier gulp] Yes.
As I wait for Eamon, I open the front blinds so I can watch our neighbor children cavort. Because, of course, this is the first day with cavort-worthy weather we've had in ages. Which I knew. And which I'd planned to join in for, pre-thumb-amputation.
To kill time, I go back to inspect ground-zero of my accident. Hey! There's my thumb tip, nestled amongs the diced onion. Actually, it's a big hunk of fingernail, with some scraps of skin attached. Still, pretty gross. I discard the tip, nail and onions. I even toss the potatoes I'd chopped before all the carnage, just for good measure.
Eamon arrives, and off we go to St. Francis, where within a mere hour and 45 minutes, I'm nicely equipped with more bandaids, hospital-grade Neo-sporin, and a shiny new tetanus shot.
Fast-forward to tonight. I watch ANTM solo, as I just couldn't imagine hosting poor Jackie with no delicious chopped items for her to savor. Later, I watch the season premiere Top Chef.
When what to my wondering eyes should appear? Chicago chef Stephanie Izzard (with whom I share a one degree of separation!) succumbs to nerves in the first Quick Fire challenge and... gasp! ... cuts her finger while chopping onions!!!!
Mayhap I'm a Top Chef after all!
Saturday, March 08, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #167: The part where I discuss local Chicago ancestry
Last summer, our little neighborhood of 1500 W. Norwood suffered a lost. Long-time resident Bernadine passed away.
Bernadine was a beloved fixture on the block. When I think Bernadine, I think "dame." The kind of stylish, 1950's-style urbanite who might be seen just upstage of Katherine Hepburn in The Desk Set. When the ladies and I would gather at the benches during the summer, Bernadine would make frequent, brief appearances, always dressed to the nines in matching pantsuit ensembles with coordinating scarves tied with a tidy knot at the neck. Her hair and makeup were always impeccable.
Bernadine was feisty. She knew her own mind, and didn't sugarcoat a thing. "No, there's nothing afterwards," she'd say, with certainty, of death. Tart, I would call her. Wry.
She loved the kids on the block, calling them sweetheart and darling. She was an especial favorite of Sam, son of Ruth and Kevin, and the O'Connor triplets (now incomprehensibly fled to Milwaukee).
She was also the sworn enemy of Delores. None of us ever learned the source of this enduring enmity -- perhaps some borrowed folding chairs, never returned, or one too many requests for a cup of sugar. Me, I suspect there was no single trigger; rather, a deep and abiding difference in style, temperament, and philosophy of life. Like Bonaparte and Wellington, they were.
What I always respected about Bernadine was her absolute commitment to living as she liked. She was regularly teased about her "boyfriend," a local fellow who would squire her out to dinner, after which she would rib him about eyeing the waitresses. She was always ready to share an opinion about restaurants she'd recently visited, and, if not dining out, had a regular report of what she'd planned for her evening meal.
She occasionally spoke of her husband, who died of leukemia years before. He went into the hospital, she said, and never came out.
When she passed away, after several months of illness and hospital stays, she was deeply mourned. Her memorial had a large turn-out, with many Norwood families in attendance. Ruth gave a heartfelt eulogy, in which she recalled how Bernadine had taught Sam the pleasure of "drinking the little half-and-half containers" at the restaurants they visited on their regular dinners out.
Bernadine's memorial was an eye-opener. Her family had laid out tons and tons of family photos on tables. There was Bernadine, in the fashionable '50s, coifed and cutting-edge. She was a model, we learned, and it made all the sense in the world.
I found myself thinking of Bernadine this morning, as I was perusing my copy of City of the Century: The Epic of Chicago and the Making of America. After Bernadine's passing, her family held an estate sale. We were all invited to look in. I did, not expecting to actually buy anything. As is well known, I'm tight with the purse.
But, as it turns out, Bernadine had amassed a fascinating collection of books about Chicago. I snapped them all up, including City of the Century. I recalled that Bernadine's son-in-law, when he got up to speak at her memorial, described her great pride in her family's old-school Chicago roots. He mentioned her maiden name, Beaubien, and noted that her family stretched back to some of the city's first founders.
So it was this morning that Bernadine came back into my life. I cracked open City of the Century, and some 50 pages in lit upon Mark and Jean Baptiste Beaubien. Mark is described as "a devil-may-care Creole from the Detroit area." With the help of Jean Baptiste, he opened a tavern called "The Sauganash." To quote City of the Century:
"Visitors from the more civilized parts were shocked to see Indian braves spinning the white wives of fort officers around the dance floor of the Sauganash to the frenzied fiddling and toe tapping of Mark Beaubien, or Indian and white women drinking home-distilled liquor straight from the bottle..."
Sounds remarkably like a 1500 Norwood block party. No wonder Bernadine loved living here.
Bernadine was a beloved fixture on the block. When I think Bernadine, I think "dame." The kind of stylish, 1950's-style urbanite who might be seen just upstage of Katherine Hepburn in The Desk Set. When the ladies and I would gather at the benches during the summer, Bernadine would make frequent, brief appearances, always dressed to the nines in matching pantsuit ensembles with coordinating scarves tied with a tidy knot at the neck. Her hair and makeup were always impeccable.
Bernadine was feisty. She knew her own mind, and didn't sugarcoat a thing. "No, there's nothing afterwards," she'd say, with certainty, of death. Tart, I would call her. Wry.
She loved the kids on the block, calling them sweetheart and darling. She was an especial favorite of Sam, son of Ruth and Kevin, and the O'Connor triplets (now incomprehensibly fled to Milwaukee).
She was also the sworn enemy of Delores. None of us ever learned the source of this enduring enmity -- perhaps some borrowed folding chairs, never returned, or one too many requests for a cup of sugar. Me, I suspect there was no single trigger; rather, a deep and abiding difference in style, temperament, and philosophy of life. Like Bonaparte and Wellington, they were.
What I always respected about Bernadine was her absolute commitment to living as she liked. She was regularly teased about her "boyfriend," a local fellow who would squire her out to dinner, after which she would rib him about eyeing the waitresses. She was always ready to share an opinion about restaurants she'd recently visited, and, if not dining out, had a regular report of what she'd planned for her evening meal.
She occasionally spoke of her husband, who died of leukemia years before. He went into the hospital, she said, and never came out.
When she passed away, after several months of illness and hospital stays, she was deeply mourned. Her memorial had a large turn-out, with many Norwood families in attendance. Ruth gave a heartfelt eulogy, in which she recalled how Bernadine had taught Sam the pleasure of "drinking the little half-and-half containers" at the restaurants they visited on their regular dinners out.
Bernadine's memorial was an eye-opener. Her family had laid out tons and tons of family photos on tables. There was Bernadine, in the fashionable '50s, coifed and cutting-edge. She was a model, we learned, and it made all the sense in the world.
I found myself thinking of Bernadine this morning, as I was perusing my copy of City of the Century: The Epic of Chicago and the Making of America. After Bernadine's passing, her family held an estate sale. We were all invited to look in. I did, not expecting to actually buy anything. As is well known, I'm tight with the purse.
But, as it turns out, Bernadine had amassed a fascinating collection of books about Chicago. I snapped them all up, including City of the Century. I recalled that Bernadine's son-in-law, when he got up to speak at her memorial, described her great pride in her family's old-school Chicago roots. He mentioned her maiden name, Beaubien, and noted that her family stretched back to some of the city's first founders.
So it was this morning that Bernadine came back into my life. I cracked open City of the Century, and some 50 pages in lit upon Mark and Jean Baptiste Beaubien. Mark is described as "a devil-may-care Creole from the Detroit area." With the help of Jean Baptiste, he opened a tavern called "The Sauganash." To quote City of the Century:
"Visitors from the more civilized parts were shocked to see Indian braves spinning the white wives of fort officers around the dance floor of the Sauganash to the frenzied fiddling and toe tapping of Mark Beaubien, or Indian and white women drinking home-distilled liquor straight from the bottle..."
Sounds remarkably like a 1500 Norwood block party. No wonder Bernadine loved living here.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #166: The part where Eamon takes the plunge
I recently posted that Eamon asked an odd question. Strangely, no one has yet expressed surprise or asked for any follow-up. Despite my readers' lack of interest (or, perhaps, familiarity with Eamon's character and habits), I will provide a follow-up, gratis.
Polar Plunge, you see. A bunch of people jumping into Lake Michigan as a fundraiser for the Special Olympics, you see. Derby-related, you see.
I will digress for a moment to note that I've never quite understood the rationale of the "make-a-pledge-so-you-do-unpleasant-things" style of fundraising. I like my friends. I like the causes they support. I don't need to be bribed into giving them money in exchange for the pleasure of viewing them in uncomfortable circumstances--say, walking for three days straight, or climbing the stairwells to the top of the Hancock, or, for instance, jumping into a freezing cold lake in February. But that's just me.
Back to our story. The Windy City Rollers entered a team to jump. They would be costuming themselves as the "Babe-raham Lincolns." Chicks dressed as our 16th president. Top hats and beards abound.
But tragedy struck when one of the skaters was unable to do the plunge. Who, a stricken nation cries out, could possibly take her place???
Yeah, one guess.
So Eamon is set to plunge. But, since a tall, bearded man dressed as Abraham Lincoln is neither funny nor gender-bending, he decided to attire himself somewhat differently. As "Betsy Rawsome."
This puzzled me some. Betsy Ross. Abraham Lincoln. I questioned. I gingerly reminded that they weren't from the same historical period. I was told not to be snippy.
Leaving doubts and a basic knowledge of American history behind, I settled in to watch the fun of Eamon cobbling together -- yes -- another costume.
It started with a wig and bonnet ensemble from the local party store, amusingly labeled a "Betsy Ross disguise." (Why a disguise? Are we thinking someone will mistake him for the actual Betsy Ross?)
Then, he tried to squeeze himself into an old hand-me-down bridesmaid's dress I had on hand. It used to serve as the foundation for my ever-popular Snow White costume (royal blue, big puffy sleeves, full skirt). I assured Eamon it would never fit, as even I can no longer zip it up. He refused to believe without proof. A few popped stitches later, and he had his proof.
It was then that one of the skaters stepped in, with two former prom dresses, in the famed size 14 mentioned earlier. A pale blue taffeta gown fit the bill nicely.
As it was strapless, Eamon asked if I had any white fabric on hand that would serve as a shawl. Being the best wife ever, I remembered some lace curtains I had packed away. A patriotic themed pin to hold it together completed the ensemble.
And so it was that, bright and early on Sunday morn, we headed to North Beach where Eamon and the Babes took the plunge. And won first prize for individual costume. I am not kidding.
Another Daly triumph!!
Polar Plunge, you see. A bunch of people jumping into Lake Michigan as a fundraiser for the Special Olympics, you see. Derby-related, you see.
I will digress for a moment to note that I've never quite understood the rationale of the "make-a-pledge-so-you-do-unpleasant-things" style of fundraising. I like my friends. I like the causes they support. I don't need to be bribed into giving them money in exchange for the pleasure of viewing them in uncomfortable circumstances--say, walking for three days straight, or climbing the stairwells to the top of the Hancock, or, for instance, jumping into a freezing cold lake in February. But that's just me.
Back to our story. The Windy City Rollers entered a team to jump. They would be costuming themselves as the "Babe-raham Lincolns." Chicks dressed as our 16th president. Top hats and beards abound.
But tragedy struck when one of the skaters was unable to do the plunge. Who, a stricken nation cries out, could possibly take her place???
Yeah, one guess.
So Eamon is set to plunge. But, since a tall, bearded man dressed as Abraham Lincoln is neither funny nor gender-bending, he decided to attire himself somewhat differently. As "Betsy Rawsome."
This puzzled me some. Betsy Ross. Abraham Lincoln. I questioned. I gingerly reminded that they weren't from the same historical period. I was told not to be snippy.
Leaving doubts and a basic knowledge of American history behind, I settled in to watch the fun of Eamon cobbling together -- yes -- another costume.
It started with a wig and bonnet ensemble from the local party store, amusingly labeled a "Betsy Ross disguise." (Why a disguise? Are we thinking someone will mistake him for the actual Betsy Ross?)
Then, he tried to squeeze himself into an old hand-me-down bridesmaid's dress I had on hand. It used to serve as the foundation for my ever-popular Snow White costume (royal blue, big puffy sleeves, full skirt). I assured Eamon it would never fit, as even I can no longer zip it up. He refused to believe without proof. A few popped stitches later, and he had his proof.
It was then that one of the skaters stepped in, with two former prom dresses, in the famed size 14 mentioned earlier. A pale blue taffeta gown fit the bill nicely.
As it was strapless, Eamon asked if I had any white fabric on hand that would serve as a shawl. Being the best wife ever, I remembered some lace curtains I had packed away. A patriotic themed pin to hold it together completed the ensemble.
And so it was that, bright and early on Sunday morn, we headed to North Beach where Eamon and the Babes took the plunge. And won first prize for individual costume. I am not kidding.
Another Daly triumph!!
Crazy Crap Item #165: The part where I am witty
Yesterday, Roxi informed me that it was "National Grammar Day."
To which I responded, "Do you think they chose March 4th as the date because the date itself is a full sentence?"
I'm so clever, I shock myself.
To which I responded, "Do you think they chose March 4th as the date because the date itself is a full sentence?"
I'm so clever, I shock myself.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #164: The part where I encounter a question I don't want to answer
eamondaly1110: would you say i would fit into a women's 14?
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #163: The part where I raise a salient question
Why is it that Scooby Doo speaks with a very strong speech impediment, while his nephew, Scrappy Doo, speaks perfectly clearly? I always assumed Scooby's speech problems were due to him being a TALKING DOG. Apparently, that's not the case.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #162: The part where we are not haters
Unlike many of our acquaintance, we are not Valentine's Day haters. Yes, I know, it's a "Hallmark holiday." Yes, I'm being ordered to love.
But the thing is, I already do love, so why not take a moment and wallow in it? Eamon and I are of one mind on this matter.
So last night, we did up VD, Daly style. And it was quite nice.
I'll start with this amusing anecdote about the gifts. Anyone who's been in a relationship beyond the courtship phase knows: the gift-giving grind can begin to get relentless . And VD -- well, it's a toughie. I honestly can't imagine expecting -- or giving -- some expensive jewelry/watch/small island sort of extravaganza. After all, VD should be about small tokens, correct? But how many pewter handheld hearts and small stuffed bears wearing bulky red knit sweaters does one really need?
So it was with a deal of puzzlement that I launched into this year's VD gift hunt. Which means, basically, doing Google searches on innumerable combinations of search terms.
To whit:
+"Valentine's Day" +male +steak
+Gift +Man +love
+Valentine's +present +geek
+"roller derby" +"comic book" +love
Despite this rather scattershot methodology, I very quickly located the perfect gift. It had hearts. It was wearable. It was geeky. It was: the 8-Bit Dynamic Life Shirt.
The gag is this: you each wear matching shirts, emblazoned with five hearts. When you near each other, the hearts begin to light up. When you diverge they darken.
It's simple. It's brilliant. It's ... expensive. Just a little too, rather, for a gag gift. I hem. I haw. I look for cheap knock-offs. I almost place an order.
Then I recall an innocent question I was asked just one week earlier.
"What's your tshirt size?"
Knowing that Eamon had already filled our light-up-my-lover-is-near shirt needs, I retreated to the perfect present-giving fallback position: liquor. A nice bottle of black Sambuca for my sweetie, accompanied by 5 black licorice pipes.
Presents in hand, we plan the rest of our evening. No crowded "romantic" restaurants for us. I head to Paulina Meat Market, and drop a comically exobitant amount of money on two ribeye steaks (for us and what army, I'd like to know), and a pound of shrimp.
We then execute a nearly perfect meal -- Eamon manning the cast iron skillet for the steaks (cooked to perfection), me succeeding in locating and excecuting a truly easy and wonderful recipe for shrimp scampi. (Seriously. Try it. It's amazing and so easy).
For afters, Eamon suggested -- surprise, surprise -- that we make truffles. The New York Times says they're easy, he reports.
This is stunning to me. Eamon doesn't particularly like truffles. But I do not look a truffle horse in the mouth, so I happily comply.
So, with NY Times recipe in hand, we embark. We each get half a batch, ours to flavor as we please. Me, I'm pretty tame. Cayenne/vanilla, rolled in sugar cinnamon for one batch; cardamom rolled in cocoa for the other.
Eamon is like a crazy man: He spikes one half with Couvoisier, and with a fire of inspiration in his eyes, adds liberal dashes of ... bacon salt. Stepping back from the brink of madness, he leaves his other batch plain, and rolls them in finely chopped walnuts.
We are delighted to find that our handiwork is surprisingly tasty. And so easy.
Eamon marvels. "I wish I'd know how easy these were to make. If I'd known about these in college, I would've gotten 40% more tail, guaranteed."
But the thing is, I already do love, so why not take a moment and wallow in it? Eamon and I are of one mind on this matter.
So last night, we did up VD, Daly style. And it was quite nice.
I'll start with this amusing anecdote about the gifts. Anyone who's been in a relationship beyond the courtship phase knows: the gift-giving grind can begin to get relentless . And VD -- well, it's a toughie. I honestly can't imagine expecting -- or giving -- some expensive jewelry/watch/small island sort of extravaganza. After all, VD should be about small tokens, correct? But how many pewter handheld hearts and small stuffed bears wearing bulky red knit sweaters does one really need?
So it was with a deal of puzzlement that I launched into this year's VD gift hunt. Which means, basically, doing Google searches on innumerable combinations of search terms.
To whit:
+"Valentine's Day" +male +steak
+Gift +Man +love
+Valentine's +present +geek
+"roller derby" +"comic book" +love
Despite this rather scattershot methodology, I very quickly located the perfect gift. It had hearts. It was wearable. It was geeky. It was: the 8-Bit Dynamic Life Shirt.
The gag is this: you each wear matching shirts, emblazoned with five hearts. When you near each other, the hearts begin to light up. When you diverge they darken.
It's simple. It's brilliant. It's ... expensive. Just a little too, rather, for a gag gift. I hem. I haw. I look for cheap knock-offs. I almost place an order.
Then I recall an innocent question I was asked just one week earlier.
"What's your tshirt size?"
Knowing that Eamon had already filled our light-up-my-lover-is-near shirt needs, I retreated to the perfect present-giving fallback position: liquor. A nice bottle of black Sambuca for my sweetie, accompanied by 5 black licorice pipes.
Presents in hand, we plan the rest of our evening. No crowded "romantic" restaurants for us. I head to Paulina Meat Market, and drop a comically exobitant amount of money on two ribeye steaks (for us and what army, I'd like to know), and a pound of shrimp.
We then execute a nearly perfect meal -- Eamon manning the cast iron skillet for the steaks (cooked to perfection), me succeeding in locating and excecuting a truly easy and wonderful recipe for shrimp scampi. (Seriously. Try it. It's amazing and so easy).
For afters, Eamon suggested -- surprise, surprise -- that we make truffles. The New York Times says they're easy, he reports.
This is stunning to me. Eamon doesn't particularly like truffles. But I do not look a truffle horse in the mouth, so I happily comply.
So, with NY Times recipe in hand, we embark. We each get half a batch, ours to flavor as we please. Me, I'm pretty tame. Cayenne/vanilla, rolled in sugar cinnamon for one batch; cardamom rolled in cocoa for the other.
Eamon is like a crazy man: He spikes one half with Couvoisier, and with a fire of inspiration in his eyes, adds liberal dashes of ... bacon salt. Stepping back from the brink of madness, he leaves his other batch plain, and rolls them in finely chopped walnuts.
We are delighted to find that our handiwork is surprisingly tasty. And so easy.
Eamon marvels. "I wish I'd know how easy these were to make. If I'd known about these in college, I would've gotten 40% more tail, guaranteed."
Monday, February 11, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #161: The part where Eamon is witty
kaydaly88: my horoscope says i should do yoga
eamondaly1110: you did yoga already!
kaydaly88: so i'm ahead of the game!
eamondaly1110: you're precrastinating.
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