So, since surgery for me is looming, and since it so perfectly coincides with our upcoming block party, I felt it was prudent to prepare my young friends for my lack of participation in said festivities. I'm hoping to muster, post-fibroid-removal, at most a hearty lawnchair sitting. And since James, who cannot see me in the vicinity of grass without demanding that I spin him around or hoist him upon my shoulder, I decided a few weeks of knowing such frolics were not forthcoming would be advisable.
I would be going to the hospital the day before, I explained. There were some nasty sores they needed to take out of my belly. Then I would come home, but I would have to rest a lot, what with all the doctors having been in my belly and all.
James looked concerned. "How will they go in your belly without hurting you," he queried.
"They have special medicine," I explained, "that keeps it from hurting."
"Oh, yes, medicine." Jack intoned, with a blase-ness one never quite expects from a six-year-old. "Morphine."
Oh, how fast they grow up.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #196: The part where Sailor Jack cracks wise
My dad, for an old duffer, is an unstoppable email machine. Early and often, I receive missives from him, updating me as to daily doings and offering observations as they strike him.
To wit, today's email, which comments upon an old WWII film:
DBK [his nickname for me. It's short for "Doctor Baby Kay"],
Watching "They Were Expendable" I noticed all the officers had nicknames. There is Rusty, Shorty, Lucky, etc. I can see a poor ensign showing up later in the war and asking "Why do I have the nickname Poo Poo Head? And they would say "You waited until all the good ones were gone". Happy Gay Pride Day parade.
Love to both.
Dad
To wit, today's email, which comments upon an old WWII film:
DBK [his nickname for me. It's short for "Doctor Baby Kay"],
Watching "They Were Expendable" I noticed all the officers had nicknames. There is Rusty, Shorty, Lucky, etc. I can see a poor ensign showing up later in the war and asking "Why do I have the nickname Poo Poo Head? And they would say "You waited until all the good ones were gone". Happy Gay Pride Day parade.
Love to both.
Dad
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #195: The part where James clarifies
This past Sunday, I had the pleasure of passing some time with the Casey boys, all three of them. It was a blessedly lovely evening--the air newly pummeled from earlier hail storms--and the Casey ensemble was attending to their remarkable tomato patch.
As Jim (big daddy) focused his attention on the binding of chicken wire, James (age 3) entertained me with his ever-popular "Woofy Dance," while Jack (age 6) undertook to transform every item within reach into a form of firearm.
As we chatted of this and that, Jim announced that James had learned the song "Puff the Magic Dragon." I indicated that nothing would please me more than to hear his rendition.
With gusto, he started in:
"Puff the Magic Dragon lived by the sea."
Then concluded his performance with a loud, conspiratorial stage whisper:
"It's about dragons."
As Jim (big daddy) focused his attention on the binding of chicken wire, James (age 3) entertained me with his ever-popular "Woofy Dance," while Jack (age 6) undertook to transform every item within reach into a form of firearm.
As we chatted of this and that, Jim announced that James had learned the song "Puff the Magic Dragon." I indicated that nothing would please me more than to hear his rendition.
With gusto, he started in:
"Puff the Magic Dragon lived by the sea."
Then concluded his performance with a loud, conspiratorial stage whisper:
"It's about dragons."
Crazy Crap Item #194: The part where I am brimming with useful suggestions
Once again, Eamon is marching in the Gay Pride Parade. Faithful readers will recall that this is not his first such experience. I speak, of course, of last year's entry, with the Windy City Rollers, as a robot.
Today, he tells me that he is again set to march. This time, their team theme is "Sailors." What should he wear?, he asks.
I suggest he clad himself in one of those enormous mock-derrieres one sees so often at Halloween parties, and go as a rear admiral.
I am ostracized.
Today, he tells me that he is again set to march. This time, their team theme is "Sailors." What should he wear?, he asks.
I suggest he clad himself in one of those enormous mock-derrieres one sees so often at Halloween parties, and go as a rear admiral.
I am ostracized.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #193: The part where Kristen cites a reliable source
As many know, the last few years can be thought of as "Adventures in Baby Delaying" for Eamon and myself. And me, well, I'm not getting any younger.
So it was that Eamon and went in for a battery of tests to determine what's what and get an expert to help us nudge things along. The news was largely good; all our nibbles and bits seem to be in good working order. Upon closer examination, however, it was determined that I am harboring some not very felicitous uterine fibroids. Not to go into grisly detail, it seems these little benign nub-ules are pushing into my baby sleigh, and making things just a bit too crowded for all concerned (or at least, that is the suspicion). So yank 'em out, the experts say!
And, it seems, the experts need a helping hand to make things happen. A robot to be precise. Seems that wee, tiny robots are all the rage in fibroid-removal circles, and me, I'm never one to miss out on a fad. So robots it is.
I conveyed as much to my good friend, Ms. Kristen Freilich. Good friend that she is, Kristen did some scrupulous research, and sent me this encouraging email of support:
Subject: Good News!
Hi kay. after i found this in USA Today I started to feel better about your surgery. i think you are going to be just fine!
And below her message, she included the following:
Which led to this exchange:
So it was that Eamon and went in for a battery of tests to determine what's what and get an expert to help us nudge things along. The news was largely good; all our nibbles and bits seem to be in good working order. Upon closer examination, however, it was determined that I am harboring some not very felicitous uterine fibroids. Not to go into grisly detail, it seems these little benign nub-ules are pushing into my baby sleigh, and making things just a bit too crowded for all concerned (or at least, that is the suspicion). So yank 'em out, the experts say!
And, it seems, the experts need a helping hand to make things happen. A robot to be precise. Seems that wee, tiny robots are all the rage in fibroid-removal circles, and me, I'm never one to miss out on a fad. So robots it is.
I conveyed as much to my good friend, Ms. Kristen Freilich. Good friend that she is, Kristen did some scrupulous research, and sent me this encouraging email of support:
Subject: Good News!
Hi kay. after i found this in USA Today I started to feel better about your surgery. i think you are going to be just fine!
And below her message, she included the following:
Which led to this exchange:
kaydaly88: USA today?
krispe22: i made that part up
kaydaly88: yeah.
krispe22: but otherwise i was afraid you woudln't take it seriously
That's what friends are for.
Monday, June 09, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #192: The part where I overhear a notable conversation
Our block party was this past Saturday. I will comment more later upon that matter. In the meantime, I'd like to share a snippet of conversation I overheard involving a group of three girls, ages 6 through 8.
It was a steamy day, our block party saturday, so I offered to hook up my fabulous Pirates of the Caribbean sprinkler. Three small girls agreed this would be a good idea.
They were dazzled by my sprinkler, with its menacing, spinning skull, crossed swords and genuine fake doubloons. They asked where on earth I could've purchased such a treasure.
Target, I revealed, was the place where I had achieved such an item (for the low, low, not-to-be-missed price of $3.00).
Girl 1: I love target!
Kay: I love it, too.
Girl 2: I like the toy department at Target. They have the best toys there.
Kay: That's true. They do have great toys.
Girl 1: Why don't parents let kids have all the toys they want. They never give them everything they ask for.
Girl 2: I always want everything at Target, and my mom says, "No, no, no, you can't have that."
Kay: Well, your parents don't want to give you everything you want so you'll learn to appreciate the stuff you have.
Girl 1: Yes. People just always want everything. They can be so greedy.
Girl 3: Yes, that's true. Even I can, and I'm a princess!
And.... scene.
It was a steamy day, our block party saturday, so I offered to hook up my fabulous Pirates of the Caribbean sprinkler. Three small girls agreed this would be a good idea.
They were dazzled by my sprinkler, with its menacing, spinning skull, crossed swords and genuine fake doubloons. They asked where on earth I could've purchased such a treasure.
Target, I revealed, was the place where I had achieved such an item (for the low, low, not-to-be-missed price of $3.00).
Girl 1: I love target!
Kay: I love it, too.
Girl 2: I like the toy department at Target. They have the best toys there.
Kay: That's true. They do have great toys.
Girl 1: Why don't parents let kids have all the toys they want. They never give them everything they ask for.
Girl 2: I always want everything at Target, and my mom says, "No, no, no, you can't have that."
Kay: Well, your parents don't want to give you everything you want so you'll learn to appreciate the stuff you have.
Girl 1: Yes. People just always want everything. They can be so greedy.
Girl 3: Yes, that's true. Even I can, and I'm a princess!
And.... scene.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #191: The part where Eamon and I toast the long-delayed arrival of summer
The scene: Memorial Day morning
The mood: Lackadaiscal, at best.
Our guest bedroom (where I am sleeping due to ongoing hip/shoulder/elbow aches) is graciously outfitted with a television, so as I drift into consciousness, I turn on the TV, and remain supine. Eamon joins me. I discover that there is a "Law and Order" marathon running. We comment that the day is thus well and truly shot for us.
Eamon asks how I wish to break my fast. I answer noncommittally. He suggests pancakes, waffles and the like. I wonder how such a feat will be achieved during a "Law and Order" marathon.
We realize that the episode we've just been sucked into is an expansive, gripping three-parter. Which means it will not be resolved until noon. Which opens, once again, the breakfast dilemma.
"We could move operations downstairs," Eamon suggests.
"What benefits would accrue to us?" I ask.
"To be closer to the kitchen, and be able to pause the show while I run in to flip pancakes."
This seems reasonable to me, and I am never one to turn down cakes of any kind, least of all cakes of the pan variety.
We marshall ourselves, only to have Eamon discover/realize that, through a long-neglected glitch, the channel feature "Law and Order" is not under the jurisdiction of our DVR device, and thus cannot be paused.
We moan. We wail.
I suggest that we move our electric griddle into the living room, and construct breakfast while watching the "Law and Order" triathlon. I am assured that if any such thing occured, the world would well and truly end, for we are not such trashy, low-end folk as to make breakfast in the living room just so we wouldn't miss any minute of a "Law and Order" marathon.
Personally, I find this stricture overly rigid, but after some contemplation of Lenny's witty zingers and his hot Latino partner's hot body (which they took every opportunity to display), I suggest that if we switched gears and considered the construction of French toast, this might be more manageable. French toast, you see, doesn't entail comlicated batter construction or the 1-hour resting time required for pancakes. I envisioned beating eggs, milk, sugar and vanilla at the commercial break, soaking bread during the show, adding to grill during the next commercial break, flipping them at the next commercial break, and so forth. Lengthy, cumbersome, but doable.
Eamon responded to my suggestion by noting that we had leftover French bread from a dinner party earlier in the weekend. I acknowledged that this point had occurred to me, and had figured significantly in my thought process.
With this silent assent, I retire to the kitchen to amass the fixings. During such doings, Eamon slinks into the question with a strange look on his face. Evil is too strong to describe it. Mischievous, perhaps. Impish.
I inquire what he's about. He answers not a word, but silently -- and impishly -- unplugs the griddler and begins to transport it. Wordlessly, I pack my fixings and move them to the coffee table.
Eamon sets up the griddler on the radiator, and the rest follows as one would expect, all done to the Eamon's sung refrain, "WE'RE WHITE TRASH! WE'RE WHITE TRASH."
The resulting breakfast, dubbed "Law and Order Toast," is delicious, satisfying, and media saturated. I'm instructed to never speak of it again.
The mood: Lackadaiscal, at best.
Our guest bedroom (where I am sleeping due to ongoing hip/shoulder/elbow aches) is graciously outfitted with a television, so as I drift into consciousness, I turn on the TV, and remain supine. Eamon joins me. I discover that there is a "Law and Order" marathon running. We comment that the day is thus well and truly shot for us.
Eamon asks how I wish to break my fast. I answer noncommittally. He suggests pancakes, waffles and the like. I wonder how such a feat will be achieved during a "Law and Order" marathon.
We realize that the episode we've just been sucked into is an expansive, gripping three-parter. Which means it will not be resolved until noon. Which opens, once again, the breakfast dilemma.
"We could move operations downstairs," Eamon suggests.
"What benefits would accrue to us?" I ask.
"To be closer to the kitchen, and be able to pause the show while I run in to flip pancakes."
This seems reasonable to me, and I am never one to turn down cakes of any kind, least of all cakes of the pan variety.
We marshall ourselves, only to have Eamon discover/realize that, through a long-neglected glitch, the channel feature "Law and Order" is not under the jurisdiction of our DVR device, and thus cannot be paused.
We moan. We wail.
I suggest that we move our electric griddle into the living room, and construct breakfast while watching the "Law and Order" triathlon. I am assured that if any such thing occured, the world would well and truly end, for we are not such trashy, low-end folk as to make breakfast in the living room just so we wouldn't miss any minute of a "Law and Order" marathon.
Personally, I find this stricture overly rigid, but after some contemplation of Lenny's witty zingers and his hot Latino partner's hot body (which they took every opportunity to display), I suggest that if we switched gears and considered the construction of French toast, this might be more manageable. French toast, you see, doesn't entail comlicated batter construction or the 1-hour resting time required for pancakes. I envisioned beating eggs, milk, sugar and vanilla at the commercial break, soaking bread during the show, adding to grill during the next commercial break, flipping them at the next commercial break, and so forth. Lengthy, cumbersome, but doable.
Eamon responded to my suggestion by noting that we had leftover French bread from a dinner party earlier in the weekend. I acknowledged that this point had occurred to me, and had figured significantly in my thought process.
With this silent assent, I retire to the kitchen to amass the fixings. During such doings, Eamon slinks into the question with a strange look on his face. Evil is too strong to describe it. Mischievous, perhaps. Impish.
I inquire what he's about. He answers not a word, but silently -- and impishly -- unplugs the griddler and begins to transport it. Wordlessly, I pack my fixings and move them to the coffee table.
Eamon sets up the griddler on the radiator, and the rest follows as one would expect, all done to the Eamon's sung refrain, "WE'RE WHITE TRASH! WE'RE WHITE TRASH."
The resulting breakfast, dubbed "Law and Order Toast," is delicious, satisfying, and media saturated. I'm instructed to never speak of it again.
Thursday, May 08, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #190: The part where I am not alone
Yet another county heard from re. chapter 1 and and chapter 2 of Ambien madness. Apparently, sleep-texting is not uncommon, according to this article thoughtfully provided by Roxi.
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #189: The part where Charlie Gibson cracks wise
Tonight, on the news, there was a story about a violinist left his Stradivarius in a cab. In recounting its recovery, anchorman Charlie Gibson was heard to quip, "And voila! Or should I say, 'violin'?"
No, Charlie. You should not.
No, Charlie. You should not.
Crazy Crap Item #188: The part where Sailor Jack weighs in
Today, my dad and I were watching the news, which reported on the ongoing battle between Obama and Clinton.
My dad, a lifelong Republican, said, "I hope Obama wins. I'd like to see a president with a name like Obama. Not some Anglo Saxon 'Ward' or 'Howe.' 'Obama.' I'd like to see that."
And then I glanced out the windows, and the pigs, they were soaring by.
My dad, a lifelong Republican, said, "I hope Obama wins. I'd like to see a president with a name like Obama. Not some Anglo Saxon 'Ward' or 'Howe.' 'Obama.' I'd like to see that."
And then I glanced out the windows, and the pigs, they were soaring by.
Monday, May 05, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #187: The part where I prudently proofread before hitting "send"
As I may have mentioned before, this is a bit of a stressful time. I'm in Banning, caring for a recuperating father, and negotiating the many needs of a household in low-key, senior citizen crisis.
As may be expected, there have been some lapses in my usually razor-sharp mental acuity. Many of you have already learned of the great Ambien fiasco of 2008.
This morning, I experienced a similar lapse. I was responding to an email from a client, who was apologizing that a project we had started had been repeatedly delayed.
I thought I'd answer with a bit of literary flair, opening my email with
"Hey, Tony -- The best laid plans of mice and men... etc."
Which would be very zippy. However, what I actually typed was:
"Hey, Tony -- The best laid men... etc."
That's me. Crafting porn-inspired emails to send to important clients.
As may be expected, there have been some lapses in my usually razor-sharp mental acuity. Many of you have already learned of the great Ambien fiasco of 2008.
This morning, I experienced a similar lapse. I was responding to an email from a client, who was apologizing that a project we had started had been repeatedly delayed.
I thought I'd answer with a bit of literary flair, opening my email with
"Hey, Tony -- The best laid plans of mice and men... etc."
Which would be very zippy. However, what I actually typed was:
"Hey, Tony -- The best laid men... etc."
That's me. Crafting porn-inspired emails to send to important clients.
Friday, May 02, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #186: The part where I share another story of Ambien-induced hijinks
So, it seems my story of what happens when Kay takes Ambien in lieu of Synthroid has rung some chimes with readers. My dear friend Lindsay shared this second-hand tale of Ambien-induced hijinks:
"a super sarcastic 29 year old, married mommy from sun prairie, who just took a leave of absence, secondary to her extreme and unhealthy weight loss following baby number 4, said she woke up one morning with part of a melted ice cream cone stuck to her face. "
And don't ask Linday what she did on Ambien. Just don't.
"a super sarcastic 29 year old, married mommy from sun prairie, who just took a leave of absence, secondary to her extreme and unhealthy weight loss following baby number 4, said she woke up one morning with part of a melted ice cream cone stuck to her face. "
And don't ask Linday what she did on Ambien. Just don't.
Crazy Crap Item #185: The part where I attract male attention
Still in Banning, and making many a trip to the grocery store. Ice cream and wine, they must be purchased on a regular basis.
On the way home from a recent trip to the hip doctor, we stopped at the store to pick up some baby back ribs, strawberries and dishwashing liquid. As we left the cashier, my mother and I caught sight of a very small redheaded fellow. Like Ron Howard in The Music Man, he was.
My mother pronounced him quite adorable, and as we passed him, he locked eyes with me.
"You're pretty!" he shouted.
I thanked him, and replied that he was quite handsome.
"Feel my muscle," he offered, holding out his arm in a strong-man pose.
I felt it, and commented on its massiveness.
You know how redheads blush? To the very scalp? He did. And then some.
On the way home from a recent trip to the hip doctor, we stopped at the store to pick up some baby back ribs, strawberries and dishwashing liquid. As we left the cashier, my mother and I caught sight of a very small redheaded fellow. Like Ron Howard in The Music Man, he was.
My mother pronounced him quite adorable, and as we passed him, he locked eyes with me.
"You're pretty!" he shouted.
I thanked him, and replied that he was quite handsome.
"Feel my muscle," he offered, holding out his arm in a strong-man pose.
I felt it, and commented on its massiveness.
You know how redheads blush? To the very scalp? He did. And then some.
Thursday, May 01, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #184: The part where my subconscious appears incoherent
So, this morning, I pulled the bonehead moves of all bonehead moves. Upon arisal, I knocked back my every-morning pill (Synthroid), only to realize as it was sliding down my gullet that I'd actually knocked back an Ambien. As in "sleep now for 8 hours."
Since I've never been good at inducing vomiting (as is testified to by my curvaceous frame), I explained the situation to my parents, curled up in bed, and looked for some website to play me some entertaining tunes till I slipped back into dreamland, all the while cursing myself for screwing a perfectly good day.
Now, I've heard countless tales of people who respond to Ambien by performing various and sundry acts in their sleep. Sleepwalking. Sleepeating. I even had a friend who bashfully admitted to a bout of "sleepscrewing." I've never noticed any of these behaviors in myself.
So I snoozed, the delightful accompaniment of showtunes and occasional interviews on Playbill's all show-tune radio.
At noon, my mom awakened me to help find my dad's pills, and feeling vaguely spry, I decided it was time to get up, Ambien be damned. I ate donuts, sipped coffee, cruised the intertrons and generally entertained myself.
All was well, till Eamon texted me thusy:
(1:14:33 PM) eamondaly1110: so was that actually you this morning?
(1:14:38 PM) eamondaly1110: you were kinda freaking me out.
I inquired precisely what he meant. He responded with this record of an earlier exchange:
(10:46:18 AM) kaydaly88: IUUUU
(10:46:35 AM) kaydaly88: IUYYRF
(10:46:43 AM) eamondaly1110: do tell!
(10:46:51 AM) eamondaly1110: are you sleeptyping?
(10:47:51 AM) kaydaly88: IIIIUUUUUYYYYYYRTEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEWSS
(10:48:20 AM) kaydaly88: HAVE ON PLAYBILL RADIO
(10:48:38 AM) kaydaly88: SHOWTUNS
(10:49:00 AM) kaydaly88: V, ANNOYED
(10:49:03 AM) eamondaly1110: WHY ARE YOU SHOUTING?
(10:49:37 AM) kaydaly88: FDYBBBU
(10:50:23 AM) kaydaly88: SO ANNOHING
Sure, some people act out their libidinous impulses when under the influence. Me, I sleeptype. Sexy.
Since I've never been good at inducing vomiting (as is testified to by my curvaceous frame), I explained the situation to my parents, curled up in bed, and looked for some website to play me some entertaining tunes till I slipped back into dreamland, all the while cursing myself for screwing a perfectly good day.
Now, I've heard countless tales of people who respond to Ambien by performing various and sundry acts in their sleep. Sleepwalking. Sleepeating. I even had a friend who bashfully admitted to a bout of "sleepscrewing." I've never noticed any of these behaviors in myself.
So I snoozed, the delightful accompaniment of showtunes and occasional interviews on Playbill's all show-tune radio.
At noon, my mom awakened me to help find my dad's pills, and feeling vaguely spry, I decided it was time to get up, Ambien be damned. I ate donuts, sipped coffee, cruised the intertrons and generally entertained myself.
All was well, till Eamon texted me thusy:
(1:14:33 PM) eamondaly1110: so was that actually you this morning?
(1:14:38 PM) eamondaly1110: you were kinda freaking me out.
I inquired precisely what he meant. He responded with this record of an earlier exchange:
(10:46:18 AM) kaydaly88: IUUUU
(10:46:35 AM) kaydaly88: IUYYRF
(10:46:43 AM) eamondaly1110: do tell!
(10:46:51 AM) eamondaly1110: are you sleeptyping?
(10:47:51 AM) kaydaly88: IIIIUUUUUYYYYYYRTEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEWSS
(10:48:20 AM) kaydaly88: HAVE ON PLAYBILL RADIO
(10:48:38 AM) kaydaly88: SHOWTUNS
(10:49:00 AM) kaydaly88: V, ANNOYED
(10:49:03 AM) eamondaly1110: WHY ARE YOU SHOUTING?
(10:49:37 AM) kaydaly88: FDYBBBU
(10:50:23 AM) kaydaly88: SO ANNOHING
Sure, some people act out their libidinous impulses when under the influence. Me, I sleeptype. Sexy.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Crazy Crap Item #183: The part where I see a sign of the impending apocalyse
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.
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.
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.
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