ALAN: You should've seen that hippie guy last night at Phil's!
BRAD: What a pussy!
ALAN: He was all "Wah, wah, wah," we kicked his ASS.
JOE: I wish I'd gone to Phil's.
BRAD: Remember that dude with the beer?
JOE: Yeah, we're like, "You wanna fight?" BAM!
BRAD: That was great.
JOE: And this morning, that guy yelling at me about his shirt.
BRAD: What a pussy!
JOE: I was like "Yeah, you want your shirt?" BAM!
{Cel phone rings}
JOE: That's my landlord again.
ALAN: Put it on speakerphone.
LANDLORD: Hello, Joe?
JOE: Dude! What's up!
LANDLORD: I've been trying to get ahold of you, Joe.
JOE: Hey! I'm a dude, I don't...like...call up dudes and just say "Howya doin'?"
LANDLORD: You're in big trouble unless you come over here today and give me the money you owe me.
JOE: Don't make me hate you, buddy. We'll talk on Monday or something.
LANDLORD: Hate you? Joe, we're coming AFTER you.
JOE: Ha! You'll have to find me first!
LANDLORD: That won't be any problem. We'll find you, we'll take you to court, we'll f*ck you up for damages, we'll f*ck up your credit rating...it's easy stuff, Joe. We do it all the time.
JOE: You don't have my signature on NOTHIN', bro.
LANDLORD: We've got the lease.
JOE: You ain't got NOTHIN', bro! See ya!
{Hangs up}
ALAN: Dude, you're f*cked.
JOE: Really?
ALAN: You signed a f*ckin' LEASE.
JOE: Yeah...
ALAN: He takes you to court, you're SCREWED.
BRAD: You better go over there right now and pay him.
JOE: Yeah.
{Pause}
JOE: I wish I could just BEAT HIM UP.
Showing posts with label breakfast. Show all posts
Showing posts with label breakfast. Show all posts
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Overheard Over Breakfast: God's Plan Revealed
One great thing about Sunday breakfasts is that I hear all sorts of religious conversations, but since there's no invitation for argument I can just listen in baffled amazement. Here's this morning's treat:
I don't even know where to start with this, so I won't, except to say that when I told Jay about this afterward he said "So the lesson here is that God's a JERK."
"I just realized that Doris' situation was all part of God's plan. She and Ted divorced and had all that trouble with custody, and then she messed around and married the other guy and they had two kids but it was nothing but problems, and now she's realized that Ted really was the right one after all, so she's getting another divorce. It's like God was guiding her to Ted all along!"!!!
I don't even know where to start with this, so I won't, except to say that when I told Jay about this afterward he said "So the lesson here is that God's a JERK."
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Grumpy Behaviour: Children Versus Adults
Saturday morning. I'm at my favourite breakfast spot, and a huge group of people are throwing a "going away party" for a husband, wife, and their son named "Zane."
Zane is six, and he's apparently grumpy because he stayed up late the night before; he's excited because they're flying out to see "Aunt Betty" tomorrow.
How do I know all this? Because it's impossible for anybody in the restaurant to ignore Zane.
ZANE: I haaaate this place, I hate it here, I don't wanna eat here!
MOM: You've never been here before, give it a chance.
DAD: C'mon Zane, look at all this food, what do you want to eat?
ZANE: I don't WANNA eat here!
DAD: Hey grumpy, what do you want, do you want chocolate waffles?
ZANE: I don't WANT chocolate waffles, I don't WANNA have chocolate waffles, I wanna see Aunt Betty!
MOM: We'll see Aunt Betty tomorrow, Zane.
ZANE: I WANNA SEE AUNT BETTY NOWWWWWWWW!
What makes this more amusing is that Zane is sitting next to a smaller boy -- Billy -- who's a real goody-two-shoes. This kid keeps making the situation worse.
ZANE: I want COKE, I wanna have a COKE!
DAD: Okay, one Coke for Zane. What do you want, Billy?
BILLY: Milk, please. My dad says you should never drink Coke for breakfast.
ZANE: BUT I WAAAANT COOOOOKE!
DAD: Zane, that's alright, we'll get you a Coke.
BILLY: My dad says you should drink milk, not Coke.
ZANE: I DON'T WANT MILK, I WANT A COKE!
MOM: Wow, who's a grumpy-gus this morning?
The parents, family, and friends try all sorts of techniques for distracting Zane. They drag him around the restaurant and show him all the nooks and crannies. They talk about what their airplane trip will be like ("Maybe you'll get to fly the plane, Zane?" "I DON'T WANT TO FLY THE PLANE!"). Nothing works for long.
The food finally arrives.
ZANE: I want chocolate waffles!!!
DAD: You DO have chocolate waffles. Look, here, you've got chocolate waffles.
ZANE: I don't WANT chocolate waffles!!!
MOM & DAD: WHAT?!?
ZANE: I don't LIKE this chocolate, I want REAL chocolate!
Sunday morning and I'm back at the same place. Zane isn't there -- presumably he's flying off to see Aunt Betty -- but a man and woman in their 40s sit next to me.
I try not to pay attention to them, but I notice that she's complaining as soon as she sits down...something about wanting to sit in a different part of the restaurant because she likes the food better there, but the waitress reassures her that the menu is exactly the same and the food comes from the same kitchen.
A few minutes later, I become aware of them when the waitress brings them their food.
WAITRESS: Here's your order, and I'll just run and bring over your toast.
WIFE: I have just one request. Could you please make sure that the bread isn't toasted or buttered?
WAITRESS: Uhhhh...the food is already done.
WIFE: Oh. I'd prefer not to have it toasted or buttered.
WAITRESS: I see. It's just that they've already made your food.
HUSBAND: Maybe you should have mentioned that when you ordered.
WIFE: Sigh. Okay. Just bring it over.
Shortly afterward the waitress comes by to see if everything's okay.
WAITRESS: How's your food, is everything good?
WIFE: I just have one complaint. These are roasted red peppers. The menu just says "red peppers." Look at this pepper here, this is carbon. That's unhealthy and dishonest.
WAITRESS: I didn't know the menu didn't say "roasted," I'll tell the cooks.
WIFE: Because I don't like roasted red peppers.
WAITRESS: I didn't know the menu said that, I'll tell the cooks.
WIFE: If I'd known they were roasted I wouldn't have ordered it.
WAITRESS: I see, I'll tell the cooks.
WIFE: Sigh. Sigh. Sigh.
Not long after I got up to leave. The husband asked his wife if her food was good, and I saw that she was poking at it and shaking her head.
WIFE: I...I don't even know what this is. I don't know what this IS. I can't EAT this.
I left before the final fireworks but I was struck by the similarity between her tantrum and Zane's: at least Zane was STRAIGHT FORWARD. His need to whine was 100% direct and honest. This woman, however, was more manipulative in her whining.
And somehow you can excuse a six year old for behaviour that is unseemly for a 46 year old.
Zane is six, and he's apparently grumpy because he stayed up late the night before; he's excited because they're flying out to see "Aunt Betty" tomorrow.
How do I know all this? Because it's impossible for anybody in the restaurant to ignore Zane.
ZANE: I haaaate this place, I hate it here, I don't wanna eat here!
MOM: You've never been here before, give it a chance.
DAD: C'mon Zane, look at all this food, what do you want to eat?
ZANE: I don't WANNA eat here!
DAD: Hey grumpy, what do you want, do you want chocolate waffles?
ZANE: I don't WANT chocolate waffles, I don't WANNA have chocolate waffles, I wanna see Aunt Betty!
MOM: We'll see Aunt Betty tomorrow, Zane.
ZANE: I WANNA SEE AUNT BETTY NOWWWWWWWW!
What makes this more amusing is that Zane is sitting next to a smaller boy -- Billy -- who's a real goody-two-shoes. This kid keeps making the situation worse.
ZANE: I want COKE, I wanna have a COKE!
DAD: Okay, one Coke for Zane. What do you want, Billy?
BILLY: Milk, please. My dad says you should never drink Coke for breakfast.
ZANE: BUT I WAAAANT COOOOOKE!
DAD: Zane, that's alright, we'll get you a Coke.
BILLY: My dad says you should drink milk, not Coke.
ZANE: I DON'T WANT MILK, I WANT A COKE!
MOM: Wow, who's a grumpy-gus this morning?
The parents, family, and friends try all sorts of techniques for distracting Zane. They drag him around the restaurant and show him all the nooks and crannies. They talk about what their airplane trip will be like ("Maybe you'll get to fly the plane, Zane?" "I DON'T WANT TO FLY THE PLANE!"). Nothing works for long.
The food finally arrives.
ZANE: I want chocolate waffles!!!
DAD: You DO have chocolate waffles. Look, here, you've got chocolate waffles.
ZANE: I don't WANT chocolate waffles!!!
MOM & DAD: WHAT?!?
ZANE: I don't LIKE this chocolate, I want REAL chocolate!
Sunday morning and I'm back at the same place. Zane isn't there -- presumably he's flying off to see Aunt Betty -- but a man and woman in their 40s sit next to me.
I try not to pay attention to them, but I notice that she's complaining as soon as she sits down...something about wanting to sit in a different part of the restaurant because she likes the food better there, but the waitress reassures her that the menu is exactly the same and the food comes from the same kitchen.
A few minutes later, I become aware of them when the waitress brings them their food.
WAITRESS: Here's your order, and I'll just run and bring over your toast.
WIFE: I have just one request. Could you please make sure that the bread isn't toasted or buttered?
WAITRESS: Uhhhh...the food is already done.
WIFE: Oh. I'd prefer not to have it toasted or buttered.
WAITRESS: I see. It's just that they've already made your food.
HUSBAND: Maybe you should have mentioned that when you ordered.
WIFE: Sigh. Okay. Just bring it over.
Shortly afterward the waitress comes by to see if everything's okay.
WAITRESS: How's your food, is everything good?
WIFE: I just have one complaint. These are roasted red peppers. The menu just says "red peppers." Look at this pepper here, this is carbon. That's unhealthy and dishonest.
WAITRESS: I didn't know the menu didn't say "roasted," I'll tell the cooks.
WIFE: Because I don't like roasted red peppers.
WAITRESS: I didn't know the menu said that, I'll tell the cooks.
WIFE: If I'd known they were roasted I wouldn't have ordered it.
WAITRESS: I see, I'll tell the cooks.
WIFE: Sigh. Sigh. Sigh.
Not long after I got up to leave. The husband asked his wife if her food was good, and I saw that she was poking at it and shaking her head.
WIFE: I...I don't even know what this is. I don't know what this IS. I can't EAT this.
I left before the final fireworks but I was struck by the similarity between her tantrum and Zane's: at least Zane was STRAIGHT FORWARD. His need to whine was 100% direct and honest. This woman, however, was more manipulative in her whining.
And somehow you can excuse a six year old for behaviour that is unseemly for a 46 year old.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
An Urge to Skin the Noisy Cat
Oh, jeez. For the last few days my cat has been demanding food at 5:00am. I have ignored her, locked her out of my bedroom, and given her a hard swat on her famous bum, but if anything this morning she was TWICE as bad. And when I finally DID feed her at 7:30am she didn't even EAT any of it, which means she wasn't particularly hungry beforehand.
My cat and I have a "don't give me no guff" relationship; she learned long ago that pestering me doesn't help, and she generally only meows obsessively when she's communicating an urgent message (like "mouse in the vent!" or "radiation cloud!")
But I've noticed, recently, that her needy meowing has slipped the bonds of necessity and become sheer annoying petulance. I think she's becoming a bit senile.
Anyway, this 5am breakfast demand has got to stop, if not least because it probably wakes my neighbour up. But the only way I can stop it is by continuing to ignore her.
My cat and I have a "don't give me no guff" relationship; she learned long ago that pestering me doesn't help, and she generally only meows obsessively when she's communicating an urgent message (like "mouse in the vent!" or "radiation cloud!")
But I've noticed, recently, that her needy meowing has slipped the bonds of necessity and become sheer annoying petulance. I think she's becoming a bit senile.
Anyway, this 5am breakfast demand has got to stop, if not least because it probably wakes my neighbour up. But the only way I can stop it is by continuing to ignore her.
Monday, March 17, 2008
The Last 24 Hours
No I'm not being stylistic, I just can't bring myself to write this in "prose" (which requires some sense of meaning, direction, and endings).
* Greyhound bus terminal, standing in the cold, wondering why bus drivers only arrive at the last minute. This route to Toronto is the "molasses" run, which stops at all of Guelph's most picturesque locations along the way. The 130-minute trip should give me lots of time to find an iPod soundtrack but for some reason I can't choose one.
* I have decided at the last minute to bring Thomas Pynchon's novel "Mason & Dixon" with me, because I am so involved with it that I can't picture myself reading anything else. But it weighs at least ten pounds and is huge and unwieldy, and difficult to concentrate on when the guy in the seat behind you is talking about his favourite "keggers." "Dude, Cathy was GREEN, man. I mean GREEN. What? Like, she was SICK, man, Cathy was GREEN."
* At the Toronto Bay Street terminal I pile up all my luggage and begin the trip to Chez J&C. It is very cold, Sunday afternoon, downtown Toronto relatively unpopulated. In the lobby of J&C's apartment, two parents are trying to wrangle a stroller, an infant, and a toddler into the elevator, meanwhile retrieving the mitten that a man had dropped while exiting. Their hands full and their baby-equipment blocking access to all but the smallest person, they send the toddler in to find the mitten, which he is unable to do. The doors keep closing, the parents lunging in to knock the doors open again, the man with one mitten stands with me and we watch the show.
* Jason greets me and we begin the relatively mechanical process of getting into drag. Fortunately the Chez has two bathrooms. Both have been newly renovated in honour of the night, and the hard-working renovator -- Craig -- soon joins us to mix the cocktails. Craig doesn't fool around with cocktails. When Craig makes a cocktail, it is "a glass of vodka with a shot of Diet Pepsi." This explains why, when we leave the apartment, I tell the cab driver to take us to "Queen on Play."
* At Play on Queen -- the venue for the night -- I make myself comfortable in the change room and re-meet both Teran Blake and Fahrenheit. Not only do I not instantly recognize Fahrenheit, but I happily tell her that she "made fun of me once," failing to provide context or explain that I wasn't lodging a complaint with her. This is why my Facebook "agreeableness" score is at 25%. Setting up a sort of Marx Brothers situation, the bar staff begin to pile tables and chairs within the change room. Soon the room contains two small islands, each with a mirror, tenuously connected by a narrow path. When the flock of hispanic queens arrive this becomes particularly surreal.
* Still coming out of a week of insecurity and general "off-ness," I perform two shoe-in numbers that I know I can ALWAYS do well: "Don't Tell Mama" and "Love and Truth." The response is good, as far as I can tell through the blazing spotlight, though the crowd is hardly demonstrative. I make the silly move of trying to pick up tips while wearing well-worn gloves, which results in a spray of coins on stage. Craig cheerfully documents this with his video camera.
* As a whole, we raise a substantial amount of money for the TICOT charities. This is a good feeling indeed. My blood sugar has remained PERFECT all night. Plus, through some accident, I get not one but TWO free drinks. My good feeling knows no bounds.
* After the wonderfully-brief show I begin to understand the bar dynamic a bit more: at 11pm the TICOT performers are followed by a regular show put on by 10,000-volt hispanic queens, a subculture notorious for its crowd loyalty. While watching their show I have my second great bar-stranger conversation of the night, followed finally -- on the way out -- with a nice chat with Michelle DuBarry, who recommends that I improve my diet.
* Back at Chez J&C we review the night's documentary evidence, and Jason informs me that I do a trademarked maneuver with my bum but I'm not sure yet exactly what that is yet. Pizza at 1am. The John Barrowman Experience. A tranquil sleep only once interrupted by the garbage man.
* 8:30am, I assess the situation; Jason has gone to work and Craig is still asleep. I suffer typical morning restlessness and decide I should at least transport my luggage to the Greyhound station, leaving all future possibilities open. As usual when I visit J&C, I exit the apartment with more things than I came with. It's like magic!
* Another cold walk with lots of luggage. A suitcase full of feathers is surprisingly heavy. At the bus station I realize the only "good" breakfast option is an eggs & bacon thing at "Kramden's Kitchen," which I'm sure Michelle DuBarry would berate me for. Nevertheless it is good. My bus will not arrive for ninety minutes.
* I sit and read "Mason & Dixon." This book, along with the constant lifting and pulling of my luggage, is turning my hand into a burning witch's claw. The old lady beside me is very angry about the pigeons, which appear to spend their entire lives inside the terminal. Pigeons are very individualistic. They make coordinated "sweeps" periodically across the floor, and though they look intelligent they keep pecking away at the same specks of indigestible dirt.
* I decide to find a bathroom so I can get some paper towels to wipe my nose with. I take the elevator down to the terminal basement and discover that the bathroom there is a "closed for cleaning." A sign directs me to use the bathrooms in the adjacent Ainsley terminal. I take the elevator back up and pull my luggage across to Ainsley -- which is always deserted, disgusting, and post-apocalyptic -- and discover that the bathrooms there can only be reached by going downstairs. I will not carry my luggage down and then up again. My hand would not survive. Instead, my nose must drip.
* My iPod soundtrack is easier to choose for the ride home: The Fall's "Infotainment Scan." The bus takes a strange and unexplained detour through Mississauga via the mostly-vacant toll roads. The outskirts of Mississauga are surrounded by lakes, barely frozen with patches of rotten ice. These lakes are everywhere and they do not look natural or healthy. Trees are buried within them, their branches poking out. Beyond the lakes, the biggest and most generic suburb of semi-detached houses I have ever seen. I suspect that the lakes are just house foundations waiting to sprout.
* As always when I drive past the Niagara escarpment, I wonder what that huge gouge in the rock is, which you can see going west on the 401 past Halton Hills. Some sort of footpath appears to cross the vast canyon, but it's so far away that you can't see what's really happening. I vow that when I get a car I will investigate this.
* Home. A feeling of goodness, both from the going away and the coming back. My hand will ache for days, burning while I work. The cat is aloof at first, punishing me for leaving her alone for the night, but soon she has come around and we are watching "Constantine." Even she dislikes Keanu Reeves, but she's too polite to complain.
* Greyhound bus terminal, standing in the cold, wondering why bus drivers only arrive at the last minute. This route to Toronto is the "molasses" run, which stops at all of Guelph's most picturesque locations along the way. The 130-minute trip should give me lots of time to find an iPod soundtrack but for some reason I can't choose one.
* I have decided at the last minute to bring Thomas Pynchon's novel "Mason & Dixon" with me, because I am so involved with it that I can't picture myself reading anything else. But it weighs at least ten pounds and is huge and unwieldy, and difficult to concentrate on when the guy in the seat behind you is talking about his favourite "keggers." "Dude, Cathy was GREEN, man. I mean GREEN. What? Like, she was SICK, man, Cathy was GREEN."
* At the Toronto Bay Street terminal I pile up all my luggage and begin the trip to Chez J&C. It is very cold, Sunday afternoon, downtown Toronto relatively unpopulated. In the lobby of J&C's apartment, two parents are trying to wrangle a stroller, an infant, and a toddler into the elevator, meanwhile retrieving the mitten that a man had dropped while exiting. Their hands full and their baby-equipment blocking access to all but the smallest person, they send the toddler in to find the mitten, which he is unable to do. The doors keep closing, the parents lunging in to knock the doors open again, the man with one mitten stands with me and we watch the show.
* Jason greets me and we begin the relatively mechanical process of getting into drag. Fortunately the Chez has two bathrooms. Both have been newly renovated in honour of the night, and the hard-working renovator -- Craig -- soon joins us to mix the cocktails. Craig doesn't fool around with cocktails. When Craig makes a cocktail, it is "a glass of vodka with a shot of Diet Pepsi." This explains why, when we leave the apartment, I tell the cab driver to take us to "Queen on Play."
* At Play on Queen -- the venue for the night -- I make myself comfortable in the change room and re-meet both Teran Blake and Fahrenheit. Not only do I not instantly recognize Fahrenheit, but I happily tell her that she "made fun of me once," failing to provide context or explain that I wasn't lodging a complaint with her. This is why my Facebook "agreeableness" score is at 25%. Setting up a sort of Marx Brothers situation, the bar staff begin to pile tables and chairs within the change room. Soon the room contains two small islands, each with a mirror, tenuously connected by a narrow path. When the flock of hispanic queens arrive this becomes particularly surreal.
* Still coming out of a week of insecurity and general "off-ness," I perform two shoe-in numbers that I know I can ALWAYS do well: "Don't Tell Mama" and "Love and Truth." The response is good, as far as I can tell through the blazing spotlight, though the crowd is hardly demonstrative. I make the silly move of trying to pick up tips while wearing well-worn gloves, which results in a spray of coins on stage. Craig cheerfully documents this with his video camera.
* As a whole, we raise a substantial amount of money for the TICOT charities. This is a good feeling indeed. My blood sugar has remained PERFECT all night. Plus, through some accident, I get not one but TWO free drinks. My good feeling knows no bounds.
* After the wonderfully-brief show I begin to understand the bar dynamic a bit more: at 11pm the TICOT performers are followed by a regular show put on by 10,000-volt hispanic queens, a subculture notorious for its crowd loyalty. While watching their show I have my second great bar-stranger conversation of the night, followed finally -- on the way out -- with a nice chat with Michelle DuBarry, who recommends that I improve my diet.
* Back at Chez J&C we review the night's documentary evidence, and Jason informs me that I do a trademarked maneuver with my bum but I'm not sure yet exactly what that is yet. Pizza at 1am. The John Barrowman Experience. A tranquil sleep only once interrupted by the garbage man.
* 8:30am, I assess the situation; Jason has gone to work and Craig is still asleep. I suffer typical morning restlessness and decide I should at least transport my luggage to the Greyhound station, leaving all future possibilities open. As usual when I visit J&C, I exit the apartment with more things than I came with. It's like magic!
* Another cold walk with lots of luggage. A suitcase full of feathers is surprisingly heavy. At the bus station I realize the only "good" breakfast option is an eggs & bacon thing at "Kramden's Kitchen," which I'm sure Michelle DuBarry would berate me for. Nevertheless it is good. My bus will not arrive for ninety minutes.
* I sit and read "Mason & Dixon." This book, along with the constant lifting and pulling of my luggage, is turning my hand into a burning witch's claw. The old lady beside me is very angry about the pigeons, which appear to spend their entire lives inside the terminal. Pigeons are very individualistic. They make coordinated "sweeps" periodically across the floor, and though they look intelligent they keep pecking away at the same specks of indigestible dirt.
* I decide to find a bathroom so I can get some paper towels to wipe my nose with. I take the elevator down to the terminal basement and discover that the bathroom there is a "closed for cleaning." A sign directs me to use the bathrooms in the adjacent Ainsley terminal. I take the elevator back up and pull my luggage across to Ainsley -- which is always deserted, disgusting, and post-apocalyptic -- and discover that the bathrooms there can only be reached by going downstairs. I will not carry my luggage down and then up again. My hand would not survive. Instead, my nose must drip.
* My iPod soundtrack is easier to choose for the ride home: The Fall's "Infotainment Scan." The bus takes a strange and unexplained detour through Mississauga via the mostly-vacant toll roads. The outskirts of Mississauga are surrounded by lakes, barely frozen with patches of rotten ice. These lakes are everywhere and they do not look natural or healthy. Trees are buried within them, their branches poking out. Beyond the lakes, the biggest and most generic suburb of semi-detached houses I have ever seen. I suspect that the lakes are just house foundations waiting to sprout.
* As always when I drive past the Niagara escarpment, I wonder what that huge gouge in the rock is, which you can see going west on the 401 past Halton Hills. Some sort of footpath appears to cross the vast canyon, but it's so far away that you can't see what's really happening. I vow that when I get a car I will investigate this.
* Home. A feeling of goodness, both from the going away and the coming back. My hand will ache for days, burning while I work. The cat is aloof at first, punishing me for leaving her alone for the night, but soon she has come around and we are watching "Constantine." Even she dislikes Keanu Reeves, but she's too polite to complain.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Pridetoberfest 2007, Plus Hiking, Plus a Bonus Cat!
I had four days off work during the long weekend, but somehow it only felt like six hours.
First: the lead-up to "Pridetoberfest," during which I prepped and worried and messed with my hair. Jodi (super-stylist) had revealed the secrets of hat-defeating hairdos, and I spent all week trying to replicate her instructions. I bought hairclips and practiced segmentation, I rigged up an extra bathroom mirror so I could see the back of my head, I experimented with gel and pomade and the fake-hair braids she'd made me...
Well, I certainly learned a lot about hair, but only enough to develop a style that I call "Ugly Squirrel's Nest Mess (with Braids)." And even after four days of fiddling I couldn't remove those evil stylist-elastics without losing hair. After all that worrying and experimenting I settled on two pigtails, wrapped them in dirndl scraps, and considered myself to be suitably German (but still "hat-able").
The actual "Ilsa on Ice" outfit worked BEAUTIFULLY. You can really jump around in an organza skirt if you're willing to grab it and flip it over your head. I probably only broke two toes in my new silver shoes, and the run in my fishnets appeared only thirty seconds into the night, a new record for me.
Click here for a few more pictures from the event, including shots of the fabulous B-Girlz (who were spunky, professional, and hilarious, as expected).
Early the next morning -- nursing a hangover and a set of hamburger-toes -- I went on a 5km hike to Spencer Gorge with Jon & Vanilla. The place was drenched with an impossible fog which made the experience even more magical...click here for the trip in pictures. Consider it a "Bus/Walk Tour" without the "bus."
(You can also find a new collector's photo of Zsa Zsa called "Zsa Zsa A-curl.")
I wimped out of Monday's Oktoberfest Parade, but I did enjoy a super-heated patio lunch with my mother. Breakfast and booze and easy chatter, always nice!
Now, suddenly, I'm back to work again. Did I do a Rip Van Winkle on this weekend or something? Where the heck did it GO? I want to do it all again!
First: the lead-up to "Pridetoberfest," during which I prepped and worried and messed with my hair. Jodi (super-stylist) had revealed the secrets of hat-defeating hairdos, and I spent all week trying to replicate her instructions. I bought hairclips and practiced segmentation, I rigged up an extra bathroom mirror so I could see the back of my head, I experimented with gel and pomade and the fake-hair braids she'd made me...
Well, I certainly learned a lot about hair, but only enough to develop a style that I call "Ugly Squirrel's Nest Mess (with Braids)." And even after four days of fiddling I couldn't remove those evil stylist-elastics without losing hair. After all that worrying and experimenting I settled on two pigtails, wrapped them in dirndl scraps, and considered myself to be suitably German (but still "hat-able").
The actual "Ilsa on Ice" outfit worked BEAUTIFULLY. You can really jump around in an organza skirt if you're willing to grab it and flip it over your head. I probably only broke two toes in my new silver shoes, and the run in my fishnets appeared only thirty seconds into the night, a new record for me.
Click here for a few more pictures from the event, including shots of the fabulous B-Girlz (who were spunky, professional, and hilarious, as expected).
Early the next morning -- nursing a hangover and a set of hamburger-toes -- I went on a 5km hike to Spencer Gorge with Jon & Vanilla. The place was drenched with an impossible fog which made the experience even more magical...click here for the trip in pictures. Consider it a "Bus/Walk Tour" without the "bus."
(You can also find a new collector's photo of Zsa Zsa called "Zsa Zsa A-curl.")
I wimped out of Monday's Oktoberfest Parade, but I did enjoy a super-heated patio lunch with my mother. Breakfast and booze and easy chatter, always nice!
Now, suddenly, I'm back to work again. Did I do a Rip Van Winkle on this weekend or something? Where the heck did it GO? I want to do it all again!
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Impressions from the Unofficial Waterloo Park Nature Show
Sitting on a park bench inside a boardwalk gazebo, Silver Lake spread out in front of me. The lake is motionless and looks like a child's science project: stagnant clouds of algae and bird shit. Big green fish swim in and out of sight, catching water striders while a young rough-looking kid tries to entice them with a fishing rod. His lure is an algae-coloured blob with a bright red mast. The fish aren't fooled and they go about their business.
To my left is a mother duck, with five ducklings just out of the egg. She's the most non-chalant duck I've ever seen and I can't decide whether she's stupid or just unconcerned. They have a tiny patch of gravelly duck-beach among the weeds, and while the babies swim languidly through the muck the mother just stands and stares. She stares at the swans and at the ubiquitous single blue heron in the middle of the lake. It's a lazy day for ducks, apparently.
Human parents bring their children to look at the dirty-water-nature-show. They come and go under the shade of the gazebo, some of them pushing elaborate multi-child carriages with embedded toys and little grasping hands. Everyone is enchanted by the swans, who glide back and forth like stage performers, sometimes diving under to clean their feathers, sometimes floating lazily with only one foot docked on tailfeathers.
Two siblings are particularly interesting, a boy and a girl. The boy is the face of evil, a well-spoken manipulator already, he knows how to work his mom. He throws a piece of garbage at the baby ducks, and his mother says no..."garbage goes in the garbage can." He picks up a scrap of paper and says "this garbage goes in the garbage can!" and then walks slightly away from his mother and throws the paper on the grass when she isn't looking. He tells his mother how beautiful the baby ducks are, and then throws pebbles at them when his mother is distracted. The younger sister does the same.
Meanwhile there's an ongoing sparrow drama above my head. Two different families have established nests opposite to each other in the rafters. In between bobbing around looking for gravel and cheerios and nesting material, the parents stand by their nests and yell at each other. Tension builds until one male finally encroaches on the wrong nest, and then the chase is on. The males attack each other, pecking viciously. A third sparrow, apparently a bystander, joins in the fight. One of the mama sparrows flies down and now there are four of them in a big, jumping mass of feathers and beaks and little kicking feet. They roll behind the bushes and carry on fighting for no reason other than revenge and wounded pride. The squawking is terrible.
Far off is the giant blue heron in a position of prestige. You often see him around town. He is aloof and serious, the king of the birds, unmolested by virtue of his size and solitude. When his head is up he looks like a dinosaur ancestor; head down, he looks like a hooded ghoul. He alone among the waterfowl has too much pride for begging.
The rough-looking fisherman has gone. A long-haired couple sits on the dock, quietly, girl's head on boy's shoulder. There's a chipmunk here and a gentle father with his son. The son is fat and totally absorbed with the water; he sees sunfish and points them out, and the father follows, approving, loving him.
To my left is a mother duck, with five ducklings just out of the egg. She's the most non-chalant duck I've ever seen and I can't decide whether she's stupid or just unconcerned. They have a tiny patch of gravelly duck-beach among the weeds, and while the babies swim languidly through the muck the mother just stands and stares. She stares at the swans and at the ubiquitous single blue heron in the middle of the lake. It's a lazy day for ducks, apparently.
Human parents bring their children to look at the dirty-water-nature-show. They come and go under the shade of the gazebo, some of them pushing elaborate multi-child carriages with embedded toys and little grasping hands. Everyone is enchanted by the swans, who glide back and forth like stage performers, sometimes diving under to clean their feathers, sometimes floating lazily with only one foot docked on tailfeathers.
Two siblings are particularly interesting, a boy and a girl. The boy is the face of evil, a well-spoken manipulator already, he knows how to work his mom. He throws a piece of garbage at the baby ducks, and his mother says no..."garbage goes in the garbage can." He picks up a scrap of paper and says "this garbage goes in the garbage can!" and then walks slightly away from his mother and throws the paper on the grass when she isn't looking. He tells his mother how beautiful the baby ducks are, and then throws pebbles at them when his mother is distracted. The younger sister does the same.
Meanwhile there's an ongoing sparrow drama above my head. Two different families have established nests opposite to each other in the rafters. In between bobbing around looking for gravel and cheerios and nesting material, the parents stand by their nests and yell at each other. Tension builds until one male finally encroaches on the wrong nest, and then the chase is on. The males attack each other, pecking viciously. A third sparrow, apparently a bystander, joins in the fight. One of the mama sparrows flies down and now there are four of them in a big, jumping mass of feathers and beaks and little kicking feet. They roll behind the bushes and carry on fighting for no reason other than revenge and wounded pride. The squawking is terrible.
Far off is the giant blue heron in a position of prestige. You often see him around town. He is aloof and serious, the king of the birds, unmolested by virtue of his size and solitude. When his head is up he looks like a dinosaur ancestor; head down, he looks like a hooded ghoul. He alone among the waterfowl has too much pride for begging.
The rough-looking fisherman has gone. A long-haired couple sits on the dock, quietly, girl's head on boy's shoulder. There's a chipmunk here and a gentle father with his son. The son is fat and totally absorbed with the water; he sees sunfish and points them out, and the father follows, approving, loving him.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Big City Muffy in Minneapolis (May 17)
This entry is for Thursday! To view the previous four days, see May 13th, May 14th, May 15th, and May 16th.
I apologize if you don't see a "comments" link in these posts...I think Blogger is a bit messed up at the moment as these links seem to come and go. Just comment in another post, or try refreshing the page!
Thursday morning and my vacation had officially started. No longer on an expense account, I made the paradoxical decision to start eating extravagant, non-complimentary breakfasts at Hell's Kitchen. People put great stock in their homemade peanut butter, but I didn't care about that! I wanted bacon and eggs and grease...no more Raisin Bran and CNN for me.
I had to stockpile some energy because I had a full day ahead of me. Yesterday both Jamie and Cindi had independently encouraged me to explore UPTOWN Minneapolis, a mysterious south-western realm beyond the highway and the convention center. Walking past these landmarks was significant: I was going where few STC Summit attendees had gone before!
And it was beautiful. I'd grown heartsick from too many skyscrapers, too much glass and steel, businessmen and panhandlers, parking garages and pavement. Within minutes I was walking down quiet, tree-lined streets where human beings actually lived. There was grass and blue sky, and people quietly going about their business.
I should pause and say that Minneapolis, as a whole, seemed to be a very liberal city. I followed Vanilla's strict advice never to talk politics while on vacation, but that didn't stop people from talking politics with ME...and nobody had anything but loathing for the Bush administration...at least nobody who brought it up, anyway. Either Americans talk freely about this issue amongst themselves as a way of letting off steam, or they like to talk about it to people from other countries.
I didn't see a single "Go Go Bush/Cheney!" sign until I left the city on Saturday, but I saw many anti-Bush and many more anti-Iraq signs, posters, T-shirts, and bumper stickers.
On an unrelated note I even found an official Mutation Research Technology truck parked in front of somebody's house, but since the truck's name was "Nebuchadnezzar" (according to a sign on the back) I assume they're less than serious about whatever it is they do.
It's not often that I find myself REQUIRED to kill time, so I wandered through parks and alleys, working my way down to Lyndale Street and spotting rabbits along the way. It was difficult for me to get a handle on Uptown's layout because it seemed to have several different arteries (Nicolette, Blaisdale, 24th Street) and these arteries were a jumble of residences and shopping areas and Wendy's restaurants. There was no single "center" of it all, but there was always something ELSE around the most insignificant of corners.
I made my rendezvous with Jamie Monroe at Vera's Cafe, the most laid-back meeting spot on earth. People wandered in and out of the patio, leaves dropped on our table, bouyant sparrows made social visits. We were shortly joined by the Brass Rail bouncer I'd met the previous night, whose name I shamefully forget and who I'll call "Cleo" (again, until I find out his actual name).
Coffee, relaxing, chatting, no schedule, revelling in laid-back bar/community politics, wishing their good friend a happy 21st birthday.
I'd originally planned to spend a bit of money on something -- clothes, shoes, kitsch -- but after last night's $60 "Bathroom Break and Scream-athon" I was less enthusiastic about depleting my funds. So I trailed after Jamie and Cleo as they showed me all the shopping hot-spots, and I even heard tantalizing rumours about a lake nearby. We looked at wigs and used clothing and novelty lingerie. Apparently the entire area was safe as long as I didn't go "past the K-Mart," so I decided to return on Friday and have another long look around.
Leaving my two Minneapolitan guardian angels behind I made the long trek back downtown. Here's one of the many instances I found of pervasive "Dumbum" graffiti: zero style but an A+ for fun!
Apparently the restaurants in town are packed with people even when the conferences are over, so I tucked myself in a corner of The Local, hemmed in on all sides by businesswomen with yacking laughs and belled-out pastel skirts.
The Local, like all the other Minneapolis restaurants I went to, had ridiculously powerful hand-dryers in their bathroom. This became a running joke during the conference. Even more disturbing were the toilets in Brits Pub, which warbled incomprehensible, quiet English phrases when you walked away from them, causing everybody to look around in alarm. The parking garages in Minneapolis also speak during rush hour, saying -- over and over again -- "Warning...car approaching." One of them said this to me in an East Indian accent.
I'd spent several days sitting in large conference halls full of people who coughed without covering their mouths. My Target vitamin C would only protect me for so long unless I spent a night or two in bed.
Looking after my health I returned to my hotel room, disposed of yet another newspaper that I'd forgotten to cancel, and lulled myself to sleep with logic puzzles and theories about The Big Bang. I was eagerly looking forward to my final night in town, and I'd already accomplished so much...I'd even found out what composer Paul Williams did with proceeds from The Muppet Movie.
I apologize if you don't see a "comments" link in these posts...I think Blogger is a bit messed up at the moment as these links seem to come and go. Just comment in another post, or try refreshing the page!
Thursday morning and my vacation had officially started. No longer on an expense account, I made the paradoxical decision to start eating extravagant, non-complimentary breakfasts at Hell's Kitchen. People put great stock in their homemade peanut butter, but I didn't care about that! I wanted bacon and eggs and grease...no more Raisin Bran and CNN for me.
I had to stockpile some energy because I had a full day ahead of me. Yesterday both Jamie and Cindi had independently encouraged me to explore UPTOWN Minneapolis, a mysterious south-western realm beyond the highway and the convention center. Walking past these landmarks was significant: I was going where few STC Summit attendees had gone before!
And it was beautiful. I'd grown heartsick from too many skyscrapers, too much glass and steel, businessmen and panhandlers, parking garages and pavement. Within minutes I was walking down quiet, tree-lined streets where human beings actually lived. There was grass and blue sky, and people quietly going about their business.I should pause and say that Minneapolis, as a whole, seemed to be a very liberal city. I followed Vanilla's strict advice never to talk politics while on vacation, but that didn't stop people from talking politics with ME...and nobody had anything but loathing for the Bush administration...at least nobody who brought it up, anyway. Either Americans talk freely about this issue amongst themselves as a way of letting off steam, or they like to talk about it to people from other countries.
I didn't see a single "Go Go Bush/Cheney!" sign until I left the city on Saturday, but I saw many anti-Bush and many more anti-Iraq signs, posters, T-shirts, and bumper stickers.On an unrelated note I even found an official Mutation Research Technology truck parked in front of somebody's house, but since the truck's name was "Nebuchadnezzar" (according to a sign on the back) I assume they're less than serious about whatever it is they do.
It's not often that I find myself REQUIRED to kill time, so I wandered through parks and alleys, working my way down to Lyndale Street and spotting rabbits along the way. It was difficult for me to get a handle on Uptown's layout because it seemed to have several different arteries (Nicolette, Blaisdale, 24th Street) and these arteries were a jumble of residences and shopping areas and Wendy's restaurants. There was no single "center" of it all, but there was always something ELSE around the most insignificant of corners.
I made my rendezvous with Jamie Monroe at Vera's Cafe, the most laid-back meeting spot on earth. People wandered in and out of the patio, leaves dropped on our table, bouyant sparrows made social visits. We were shortly joined by the Brass Rail bouncer I'd met the previous night, whose name I shamefully forget and who I'll call "Cleo" (again, until I find out his actual name).Coffee, relaxing, chatting, no schedule, revelling in laid-back bar/community politics, wishing their good friend a happy 21st birthday.
I'd originally planned to spend a bit of money on something -- clothes, shoes, kitsch -- but after last night's $60 "Bathroom Break and Scream-athon" I was less enthusiastic about depleting my funds. So I trailed after Jamie and Cleo as they showed me all the shopping hot-spots, and I even heard tantalizing rumours about a lake nearby. We looked at wigs and used clothing and novelty lingerie. Apparently the entire area was safe as long as I didn't go "past the K-Mart," so I decided to return on Friday and have another long look around.
Leaving my two Minneapolitan guardian angels behind I made the long trek back downtown. Here's one of the many instances I found of pervasive "Dumbum" graffiti: zero style but an A+ for fun!Apparently the restaurants in town are packed with people even when the conferences are over, so I tucked myself in a corner of The Local, hemmed in on all sides by businesswomen with yacking laughs and belled-out pastel skirts.
The Local, like all the other Minneapolis restaurants I went to, had ridiculously powerful hand-dryers in their bathroom. This became a running joke during the conference. Even more disturbing were the toilets in Brits Pub, which warbled incomprehensible, quiet English phrases when you walked away from them, causing everybody to look around in alarm. The parking garages in Minneapolis also speak during rush hour, saying -- over and over again -- "Warning...car approaching." One of them said this to me in an East Indian accent.
I'd spent several days sitting in large conference halls full of people who coughed without covering their mouths. My Target vitamin C would only protect me for so long unless I spent a night or two in bed.Looking after my health I returned to my hotel room, disposed of yet another newspaper that I'd forgotten to cancel, and lulled myself to sleep with logic puzzles and theories about The Big Bang. I was eagerly looking forward to my final night in town, and I'd already accomplished so much...I'd even found out what composer Paul Williams did with proceeds from The Muppet Movie.
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