Sometimes I just don't feel like posting anything, usually because my life is so scattered that I can't put it all together in my head. Keep checking back regularly...this mood will pass.
But wait. Before you go look at somebody ELSE'S blog, here are two songs that never fail to make me 100% happy, both of which scream "1980s England" to me.
First, Total Coelo (AKA "Toto Coelo") and "I Eat Cannibals." 80% Bananarama, 15% garbage bag, and 5% "Kate-Bush-Face." Oh, purrr!
Next, in much the same vein: "Shiny Shiny" by Haysi Fantayzee. The only time you'll see the Ragamuffin style mixed with a chastity belt. Gosh, they were pale over there.
Sometime soon: Actual Blog Substance. I promise!
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
A Glossary of Taxicab Words and Phrases
Next time you're in a cab, pretend that you're an "insider" by spitting this antiquated slang (as reported in the November 3, 1928 New Yorker).
Bonus points if you're drunk and incoherent!
Acordion Pleat--The ripple a driver puts in your fender when you get in his way.
Back to the Yellows--The Yellow Taxicab Corporation is popularly supposed to employ only beginners. "Back to the Yellows" is synonymous with "Go back to school."
Copping the Cards--Confiscation by the police of a hacking license, for some infringement of the regulations.
Curb Cruiser--A girl waiting for a lift, but not in a taxicab.
Glims--Headlights
Hack--A familiar and affectionate term for a taxicab.
Pound--A pound is five dollars. Used in offering a cop "his bit," instead of mentioning cash, which would be bribery. Three pounds is sometimes said to get rid of a speeding ticket.
Sea-Going Hack--A taxicab that stays out all night.
Sunday Driver--Any operator of a pleasure car causing a minor collision.
Weasel--A driver who cuts in between another taxi and a prospective fare.
Bonus points if you're drunk and incoherent!
Acordion Pleat--The ripple a driver puts in your fender when you get in his way.
Back to the Yellows--The Yellow Taxicab Corporation is popularly supposed to employ only beginners. "Back to the Yellows" is synonymous with "Go back to school."
Copping the Cards--Confiscation by the police of a hacking license, for some infringement of the regulations.
Curb Cruiser--A girl waiting for a lift, but not in a taxicab.
Glims--Headlights
Hack--A familiar and affectionate term for a taxicab.
Pound--A pound is five dollars. Used in offering a cop "his bit," instead of mentioning cash, which would be bribery. Three pounds is sometimes said to get rid of a speeding ticket.
Sea-Going Hack--A taxicab that stays out all night.
Sunday Driver--Any operator of a pleasure car causing a minor collision.
Weasel--A driver who cuts in between another taxi and a prospective fare.
Sunday, April 06, 2008
Single-Camera or Multi-Camera?
Watching the commentaries on classic Doctor Who DVDs I find myself learning an awful lot about the technical details of the show. Sometimes I come across the answer to some odd question that I've always wondered about, but never known how to find the answer for.
This week's revelation is about single-camera filming versus multi-camera filming.
I've often wondered why directors don't ALWAYS film with multiple cameras. By filming the same scene simultaneously from several different angles, wouldn't that reduce the amount of time needed to film the different scene elements? Wouldn't it reduce continuity errors?
Multi-camera shooting certainly IS faster, and it DOES make doing continuity a little easier -- requiring continuity checks only for re-takes of entire scenes, as opposed to whenever a scene is shot from a different angle. Another benefit of multi-camera shooting is that foley work becomes less necessary; everybody's voices and movements naturally sync together, instead of needing to be spliced up in an editing room later.
But these Doctor Who commentaries have given me insight into the NEGATIVE aspects of a multi-camera shoot...and there are a lot of them.
First off, there's the obvious drawback of needing to hire and coordinate several different cameramen. The actors also need to know their lines better, as there are fewer opportunities to check the script. Multi-camera shoots are by necessity more "theatrical" -- everyone in the right spot, everybody blocked out, all hitting their cues exactly -- which means that scenes MUST be rehearsed beforehand. This is a time commitment that might negate the time saved by shooting with multiple cameras.
More important, however, are concerns of lighting and sound. When you're only filming with one camera the director of photography can set up the lighting of each shot individually, paying close attention to those aspects of cinematography which make films look so much better than television programs. The boom operators can likewise record each shot in an optimal way, without needing to worry about actors wandering around the entire set and getting out of range.
But when you shoot with multiple cameras, the lighting is compromised: it must be adequate from every potential camera angle. And boom operators need to cover everybody no matter where they end up, instead of focusing on a small segment of dialog which must be recorded.
Finally, it's difficult to do really nice, elaborate close-ups of characters when multiple cameras are involved, for the obvious reason that the camera doing the close-up would become visible to all the OTHER cameras. This is one reason why fight scenes in the old Doctor Who tended to be filmed with single cameras, allowing tighter shots and therefore making it all look more tense and action-packed.
Nowadays it seems that multiple-camera techniques are rarely used except when a big, one-time-only practical effect is being shot, or when filming in front of a live studio audience. Otherwise, for reasons of lighting, sound, and general flexibility, single cameras are most desirable.
This week's revelation is about single-camera filming versus multi-camera filming.
I've often wondered why directors don't ALWAYS film with multiple cameras. By filming the same scene simultaneously from several different angles, wouldn't that reduce the amount of time needed to film the different scene elements? Wouldn't it reduce continuity errors?
Multi-camera shooting certainly IS faster, and it DOES make doing continuity a little easier -- requiring continuity checks only for re-takes of entire scenes, as opposed to whenever a scene is shot from a different angle. Another benefit of multi-camera shooting is that foley work becomes less necessary; everybody's voices and movements naturally sync together, instead of needing to be spliced up in an editing room later.
But these Doctor Who commentaries have given me insight into the NEGATIVE aspects of a multi-camera shoot...and there are a lot of them.
First off, there's the obvious drawback of needing to hire and coordinate several different cameramen. The actors also need to know their lines better, as there are fewer opportunities to check the script. Multi-camera shoots are by necessity more "theatrical" -- everyone in the right spot, everybody blocked out, all hitting their cues exactly -- which means that scenes MUST be rehearsed beforehand. This is a time commitment that might negate the time saved by shooting with multiple cameras.
More important, however, are concerns of lighting and sound. When you're only filming with one camera the director of photography can set up the lighting of each shot individually, paying close attention to those aspects of cinematography which make films look so much better than television programs. The boom operators can likewise record each shot in an optimal way, without needing to worry about actors wandering around the entire set and getting out of range.
But when you shoot with multiple cameras, the lighting is compromised: it must be adequate from every potential camera angle. And boom operators need to cover everybody no matter where they end up, instead of focusing on a small segment of dialog which must be recorded.
Finally, it's difficult to do really nice, elaborate close-ups of characters when multiple cameras are involved, for the obvious reason that the camera doing the close-up would become visible to all the OTHER cameras. This is one reason why fight scenes in the old Doctor Who tended to be filmed with single cameras, allowing tighter shots and therefore making it all look more tense and action-packed.
Nowadays it seems that multiple-camera techniques are rarely used except when a big, one-time-only practical effect is being shot, or when filming in front of a live studio audience. Otherwise, for reasons of lighting, sound, and general flexibility, single cameras are most desirable.
A Testdrive
My car has been sitting in the parking lot since I got her, staring at me in a disgusted way. "You're too scared to drive me," she says when I walk past her. "Come sit inside. I won't bite."
I'm not worried about sitting inside my car, I'm worried about actually driving her. Part of this anxiety has been due to my not having driving glasses, so when my first pair arrived this week I had no choice but to schedule an outing: I would get inside my car and not only sit in the seat, but I would DRIVE her as well.
So I did, and today was the perfect day for it. I drove out to Wellesley and found myself on some awful dirt roads. I think I cut somebody off on my first trip through the roundabout, but my second time through seemed a little better; I just followed the leader.
I am slowly getting over my totally-unexpected performance anxiety: when I'm driving my car I feel like I am in everybody's crosshairs. This feeling of being under scrutiny is a problem I have in everyday life, but there's no doubt that when you're driving a vehicle -- or when you're in a conga line -- you are a crucial part of a social pact. The system only works because everybody more-or-less knows the rules. I suppose that's why we have licenses and are supposed to actually study up on what the speed limit on a dirt road is. And unlike a conga line, when you bump into somebody your insurance goes up.
Since I am my own worst critic, I look at the people in the cars around me and I think, "Damn, they all KNOW I'm scared, and they HATE me." When some guy in a hummer gets on my butt because I'm only driving 15kph above the speed limit, I find that I've somewhat lost my devil-may-care attitude. I've forgotten that people will ALWAYS pass you on the road, and that the best recipe for a speeding ticket (or a rear-ending) is to try to accommodate them.
This situation isn't improved by the fact that, with my new glasses, I can actually SEE those faces. Vividly. The fact that they look indifferent instead of disgusted just makes me think that they'd play great poker.
So anyway, I survived my first deliberate test drive. Now I'm going to pick up a driver's ed handbook and go through the tricky parts (because nothing brings confidence like thorough knowledge), and then next time maybe I'll try some city driving; for the most part I have yet to deal with left-hand turns and pedestrians.
I'm not worried about sitting inside my car, I'm worried about actually driving her. Part of this anxiety has been due to my not having driving glasses, so when my first pair arrived this week I had no choice but to schedule an outing: I would get inside my car and not only sit in the seat, but I would DRIVE her as well.
So I did, and today was the perfect day for it. I drove out to Wellesley and found myself on some awful dirt roads. I think I cut somebody off on my first trip through the roundabout, but my second time through seemed a little better; I just followed the leader.
I am slowly getting over my totally-unexpected performance anxiety: when I'm driving my car I feel like I am in everybody's crosshairs. This feeling of being under scrutiny is a problem I have in everyday life, but there's no doubt that when you're driving a vehicle -- or when you're in a conga line -- you are a crucial part of a social pact. The system only works because everybody more-or-less knows the rules. I suppose that's why we have licenses and are supposed to actually study up on what the speed limit on a dirt road is. And unlike a conga line, when you bump into somebody your insurance goes up.
Since I am my own worst critic, I look at the people in the cars around me and I think, "Damn, they all KNOW I'm scared, and they HATE me." When some guy in a hummer gets on my butt because I'm only driving 15kph above the speed limit, I find that I've somewhat lost my devil-may-care attitude. I've forgotten that people will ALWAYS pass you on the road, and that the best recipe for a speeding ticket (or a rear-ending) is to try to accommodate them.
This situation isn't improved by the fact that, with my new glasses, I can actually SEE those faces. Vividly. The fact that they look indifferent instead of disgusted just makes me think that they'd play great poker.
So anyway, I survived my first deliberate test drive. Now I'm going to pick up a driver's ed handbook and go through the tricky parts (because nothing brings confidence like thorough knowledge), and then next time maybe I'll try some city driving; for the most part I have yet to deal with left-hand turns and pedestrians.
Friday, April 04, 2008
"Grouse a la Cunard"
Only I have the know-how and the delicacy to get all of the "Campbell's Tomato Soup" concentrate out of the can in a single scoop. That's why you come to my blog for all the best grouse recipes.
I present the recipe for "Grouse a la Cunard," revealed in a Cunard Liner advertisement from the November 3, 1928 New Yorker Magazine:
We previously documented the speech of the grapefruit fetishist. This time, let's see what a grouse fetishist sounds like.
I present the recipe for "Grouse a la Cunard," revealed in a Cunard Liner advertisement from the November 3, 1928 New Yorker Magazine:
Take a young and tender grouse...cook it ten to twelve minutes in a hot oven...Place on toast two-thirds of an inch think, fried in butter and spread with foie gras...Serve with potato chips and watercress.There you are: "grouse on toast" -- sometimes known as a "jolly grouse butty " -- complete with trademark breathless Cunard ellipses. And potato chips. On a plate it looks like this.
We previously documented the speech of the grapefruit fetishist. This time, let's see what a grouse fetishist sounds like.
A young bird, a whole bird, is the Cunard motto...There is never a cold storage grouse on board...They are sent to Cunard from various parts of the country...from Scotland as well as Yorkshire...The very pick of the market...And served...without extra cost...as a part of the regular à la carte menu.Pant! Pant! Pant!
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Type
I've just finished watching "Helvetica," the 2007 documentary about the English-speaking world's most ubiquitous, anonymous, and versatile font.
I'm not a very visual person and my knowledge of fonts is very much a patchwork, but there's no doubt that Helvetica is everywhere and that it's used to convey pretty much everything. Unlike almost every other font, designers can present it as impersonally cautionary (warning signs), cooly hip (British electronica band logos), or clean and upscale ("The Gap").
Today, while waiting for my optometrist to see me, I leafed through Vogue magazine and -- yes -- there was Helvetica, representing everything from shoes to jewelry to makeup. Since I find subconscious standards to be sort of ominous, I'm disturbed to report that I pretty much use it every day in my work: our technical writing department's style guide dictates Arial as the choice for headings and footers, and Arial is Helvetica's uneasy twin sister.
All this has gotten me thinking more about fonts in general, and how we tend to not even notice them unless something has gone wrong. People who design fonts share a sad fate with those who arrange film scores: their work is meant to enhance a final product without ever calling attention to itself.
Even though I've spent eight years working closely with fonts I can only recognize a handful. I've spent all this time working for a company that makes character generation software, and in all three of the jobs I've had during that time (technical support, quality assurance, and now technical writing) I've had to be aware of what a computer-generated font achieves.
Back when I was in the technical support department, I used to get calls from people who simply didn't understand fonts. They thought it was a "bug" if the ugly, outrageous, highly-specialized font they wanted to use -- Loki Cola for example -- didn't contain all the numbers and symbols that they needed for their video. They seemed to believe that fonts were generated by some sort of computer magic, instead of being designed by someone purely for the purpose of giving more tasteless options to cut-rate wedding videographers.
Once those people found out that fonts actually COST MONEY they got REALLY upset.
So I promise myself that now, after so many years of taking fonts (and fontographers) for granted, I'm going to learn a bit more about them. And, hopefully, I'll learn to use them more thoughtfully and effectively.
I'm not a very visual person and my knowledge of fonts is very much a patchwork, but there's no doubt that Helvetica is everywhere and that it's used to convey pretty much everything. Unlike almost every other font, designers can present it as impersonally cautionary (warning signs), cooly hip (British electronica band logos), or clean and upscale ("The Gap").
Today, while waiting for my optometrist to see me, I leafed through Vogue magazine and -- yes -- there was Helvetica, representing everything from shoes to jewelry to makeup. Since I find subconscious standards to be sort of ominous, I'm disturbed to report that I pretty much use it every day in my work: our technical writing department's style guide dictates Arial as the choice for headings and footers, and Arial is Helvetica's uneasy twin sister.
All this has gotten me thinking more about fonts in general, and how we tend to not even notice them unless something has gone wrong. People who design fonts share a sad fate with those who arrange film scores: their work is meant to enhance a final product without ever calling attention to itself.
Even though I've spent eight years working closely with fonts I can only recognize a handful. I've spent all this time working for a company that makes character generation software, and in all three of the jobs I've had during that time (technical support, quality assurance, and now technical writing) I've had to be aware of what a computer-generated font achieves.
Back when I was in the technical support department, I used to get calls from people who simply didn't understand fonts. They thought it was a "bug" if the ugly, outrageous, highly-specialized font they wanted to use -- Loki Cola for example -- didn't contain all the numbers and symbols that they needed for their video. They seemed to believe that fonts were generated by some sort of computer magic, instead of being designed by someone purely for the purpose of giving more tasteless options to cut-rate wedding videographers.
Once those people found out that fonts actually COST MONEY they got REALLY upset.
So I promise myself that now, after so many years of taking fonts (and fontographers) for granted, I'm going to learn a bit more about them. And, hopefully, I'll learn to use them more thoughtfully and effectively.
Monday, March 31, 2008
"The Mist"
As much as I'm annoyed by some of Stephen King's bibliography I'll be the first to admit that he has written a lot of memorable books. But my favourite King creation, by far, was "The Mist," a novella that I first read as a teenager in his "Skeleton Crew" collection.
The story continues to disturb me every time I read it. The idea of the mist alone is an innovative one, but on top of that the monsters are terrifying, the characters perfectly crafted, and the claustrophobic, slow burn setting is ideal. Most importantly, though, the actual reason for the mist phenomenon -- and the ending of the story as well -- was tantalizingly vague and open-ended. When you're finished reading the story you're left with a lot of wonderfully meaty possibilities that you can mull over all on your own. With the lights on.
People have continually promised to make a movie out of the story. The problem has always been: how should it end? I've told myself that no film studio -- at least not one with the budget to even ATTEMPT "The Mist" -- would ever allow the story's open-ended finale to stand...a Hollywood producer would HAVE to insist on a resolution, and that resolution no doubt would be super-happy and spoil everything. Better the movie never be made.
So I was worried about watching the Frank Darabont adaptation. And while I'm ultimately unhappy about the ending they finally decided upon, it's not for the reasons I'd assumed...and the rest of the movie is so wonderful as to render the actual ending almost unnecessary.
I've already said that the Stephen King monsters were unique and horrifying, but the film manages to make them even MORE bizarre. The scenes of graphic and grotesque body horror have been actually RAMPED UP in the film; maybe this disturbed me more than usual because I'd assumed the film would PLAY DOWN that sort of thing. I was very, very wrong.
What really makes the movie exceptional, however, is the pacing. The action sequences are slick and shocking, but the director knows when to pull back and just let everybody simmer once in a while, always with a barely audible score and understated performances. The Mrs. Carmody plot was a bit heavy-handed I think -- though it isn't hard to see why an American director under the Bush administration might feel particularly driven to bring such scenes to the forefront -- but even when the Carmody scenes started to drag, the quirky script and convincing performances kept me grounded.
The inclusion of Dead Can Dance's "The Host of Seraphim" -- no song is more beautiful or more heart-wrenching -- was an added bonus, though it must be one of the most overused soundtrack songs ever.
I can't believe I'm saying this, but: maybe the movie adaptation is actually BETTER than the book. I eat crow publically. If you love horror movies and you haven't seen it yet, you really really should.
Incidentally, I just realized that Darabont wrote the screenplay for the remake of "The Blob," another quirky script which went slightly "over the edge" in terms of gruesome body horror.
The story continues to disturb me every time I read it. The idea of the mist alone is an innovative one, but on top of that the monsters are terrifying, the characters perfectly crafted, and the claustrophobic, slow burn setting is ideal. Most importantly, though, the actual reason for the mist phenomenon -- and the ending of the story as well -- was tantalizingly vague and open-ended. When you're finished reading the story you're left with a lot of wonderfully meaty possibilities that you can mull over all on your own. With the lights on.
People have continually promised to make a movie out of the story. The problem has always been: how should it end? I've told myself that no film studio -- at least not one with the budget to even ATTEMPT "The Mist" -- would ever allow the story's open-ended finale to stand...a Hollywood producer would HAVE to insist on a resolution, and that resolution no doubt would be super-happy and spoil everything. Better the movie never be made.
So I was worried about watching the Frank Darabont adaptation. And while I'm ultimately unhappy about the ending they finally decided upon, it's not for the reasons I'd assumed...and the rest of the movie is so wonderful as to render the actual ending almost unnecessary.
I've already said that the Stephen King monsters were unique and horrifying, but the film manages to make them even MORE bizarre. The scenes of graphic and grotesque body horror have been actually RAMPED UP in the film; maybe this disturbed me more than usual because I'd assumed the film would PLAY DOWN that sort of thing. I was very, very wrong.
What really makes the movie exceptional, however, is the pacing. The action sequences are slick and shocking, but the director knows when to pull back and just let everybody simmer once in a while, always with a barely audible score and understated performances. The Mrs. Carmody plot was a bit heavy-handed I think -- though it isn't hard to see why an American director under the Bush administration might feel particularly driven to bring such scenes to the forefront -- but even when the Carmody scenes started to drag, the quirky script and convincing performances kept me grounded.
The inclusion of Dead Can Dance's "The Host of Seraphim" -- no song is more beautiful or more heart-wrenching -- was an added bonus, though it must be one of the most overused soundtrack songs ever.
I can't believe I'm saying this, but: maybe the movie adaptation is actually BETTER than the book. I eat crow publically. If you love horror movies and you haven't seen it yet, you really really should.
Incidentally, I just realized that Darabont wrote the screenplay for the remake of "The Blob," another quirky script which went slightly "over the edge" in terms of gruesome body horror.
King for a Day
Every issue of The New Yorker has run a weekly advertisement from Brunswick Records ("Panatropes, Radiolas, Records") containing a list of the lastest two-sided 78s, along with an illustration meant to represent one of the higher-profile hit songs.
The illustrator was Frank Hoctor and I believe he rarely listened to the songs he was illustrating, instead just drawing something crazy that had some tangential relationship to the title.
Here's how he represents "King for a Day" from the variety musical "Blackbirds of 1928."
I can't find the lyrics for this particular song but is it really about a man who holds a broom and a chihuahua, while standing on the chest of a terrified woman?
This does not inspire me to pick up the album.
The illustrator was Frank Hoctor and I believe he rarely listened to the songs he was illustrating, instead just drawing something crazy that had some tangential relationship to the title.
Here's how he represents "King for a Day" from the variety musical "Blackbirds of 1928."
I can't find the lyrics for this particular song but is it really about a man who holds a broom and a chihuahua, while standing on the chest of a terrified woman?
This does not inspire me to pick up the album.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
The Week of Beckzy
A month ago I set my father a task: find me a car, daddy-o! This is a point-form summary of the results, covering the last week and perhaps explaining why I haven't been up to blogging.
Saturday: While spending Easter with my parents, my father -- who works at a car dealership -- is sad to report that the perfect car for me -- actually exceeding my minimum requirements as to practicality, price, efficiency, and age -- has slipped through his fingers. Oh well, at least the family gets to come together and eat ham, car or no car.
Monday: My father calls me at work to tell me that the aforementioned car, under miraculous circumstances, is once again available. She's a blue '95 Chevrolet Corsica named Beckzy, in perfect running order, very fuel efficient and small enough for my limited spatial skills to handle. He can bring it by my workplace tomorrow for a test drive.
Tuesday: For the first time in fifteen years I am behind the wheel of a car. I have no insurance and haven't even set my eyes on Beckzy before now. A horrendous rain/sleet storm has arrived with gusting winds, and I re-learn my driving skills by sliding my white-knuckled father around the block. Even this short experience is enough to tell me that I'd be CRAZY to pass up this opportunity. I'll take it!
Wednesday: My father calls to say that Beckzy has passed her E-test and is going in for her safety. Things have taken on a sudden immediacy. Vanilla, conscious that this may be the last time she needs to drive me someplace, takes me to State Farm where I get both auto and renter's insurance at surprisingly low prices. I have a payment plan. If somebody breaks in and steals all my showgirl outfits, I will now be able to afford NEW showgirl outfits.
Thursday: It turns out that I will have to go to New Hamburg in order to get plates and ownership as my father is not allowed to forge my signature. I have 24 hours to brace myself for tomorrow's ordeal.
Friday: My father shows up at my workplace, driving Beckzy. He hands me the keys and we begin what is simultaneously a right of passage, a refresher course, a final legal hurdle, and an impromptu driver's exam. I discover that Beckzy has a ridiculous blind spot: when I turn to my left to check for oncoming traffic I can only see my headrest. We take the Expressway all the way into New Hamburg, allowing me to re-experience city streets, on-ramps, merging, highway driving, and extremely pokey small town navigation.
In New Hamburg I get the ownership, we put the plates on, I sign a ridiculously miniscule check for my dad, and Becky is mine...if I can get her home again.
After the return trip I swear that I'll never drive again: I'll just park the car in my lot and look at her, and maybe sleep in her when it's hot outside. Gradually I come to grips with the situation: I'll simply need to keep ramping up my experience until I'm really comfortable driving.
Saturday: I go to Hakim Optical for an eye test and glasses, only to discover that they don't do such things without an appointment. Since Beckzy has a quaint little tape deck I go looking for one of those audio-adapters which allow you to plug in an iPod, but I have no luck. Now I know why I kept all of those mix-tapes from my University years...driving Beckzy will be a '90s experience in more ways than one!
Saturday: While spending Easter with my parents, my father -- who works at a car dealership -- is sad to report that the perfect car for me -- actually exceeding my minimum requirements as to practicality, price, efficiency, and age -- has slipped through his fingers. Oh well, at least the family gets to come together and eat ham, car or no car.
Monday: My father calls me at work to tell me that the aforementioned car, under miraculous circumstances, is once again available. She's a blue '95 Chevrolet Corsica named Beckzy, in perfect running order, very fuel efficient and small enough for my limited spatial skills to handle. He can bring it by my workplace tomorrow for a test drive.
Tuesday: For the first time in fifteen years I am behind the wheel of a car. I have no insurance and haven't even set my eyes on Beckzy before now. A horrendous rain/sleet storm has arrived with gusting winds, and I re-learn my driving skills by sliding my white-knuckled father around the block. Even this short experience is enough to tell me that I'd be CRAZY to pass up this opportunity. I'll take it!
Wednesday: My father calls to say that Beckzy has passed her E-test and is going in for her safety. Things have taken on a sudden immediacy. Vanilla, conscious that this may be the last time she needs to drive me someplace, takes me to State Farm where I get both auto and renter's insurance at surprisingly low prices. I have a payment plan. If somebody breaks in and steals all my showgirl outfits, I will now be able to afford NEW showgirl outfits.
Thursday: It turns out that I will have to go to New Hamburg in order to get plates and ownership as my father is not allowed to forge my signature. I have 24 hours to brace myself for tomorrow's ordeal.
Friday: My father shows up at my workplace, driving Beckzy. He hands me the keys and we begin what is simultaneously a right of passage, a refresher course, a final legal hurdle, and an impromptu driver's exam. I discover that Beckzy has a ridiculous blind spot: when I turn to my left to check for oncoming traffic I can only see my headrest. We take the Expressway all the way into New Hamburg, allowing me to re-experience city streets, on-ramps, merging, highway driving, and extremely pokey small town navigation.
In New Hamburg I get the ownership, we put the plates on, I sign a ridiculously miniscule check for my dad, and Becky is mine...if I can get her home again.
After the return trip I swear that I'll never drive again: I'll just park the car in my lot and look at her, and maybe sleep in her when it's hot outside. Gradually I come to grips with the situation: I'll simply need to keep ramping up my experience until I'm really comfortable driving.
Saturday: I go to Hakim Optical for an eye test and glasses, only to discover that they don't do such things without an appointment. Since Beckzy has a quaint little tape deck I go looking for one of those audio-adapters which allow you to plug in an iPod, but I have no luck. Now I know why I kept all of those mix-tapes from my University years...driving Beckzy will be a '90s experience in more ways than one!
Monday, March 24, 2008
Vaudeville
Margaret: That scar on your face is very romantic.
Bob: That's my mouth.
(Paraphrased from The Bob Hope Show, March 4, 1953)
Bob: That's my mouth.
(Paraphrased from The Bob Hope Show, March 4, 1953)
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