Hello, I'm Green Tuna, and I'll be your ride host for today.
What is it about members of my family and carnival rides? More specifically, why am I (cue sad, treacly music) always stuck on a ride with someone ready to board the USS UpChuck for a three hour tour?
I am the member of the family that will (within reason) ride just about anything. You can twirl me, scramble me, let the floor drop out and toss me upside down. I don't mind. I'm like the Sixth Chinese Brother who can take a nap while being spun around and around and around for days and days. No problem. This isn't to say that I'm not keenly aware of my limits. A Ferris wheel will turn me into a sobbing, shaking mass of embarrassment. Ditto for Haunted Houses and Bungee jumping things. Tuna don't do dat.
Over my carnival career, I've had friends who have spewed over the sides, I've suffered through my older brother nearly losing his lunch on the Salt and Pepper Shakers, and, during one unfortunate ride on Boblo Island in Detroit, I made a billion deals with Little BrotherTuna over the time span of about five minutes. Food? Money? Slave labor? Me riding on the hump all the way home? I didn't hold back. To this day he's still bitter that he didn't reap any rewards for not tossing his cookies. I, however, think he was unappreciative of the difficulty of The Art of the Deal having to be made at high rates of speed when one is spinning upside-down and cannot stop laughing.
A few years back, several of us went to the county fair. TinyTuna and her cousin wanted to ride the Tilt-a-Whirl. I went along and so did my older brother. He assured me it was OK, because it didn't go upside-down. The four of us climbed on and the ride began. For the first two minutes, we all whooped and hollered, laughed and screamed. Once we hit minutes three and four, my brother stopped laughing and that familiar shade of green began to creep over his face. Once we hit minutes five and six he shot pleading looks at the ride operator (and I use that term loosely) every time we spun by. Toothless Joe had just ambled back from God-Knows-Where was now just sitting there, smoking his smokes. At the seven and eight minute mark, even the kids started to wonder how long the ride was going to be. I glanced at my brother and I recognized he had entered the next stage of impending hurldom: slow, steady breathing. I counter-attacked with the glare which unmistakably read: You do it, and you're DEAD.
Thankfully, we finally made it off the ride unscathed. The kids were a little tipsy, My brother declared he was done for the day, and I, of course, was laughing hysterically.
Fast forward to this year and the return to the same county fair. NieceTuna decides she wants to ride something called "Alpine Bob". I give her a strong look and asked, "Are you sure?" Yeah, she's sure. So we wait and wait and wait and wait and finally board Mr. Bob. It's very similar to The Matterhorn at Cedar Point where you swing out in cars and go around in circles while you go over hilly tracks.
I should have known. We were just fine going forwards, but when the ride slowed down and started to go backwards, the five dwarves -- Dizzy, Greeny, Sicky, Breathy and Bargainy -- all climbed in our car. I think I said "it's almost over, just hold on" about 47 times. Once again, luck was on my side and we avoided catastrophe.
From now on, I'm going to have a screening process for all potential riders. If they can eat a corn dog and an elephant ear, spin around in a circle for five minutes and still feel good, I'll be glad to be their ride host.
Monday, August 09, 2004
Ride Host
Hello, I'm Green Tuna, and I'll be your ride host for today.
What is it about members of my family and carnival rides? More specifically, why am I (cue sad, treacly music) always stuck on a ride with someone ready to board the USS UpChuck for a three hour tour?
I am the member of the family that will (within reason) ride just about anything. You can twirl me, scramble me, let the floor drop out and toss me upside down. I don't mind. I'm like the Sixth Chinese Brother who can take a nap while being spun around and around and around for days and days. No problem. This isn't to say that I'm not keenly aware of my limits. A Ferris wheel will turn me into a sobbing, shaking mass of embarrassment. Ditto for Haunted Houses and Bungee jumping things. Tuna don't do dat.
Over my carnival career, I've had friends who have spewed over the sides, I've suffered through my older brother nearly losing his lunch on the Salt and Pepper Shakers, and, during one unfortunate ride on Boblo Island in Detroit, I made a billion deals with Little BrotherTuna over the time span of about five minutes. Food? Money? Slave labor? Me riding on the hump all the way home? I didn't hold back. To this day he's still bitter that he didn't reap any rewards for not tossing his cookies. I, however, think he was unappreciative of the difficulty of The Art of the Deal having to be made at high rates of speed when one is spinning upside-down and cannot stop laughing.
A few years back, several of us went to the county fair. TinyTuna and her cousin wanted to ride the Tilt-a-Whirl. I went along and so did my older brother. He assured me it was OK, because it didn't go upside-down. The four of us climbed on and the ride began. For the first two minutes, we all whooped and hollered, laughed and screamed. Once we hit minutes three and four, my brother stopped laughing and that familiar shade of green began to creep over his face. Once we hit minutes five and six he shot pleading looks at the ride operator (and I use that term loosely) every time we spun by. Toothless Joe had just ambled back from God-Knows-Where was now just sitting there, smoking his smokes. At the seven and eight minute mark, even the kids started to wonder how long the ride was going to be. I glanced at my brother and I recognized he had entered the next stage of impending hurldom: slow, steady breathing. I counter-attacked with the glare which unmistakably read: You do it, and you're DEAD.
Thankfully, we finally made it off the ride unscathed. The kids were a little tipsy, My brother declared he was done for the day, and I, of course, was laughing hysterically.
Fast forward to this year and the return to the same county fair. NieceTuna decides she wants to ride something called "Alpine Bob". I give her a strong look and asked, "Are you sure?" Yeah, she's sure. So we wait and wait and wait and wait and finally board Mr. Bob. It's very similar to The Matterhorn at Cedar Point where you swing out in cars and go around in circles while you go over hilly tracks.
I should have known. We were just fine going forwards, but when the ride slowed down and started to go backwards, the five dwarves -- Dizzy, Greeny, Sicky, Breathy and Bargainy -- all climbed in our car. I think I said "it's almost over, just hold on" about 47 times. Once again, luck was on my side and we avoided catastrophe.
From now on, I'm going to have a screening process for all potential riders. If they can eat a corn dog and an elephant ear, spin around in a circle for five minutes and still feel good, I'll be glad to be their ride host.
What is it about members of my family and carnival rides? More specifically, why am I (cue sad, treacly music) always stuck on a ride with someone ready to board the USS UpChuck for a three hour tour?
I am the member of the family that will (within reason) ride just about anything. You can twirl me, scramble me, let the floor drop out and toss me upside down. I don't mind. I'm like the Sixth Chinese Brother who can take a nap while being spun around and around and around for days and days. No problem. This isn't to say that I'm not keenly aware of my limits. A Ferris wheel will turn me into a sobbing, shaking mass of embarrassment. Ditto for Haunted Houses and Bungee jumping things. Tuna don't do dat.
Over my carnival career, I've had friends who have spewed over the sides, I've suffered through my older brother nearly losing his lunch on the Salt and Pepper Shakers, and, during one unfortunate ride on Boblo Island in Detroit, I made a billion deals with Little BrotherTuna over the time span of about five minutes. Food? Money? Slave labor? Me riding on the hump all the way home? I didn't hold back. To this day he's still bitter that he didn't reap any rewards for not tossing his cookies. I, however, think he was unappreciative of the difficulty of The Art of the Deal having to be made at high rates of speed when one is spinning upside-down and cannot stop laughing.
A few years back, several of us went to the county fair. TinyTuna and her cousin wanted to ride the Tilt-a-Whirl. I went along and so did my older brother. He assured me it was OK, because it didn't go upside-down. The four of us climbed on and the ride began. For the first two minutes, we all whooped and hollered, laughed and screamed. Once we hit minutes three and four, my brother stopped laughing and that familiar shade of green began to creep over his face. Once we hit minutes five and six he shot pleading looks at the ride operator (and I use that term loosely) every time we spun by. Toothless Joe had just ambled back from God-Knows-Where was now just sitting there, smoking his smokes. At the seven and eight minute mark, even the kids started to wonder how long the ride was going to be. I glanced at my brother and I recognized he had entered the next stage of impending hurldom: slow, steady breathing. I counter-attacked with the glare which unmistakably read: You do it, and you're DEAD.
Thankfully, we finally made it off the ride unscathed. The kids were a little tipsy, My brother declared he was done for the day, and I, of course, was laughing hysterically.
Fast forward to this year and the return to the same county fair. NieceTuna decides she wants to ride something called "Alpine Bob". I give her a strong look and asked, "Are you sure?" Yeah, she's sure. So we wait and wait and wait and wait and finally board Mr. Bob. It's very similar to The Matterhorn at Cedar Point where you swing out in cars and go around in circles while you go over hilly tracks.
I should have known. We were just fine going forwards, but when the ride slowed down and started to go backwards, the five dwarves -- Dizzy, Greeny, Sicky, Breathy and Bargainy -- all climbed in our car. I think I said "it's almost over, just hold on" about 47 times. Once again, luck was on my side and we avoided catastrophe.
From now on, I'm going to have a screening process for all potential riders. If they can eat a corn dog and an elephant ear, spin around in a circle for five minutes and still feel good, I'll be glad to be their ride host.
Friday, August 06, 2004
BB Tuna News Is Posted
It's not exactly Luther nailing his theses to the church door, but, RUN, don't walk and check up on the latest BB5 Tuna News over in the Habitrail.
BB Tuna News Is Posted
It's not exactly Luther nailing his theses to the church door, but, RUN, don't walk and check up on the latest BB5 Tuna News over in the Habitrail.
Thursday, August 05, 2004
Wave a Banner
Oh, those crazy banner ads. I thought Betty's Baton Bonanza (on eBay) was pretty good, but this new one is even better! It's for All Star U.S. Pageants, and the tag says Physical and Mail-In pageants open to females age 2 and older.
So, you know I HAVE to click-through, right? Because what on earth is a MAIL-IN pageant? I have to know! I mean, it's not like this is an absentee ballot. Just like with the lotto motto "You have to play to win" don't you have to "Don the Gay Apparel" to win the swimsuit competition? Wouldn't you have to, you know....actually be there... to win?
I must investigate. Clicking through. Unbelievable as it sounds, I find that indeed, you can enter the mail-in portion of the state level pageant. (Offer void in California, Nevada, Arizona, Oklahoma or Florida -- bummer, I know). And hey, Division Queens win a crown and a banner.
Do you realize what this means? I can be Queen GreenTuna of Mittenland while I sit at home with a Mike's Hard Lemonade in one hand and a can of Pringles in the other. Lucky for me, they have promised on their pageant website FAQ that I can win even if I don't have "poofy hair and an expensive dress", because this is NOT a "beauty pageant". Thank Goodness. I hate getting Pringle crumbs all over my ballgown.
Lastly, but not leastly, the question you're all dying to ask. But GreenTuna...is there TALENT? I'm here to tell you, there's not just talent There's optional talent. OPTIONAL TALENT!!
Those are two words you simply never see together. It's like optional multiplication facts, which TinyTuna employs on a daily basis. It acknowledges right off the bat that well, your talent may be less than...talented. But that's ok, because here it's optional talent which covers all your talentless bases.
I'm going to have to think long and hard about this. I wonder if I can come up with an optional talent involving Pringles.
So, you know I HAVE to click-through, right? Because what on earth is a MAIL-IN pageant? I have to know! I mean, it's not like this is an absentee ballot. Just like with the lotto motto "You have to play to win" don't you have to "Don the Gay Apparel" to win the swimsuit competition? Wouldn't you have to, you know....actually be there... to win?
I must investigate. Clicking through. Unbelievable as it sounds, I find that indeed, you can enter the mail-in portion of the state level pageant. (Offer void in California, Nevada, Arizona, Oklahoma or Florida -- bummer, I know). And hey, Division Queens win a crown and a banner.
Do you realize what this means? I can be Queen GreenTuna of Mittenland while I sit at home with a Mike's Hard Lemonade in one hand and a can of Pringles in the other. Lucky for me, they have promised on their pageant website FAQ that I can win even if I don't have "poofy hair and an expensive dress", because this is NOT a "beauty pageant". Thank Goodness. I hate getting Pringle crumbs all over my ballgown.
Lastly, but not leastly, the question you're all dying to ask. But GreenTuna...is there TALENT? I'm here to tell you, there's not just talent There's optional talent. OPTIONAL TALENT!!
Those are two words you simply never see together. It's like optional multiplication facts, which TinyTuna employs on a daily basis. It acknowledges right off the bat that well, your talent may be less than...talented. But that's ok, because here it's optional talent which covers all your talentless bases.
I'm going to have to think long and hard about this. I wonder if I can come up with an optional talent involving Pringles.
Wave a Banner
Oh, those crazy banner ads. I thought Betty's Baton Bonanza (on eBay) was pretty good, but this new one is even better! It's for All Star U.S. Pageants, and the tag says Physical and Mail-In pageants open to females age 2 and older.
So, you know I HAVE to click-through, right? Because what on earth is a MAIL-IN pageant? I have to know! I mean, it's not like this is an absentee ballot. Just like with the lotto motto "You have to play to win" don't you have to "Don the Gay Apparel" to win the swimsuit competition? Wouldn't you have to, you know....actually be there... to win?
I must investigate. Clicking through. Unbelievable as it sounds, I find that indeed, you can enter the mail-in portion of the state level pageant. (Offer void in California, Nevada, Arizona, Oklahoma or Florida -- bummer, I know). And hey, Division Queens win a crown and a banner.
Do you realize what this means? I can be Queen GreenTuna of Mittenland while I sit at home with a Mike's Hard Lemonade in one hand and a can of Pringles in the other. Lucky for me, they have promised on their pageant website FAQ that I can win even if I don't have "poofy hair and an expensive dress", because this is NOT a "beauty pageant". Thank Goodness. I hate getting Pringle crumbs all over my ballgown.
Lastly, but not leastly, the question you're all dying to ask. But GreenTuna...is there TALENT? I'm here to tell you, there's not just talent There's optional talent. OPTIONAL TALENT!!
Those are two words you simply never see together. It's like optional multiplication facts, which TinyTuna employs on a daily basis. It acknowledges right off the bat that well, your talent may be less than...talented. But that's ok, because here it's optional talent which covers all your talentless bases.
I'm going to have to think long and hard about this. I wonder if I can come up with an optional talent involving Pringles.
So, you know I HAVE to click-through, right? Because what on earth is a MAIL-IN pageant? I have to know! I mean, it's not like this is an absentee ballot. Just like with the lotto motto "You have to play to win" don't you have to "Don the Gay Apparel" to win the swimsuit competition? Wouldn't you have to, you know....actually be there... to win?
I must investigate. Clicking through. Unbelievable as it sounds, I find that indeed, you can enter the mail-in portion of the state level pageant. (Offer void in California, Nevada, Arizona, Oklahoma or Florida -- bummer, I know). And hey, Division Queens win a crown and a banner.
Do you realize what this means? I can be Queen GreenTuna of Mittenland while I sit at home with a Mike's Hard Lemonade in one hand and a can of Pringles in the other. Lucky for me, they have promised on their pageant website FAQ that I can win even if I don't have "poofy hair and an expensive dress", because this is NOT a "beauty pageant". Thank Goodness. I hate getting Pringle crumbs all over my ballgown.
Lastly, but not leastly, the question you're all dying to ask. But GreenTuna...is there TALENT? I'm here to tell you, there's not just talent There's optional talent. OPTIONAL TALENT!!
Those are two words you simply never see together. It's like optional multiplication facts, which TinyTuna employs on a daily basis. It acknowledges right off the bat that well, your talent may be less than...talented. But that's ok, because here it's optional talent which covers all your talentless bases.
I'm going to have to think long and hard about this. I wonder if I can come up with an optional talent involving Pringles.
BB Updates
Fresh off the press, today's edition of the BB Tuna News is now ready for perusal over at the Habitrail.
BB Updates
Fresh off the press, today's edition of the BB Tuna News is now ready for perusal over at the Habitrail.
Wednesday, August 04, 2004
Champaign Wishes, Carnival Dreams
Barring some much prayed-for bad weather, tonight Clan Tuna will be heading out to the county fair. It's hard to predict what stories the fair might bring, but you can be assured that tonight will be filled with rickety-rides, animal exhibits, and righteously lousy food.
Champaign Wishes, Carnival Dreams
Barring some much prayed-for bad weather, tonight Clan Tuna will be heading out to the county fair. It's hard to predict what stories the fair might bring, but you can be assured that tonight will be filled with rickety-rides, animal exhibits, and righteously lousy food.
Tuesday, August 03, 2004
Time Flies
It's shifting time again. This time I'm stuck in the art section. Over the course of the last eight hours, I've decided that
1. Art books are too damn heavy, and
2. This library has far too many books on Chairs
Now I'm sure there must be some topic within the music collection where we have far too many books to be believed. But at least they aren't books on chairs. Not even musical ones.
Much ado down in Hatteras again, as Hurricane Alex appears to be gearing up to make an appearance. Philip, over at the Ocracoke Journal has been keeping OBX (Outer Banks) fans up to date on the weather, and at last report, they had lost power. Sometimes it's hard to imagine living life on such a tiny strip of land, but I know the natives wouldn't have it any other way. Keep good thoughts going that the Hurricane decides to take a right and head back out to sea.
Now I must go home and do my civil duty and vote. There aren't many choices for this primary, but I want to go and have my say. I'll take TinyTuna with me so she can see Democracy in action. Never waste a chance to be a good example!
1. Art books are too damn heavy, and
2. This library has far too many books on Chairs
Now I'm sure there must be some topic within the music collection where we have far too many books to be believed. But at least they aren't books on chairs. Not even musical ones.
Much ado down in Hatteras again, as Hurricane Alex appears to be gearing up to make an appearance. Philip, over at the Ocracoke Journal has been keeping OBX (Outer Banks) fans up to date on the weather, and at last report, they had lost power. Sometimes it's hard to imagine living life on such a tiny strip of land, but I know the natives wouldn't have it any other way. Keep good thoughts going that the Hurricane decides to take a right and head back out to sea.
Now I must go home and do my civil duty and vote. There aren't many choices for this primary, but I want to go and have my say. I'll take TinyTuna with me so she can see Democracy in action. Never waste a chance to be a good example!
Time Flies
It's shifting time again. This time I'm stuck in the art section. Over the course of the last eight hours, I've decided that
1. Art books are too damn heavy, and
2. This library has far too many books on Chairs
Now I'm sure there must be some topic within the music collection where we have far too many books to be believed. But at least they aren't books on chairs. Not even musical ones.
Much ado down in Hatteras again, as Hurricane Alex appears to be gearing up to make an appearance. Philip, over at the Ocracoke Journal has been keeping OBX (Outer Banks) fans up to date on the weather, and at last report, they had lost power. Sometimes it's hard to imagine living life on such a tiny strip of land, but I know the natives wouldn't have it any other way. Keep good thoughts going that the Hurricane decides to take a right and head back out to sea.
Now I must go home and do my civil duty and vote. There aren't many choices for this primary, but I want to go and have my say. I'll take TinyTuna with me so she can see Democracy in action. Never waste a chance to be a good example!
1. Art books are too damn heavy, and
2. This library has far too many books on Chairs
Now I'm sure there must be some topic within the music collection where we have far too many books to be believed. But at least they aren't books on chairs. Not even musical ones.
Much ado down in Hatteras again, as Hurricane Alex appears to be gearing up to make an appearance. Philip, over at the Ocracoke Journal has been keeping OBX (Outer Banks) fans up to date on the weather, and at last report, they had lost power. Sometimes it's hard to imagine living life on such a tiny strip of land, but I know the natives wouldn't have it any other way. Keep good thoughts going that the Hurricane decides to take a right and head back out to sea.
Now I must go home and do my civil duty and vote. There aren't many choices for this primary, but I want to go and have my say. I'll take TinyTuna with me so she can see Democracy in action. Never waste a chance to be a good example!
Monday, August 02, 2004
Juxtaposition
Summertime, and the livin' is easy.....
That's the way the song goes. It's August. It's the Dog Days of Summer, when the temperatures rise and the people slow down. It's family get-togethers and cookouts and ice cream. It's tomatoes fresh of the vine and too much zucchini and spending some quality time cooling off in a kiddy pool. It's fireflies and wood toads and crickets chirping at sunset.
That's the way it's supposed to be.
Yesterday was the perfectly scripted summer day. All the the ingredients were there: family, food, celebration, an overflowing garden, rabbits, chickens, a dog, a cat and a discovered toad. By the time the day was over, I had a little too much sun, a little too much food, and one extremely tired child who fell asleep on the way home.
That's the way it's supposed to be.
After TinyTuna was tucked in and kissed, and Fabio the bunny was fed, I turned on the TV and fired up the computer. The perfectly scripted summer day became one of heightened security alerts. It was terrorism. It was children playing, followed by unspeakable tragedy. All of that while I was gone. All of that in the blink of an eye.
As I sit in my office today and look outside, the weather is glorious. The sun is shining and it's another picture perfect summer day. But in the midst of this beauty, I know some are living with broken hearts and shattered lives. In the midst of this beauty, I know some are living with anger and resentment and a desire for retribution. In the midst of this beauty, fear and distrust sing their awful songs, while the refrain life as usual drones on in the background.
I'm not sure I know what life as usual is anymore. It used to be baseball, hotdogs and apple pie. Now it's security forces, bomb sniffing dogs and color-coded terror system.
I've decided life as usual is what you make of it. So today, I'm going to tend to some flowers as a promise of hope. I'm going to hug TinyTuna and make sure she knows that she is loved. I'm going to take her for a walk, and together we can admire beauty created by other people in places other than our own. I'm going to teach her that this life is as special as it is usual.
Because it could all change in the blink of an eye.
That's the way the song goes. It's August. It's the Dog Days of Summer, when the temperatures rise and the people slow down. It's family get-togethers and cookouts and ice cream. It's tomatoes fresh of the vine and too much zucchini and spending some quality time cooling off in a kiddy pool. It's fireflies and wood toads and crickets chirping at sunset.
That's the way it's supposed to be.
Yesterday was the perfectly scripted summer day. All the the ingredients were there: family, food, celebration, an overflowing garden, rabbits, chickens, a dog, a cat and a discovered toad. By the time the day was over, I had a little too much sun, a little too much food, and one extremely tired child who fell asleep on the way home.
That's the way it's supposed to be.
After TinyTuna was tucked in and kissed, and Fabio the bunny was fed, I turned on the TV and fired up the computer. The perfectly scripted summer day became one of heightened security alerts. It was terrorism. It was children playing, followed by unspeakable tragedy. All of that while I was gone. All of that in the blink of an eye.
As I sit in my office today and look outside, the weather is glorious. The sun is shining and it's another picture perfect summer day. But in the midst of this beauty, I know some are living with broken hearts and shattered lives. In the midst of this beauty, I know some are living with anger and resentment and a desire for retribution. In the midst of this beauty, fear and distrust sing their awful songs, while the refrain life as usual drones on in the background.
I'm not sure I know what life as usual is anymore. It used to be baseball, hotdogs and apple pie. Now it's security forces, bomb sniffing dogs and color-coded terror system.
I've decided life as usual is what you make of it. So today, I'm going to tend to some flowers as a promise of hope. I'm going to hug TinyTuna and make sure she knows that she is loved. I'm going to take her for a walk, and together we can admire beauty created by other people in places other than our own. I'm going to teach her that this life is as special as it is usual.
Because it could all change in the blink of an eye.
Juxtaposition
Summertime, and the livin' is easy.....
That's the way the song goes. It's August. It's the Dog Days of Summer, when the temperatures rise and the people slow down. It's family get-togethers and cookouts and ice cream. It's tomatoes fresh of the vine and too much zucchini and spending some quality time cooling off in a kiddy pool. It's fireflies and wood toads and crickets chirping at sunset.
That's the way it's supposed to be.
Yesterday was the perfectly scripted summer day. All the the ingredients were there: family, food, celebration, an overflowing garden, rabbits, chickens, a dog, a cat and a discovered toad. By the time the day was over, I had a little too much sun, a little too much food, and one extremely tired child who fell asleep on the way home.
That's the way it's supposed to be.
After TinyTuna was tucked in and kissed, and Fabio the bunny was fed, I turned on the TV and fired up the computer. The perfectly scripted summer day became one of heightened security alerts. It was terrorism. It was children playing, followed by unspeakable tragedy. All of that while I was gone. All of that in the blink of an eye.
As I sit in my office today and look outside, the weather is glorious. The sun is shining and it's another picture perfect summer day. But in the midst of this beauty, I know some are living with broken hearts and shattered lives. In the midst of this beauty, I know some are living with anger and resentment and a desire for retribution. In the midst of this beauty, fear and distrust sing their awful songs, while the refrain life as usual drones on in the background.
I'm not sure I know what life as usual is anymore. It used to be baseball, hotdogs and apple pie. Now it's security forces, bomb sniffing dogs and color-coded terror system.
I've decided life as usual is what you make of it. So today, I'm going to tend to some flowers as a promise of hope. I'm going to hug TinyTuna and make sure she knows that she is loved. I'm going to take her for a walk, and together we can admire beauty created by other people in places other than our own. I'm going to teach her that this life is as special as it is usual.
Because it could all change in the blink of an eye.
That's the way the song goes. It's August. It's the Dog Days of Summer, when the temperatures rise and the people slow down. It's family get-togethers and cookouts and ice cream. It's tomatoes fresh of the vine and too much zucchini and spending some quality time cooling off in a kiddy pool. It's fireflies and wood toads and crickets chirping at sunset.
That's the way it's supposed to be.
Yesterday was the perfectly scripted summer day. All the the ingredients were there: family, food, celebration, an overflowing garden, rabbits, chickens, a dog, a cat and a discovered toad. By the time the day was over, I had a little too much sun, a little too much food, and one extremely tired child who fell asleep on the way home.
That's the way it's supposed to be.
After TinyTuna was tucked in and kissed, and Fabio the bunny was fed, I turned on the TV and fired up the computer. The perfectly scripted summer day became one of heightened security alerts. It was terrorism. It was children playing, followed by unspeakable tragedy. All of that while I was gone. All of that in the blink of an eye.
As I sit in my office today and look outside, the weather is glorious. The sun is shining and it's another picture perfect summer day. But in the midst of this beauty, I know some are living with broken hearts and shattered lives. In the midst of this beauty, I know some are living with anger and resentment and a desire for retribution. In the midst of this beauty, fear and distrust sing their awful songs, while the refrain life as usual drones on in the background.
I'm not sure I know what life as usual is anymore. It used to be baseball, hotdogs and apple pie. Now it's security forces, bomb sniffing dogs and color-coded terror system.
I've decided life as usual is what you make of it. So today, I'm going to tend to some flowers as a promise of hope. I'm going to hug TinyTuna and make sure she knows that she is loved. I'm going to take her for a walk, and together we can admire beauty created by other people in places other than our own. I'm going to teach her that this life is as special as it is usual.
Because it could all change in the blink of an eye.
Friday, July 30, 2004
The Day The Music Died
The news doesn't get any worse than this.
The Miss America Pageant is dumping the best part of the whole freak-filled show: The Talent. Honestly, I don't think the bean-counters have thought this one through.
Mid-September viewing of The Miss America Pageant has always been a requirement in the Tuna household. And it's not because I've always dreamed of being Miss America since I was three years old, blah blah blah. It's because it's prime time, Grade-A mockery, served up on my television screen.
For the contestants it's an evening of dance routines, bathing suits, evening gowns and tires. For me, it's an evening of bathrobes, score cards, chocolate chip ice cream and Orville Redenbacher. The Miss America Pageant is the perfect date. But ONLY with the talent.
I don't really care about the evening gowns. I don't care at all about the bathing suits. I could do without the cheezy choreographed numbers performed amidst faux water falls. I like the parade of losers made to perform after they've been cut, and I love, LOVE, LOVE the talent. In fact, I'd love to see talent become a mandatory live presentation for all 50 contestants.
I remember a pageant when my co-viewer said, "You'll never guess her talent." I laughed and joked, "Why, Baton-Twirling. What Else?" Out she came with batons a-blazing. Thank you, Psychic Friends Network.
I remember a pageant when Miss Mitten was in the top 10, which meant we got to see her talent! This particular Miss Mitten happened to be from TinyTuna's father's hometown. He didn't know her, but somehow he knew her talent and told me to guess. Baton Twirling? No. Singing? No. Dancing? No. Packing a Suitcase? No.
Her talent was stomping barefoot on broken glass. Ahh, Grasshopper. This is not the path to World Peace and Miss Congeniality. Be that as it may, out she came and after several Kung-Fu Wax-On Wax-Off type poses, she HUAH! HUAH! EYAHHH!-ed her way across the stage and showed that broken glass who was boss.
Sad to say, she didn't make top five.
I've heard singers that can't sing, pianists that massacre the minute waltz and violinists sporting 3-inch fingernails playing something as Hungarian as Middle School Goulash. Glass stompers, Baton Twirlers, Hula Dancers and Ventriloquists that leave me wondering which one is the dummy? I've seen Carmen slaughtered over and over again with a Crest White-Strip smile that would make the Cheshire cat green. It's awful and it's awe-full, and that's just the way I like it.
But it's not all bad. I remember Vanessa Williams knocking the ball out of the park with "Happy Days are Here Again." I remember a Miss New York contestant who honestly wasn't particularly pretty, but who sang Tosca so well, she should have been signed with the Met that very night. Once in awhile, you get a jewel. Mostly though, it's cubic zirconium, baby.
And now they want to take it all away. So I'm begging ABC-TV, don't do it. It's one of the only reasons I even watch you anymore. Bring back the talent. I don't mind if it stinks. I like it. Just look at American Idol. The badder the better. I'll watch, I promise.
And if you don't put it back on, then I'll wear sack-cloth and ashes.
With rhinestones, of course.
The Miss America Pageant is dumping the best part of the whole freak-filled show: The Talent. Honestly, I don't think the bean-counters have thought this one through.
Mid-September viewing of The Miss America Pageant has always been a requirement in the Tuna household. And it's not because I've always dreamed of being Miss America since I was three years old, blah blah blah. It's because it's prime time, Grade-A mockery, served up on my television screen.
For the contestants it's an evening of dance routines, bathing suits, evening gowns and tires. For me, it's an evening of bathrobes, score cards, chocolate chip ice cream and Orville Redenbacher. The Miss America Pageant is the perfect date. But ONLY with the talent.
I don't really care about the evening gowns. I don't care at all about the bathing suits. I could do without the cheezy choreographed numbers performed amidst faux water falls. I like the parade of losers made to perform after they've been cut, and I love, LOVE, LOVE the talent. In fact, I'd love to see talent become a mandatory live presentation for all 50 contestants.
I remember a pageant when my co-viewer said, "You'll never guess her talent." I laughed and joked, "Why, Baton-Twirling. What Else?" Out she came with batons a-blazing. Thank you, Psychic Friends Network.
I remember a pageant when Miss Mitten was in the top 10, which meant we got to see her talent! This particular Miss Mitten happened to be from TinyTuna's father's hometown. He didn't know her, but somehow he knew her talent and told me to guess. Baton Twirling? No. Singing? No. Dancing? No. Packing a Suitcase? No.
Her talent was stomping barefoot on broken glass. Ahh, Grasshopper. This is not the path to World Peace and Miss Congeniality. Be that as it may, out she came and after several Kung-Fu Wax-On Wax-Off type poses, she HUAH! HUAH! EYAHHH!-ed her way across the stage and showed that broken glass who was boss.
Sad to say, she didn't make top five.
I've heard singers that can't sing, pianists that massacre the minute waltz and violinists sporting 3-inch fingernails playing something as Hungarian as Middle School Goulash. Glass stompers, Baton Twirlers, Hula Dancers and Ventriloquists that leave me wondering which one is the dummy? I've seen Carmen slaughtered over and over again with a Crest White-Strip smile that would make the Cheshire cat green. It's awful and it's awe-full, and that's just the way I like it.
But it's not all bad. I remember Vanessa Williams knocking the ball out of the park with "Happy Days are Here Again." I remember a Miss New York contestant who honestly wasn't particularly pretty, but who sang Tosca so well, she should have been signed with the Met that very night. Once in awhile, you get a jewel. Mostly though, it's cubic zirconium, baby.
And now they want to take it all away. So I'm begging ABC-TV, don't do it. It's one of the only reasons I even watch you anymore. Bring back the talent. I don't mind if it stinks. I like it. Just look at American Idol. The badder the better. I'll watch, I promise.
And if you don't put it back on, then I'll wear sack-cloth and ashes.
With rhinestones, of course.
The Day The Music Died
The news doesn't get any worse than this.
The Miss America Pageant is dumping the best part of the whole freak-filled show: The Talent. Honestly, I don't think the bean-counters have thought this one through.
Mid-September viewing of The Miss America Pageant has always been a requirement in the Tuna household. And it's not because I've always dreamed of being Miss America since I was three years old, blah blah blah. It's because it's prime time, Grade-A mockery, served up on my television screen.
For the contestants it's an evening of dance routines, bathing suits, evening gowns and tires. For me, it's an evening of bathrobes, score cards, chocolate chip ice cream and Orville Redenbacher. The Miss America Pageant is the perfect date. But ONLY with the talent.
I don't really care about the evening gowns. I don't care at all about the bathing suits. I could do without the cheezy choreographed numbers performed amidst faux water falls. I like the parade of losers made to perform after they've been cut, and I love, LOVE, LOVE the talent. In fact, I'd love to see talent become a mandatory live presentation for all 50 contestants.
I remember a pageant when my co-viewer said, "You'll never guess her talent." I laughed and joked, "Why, Baton-Twirling. What Else?" Out she came with batons a-blazing. Thank you, Psychic Friends Network.
I remember a pageant when Miss Mitten was in the top 10, which meant we got to see her talent! This particular Miss Mitten happened to be from TinyTuna's father's hometown. He didn't know her, but somehow he knew her talent and told me to guess. Baton Twirling? No. Singing? No. Dancing? No. Packing a Suitcase? No.
Her talent was stomping barefoot on broken glass. Ahh, Grasshopper. This is not the path to World Peace and Miss Congeniality. Be that as it may, out she came and after several Kung-Fu Wax-On Wax-Off type poses, she HUAH! HUAH! EYAHHH!-ed her way across the stage and showed that broken glass who was boss.
Sad to say, she didn't make top five.
I've heard singers that can't sing, pianists that massacre the minute waltz and violinists sporting 3-inch fingernails playing something as Hungarian as Middle School Goulash. Glass stompers, Baton Twirlers, Hula Dancers and Ventriloquists that leave me wondering which one is the dummy? I've seen Carmen slaughtered over and over again with a Crest White-Strip smile that would make the Cheshire cat green. It's awful and it's awe-full, and that's just the way I like it.
But it's not all bad. I remember Vanessa Williams knocking the ball out of the park with "Happy Days are Here Again." I remember a Miss New York contestant who honestly wasn't particularly pretty, but who sang Tosca so well, she should have been signed with the Met that very night. Once in awhile, you get a jewel. Mostly though, it's cubic zirconium, baby.
And now they want to take it all away. So I'm begging ABC-TV, don't do it. It's one of the only reasons I even watch you anymore. Bring back the talent. I don't mind if it stinks. I like it. Just look at American Idol. The badder the better. I'll watch, I promise.
And if you don't put it back on, then I'll wear sack-cloth and ashes.
With rhinestones, of course.
The Miss America Pageant is dumping the best part of the whole freak-filled show: The Talent. Honestly, I don't think the bean-counters have thought this one through.
Mid-September viewing of The Miss America Pageant has always been a requirement in the Tuna household. And it's not because I've always dreamed of being Miss America since I was three years old, blah blah blah. It's because it's prime time, Grade-A mockery, served up on my television screen.
For the contestants it's an evening of dance routines, bathing suits, evening gowns and tires. For me, it's an evening of bathrobes, score cards, chocolate chip ice cream and Orville Redenbacher. The Miss America Pageant is the perfect date. But ONLY with the talent.
I don't really care about the evening gowns. I don't care at all about the bathing suits. I could do without the cheezy choreographed numbers performed amidst faux water falls. I like the parade of losers made to perform after they've been cut, and I love, LOVE, LOVE the talent. In fact, I'd love to see talent become a mandatory live presentation for all 50 contestants.
I remember a pageant when my co-viewer said, "You'll never guess her talent." I laughed and joked, "Why, Baton-Twirling. What Else?" Out she came with batons a-blazing. Thank you, Psychic Friends Network.
I remember a pageant when Miss Mitten was in the top 10, which meant we got to see her talent! This particular Miss Mitten happened to be from TinyTuna's father's hometown. He didn't know her, but somehow he knew her talent and told me to guess. Baton Twirling? No. Singing? No. Dancing? No. Packing a Suitcase? No.
Her talent was stomping barefoot on broken glass. Ahh, Grasshopper. This is not the path to World Peace and Miss Congeniality. Be that as it may, out she came and after several Kung-Fu Wax-On Wax-Off type poses, she HUAH! HUAH! EYAHHH!-ed her way across the stage and showed that broken glass who was boss.
Sad to say, she didn't make top five.
I've heard singers that can't sing, pianists that massacre the minute waltz and violinists sporting 3-inch fingernails playing something as Hungarian as Middle School Goulash. Glass stompers, Baton Twirlers, Hula Dancers and Ventriloquists that leave me wondering which one is the dummy? I've seen Carmen slaughtered over and over again with a Crest White-Strip smile that would make the Cheshire cat green. It's awful and it's awe-full, and that's just the way I like it.
But it's not all bad. I remember Vanessa Williams knocking the ball out of the park with "Happy Days are Here Again." I remember a Miss New York contestant who honestly wasn't particularly pretty, but who sang Tosca so well, she should have been signed with the Met that very night. Once in awhile, you get a jewel. Mostly though, it's cubic zirconium, baby.
And now they want to take it all away. So I'm begging ABC-TV, don't do it. It's one of the only reasons I even watch you anymore. Bring back the talent. I don't mind if it stinks. I like it. Just look at American Idol. The badder the better. I'll watch, I promise.
And if you don't put it back on, then I'll wear sack-cloth and ashes.
With rhinestones, of course.
Thursday, July 29, 2004
Party of the Red Sea
I have been a stranger in a strange land (Exodus 2:22)
If Moses thought the land of Midian was strange, he should have been with me last night at the bar in the land of Mitten. It wasn't strange in that "isn't that odd?" kind of way. It wasn't strange in that "Hmmph. Weird. Oh Well" kind of way. It was strange in that "Who on earth are these people, and how did I get here?" kind of way.
In the olden days (We're talking Reagan era -- alive Reagan, that is) bar night in the old college town was Friday night. Classes were over for the week, and it was neither surprising nor unreasonable to find students stumbling to and from their favorite watering hole to celebrate the end of another week of academia. This continued on Saturday night as an approved weekend activity. Sunday was generally reserved for sleeping it off, and then doing some half-hearted cramming before Monday classes began again.
Somewhere along the line -- after my college days were over -- Friday bar night creeped like Kudzu backwards in time, until Friday bar night was now Thursday bar night. Someone, somewhere deemed Friday and Saturday to be an insufficient amount of time to achieve the appropriate level of drunken stupor required to erase the stress of the week, so an additional 24 hours were added. Evidently this was not a difficult transition, as the university class schedule had already all but given up on Friday classes anyway.
If truth be told, nowadays, for the most part, my bar activity has pretty much dried up. But I went out last night -- WEDNESDAY NIGHT -- to sit outside, drink a beer, listen to some live music and celebrate with the lawyer-to-be upon the completion of his bar exam. Remember, not only is it a Wednesday night, it's also summertime, when most students are enjoying firewater in their home town, not mine.
So. Wednesday night. Summertime. I drove into the Kingdom of TunaVille at approximately 6:30pm and discovered a billion people, all lined up in front of the drinking establishment. I parked the car, walked across the street and up the steps to the restaurant, bypassing the entire line of prospective stumblers. I told Black Pantsed Bouncer The First (BPB-1) that I was there to meet someone who was already here....on the patio. BPB-1 frowned and said, "that's going to be a problem." I asked why, but he gave me that FBI "If I told you, I'd have to kill you" look and said I'd have to talk to Black Pantsed Bouncer The Second (BPB-2).
I waited while BPB-2 finished his current interrogation. He turned to me and I explained again that I was meeting someone who was already here and had a table on the porch. BPB-2 looked at me and said, "I.D. Please". I broke into a HUGE grin that said, "I'm 42, and I thank you" as I fished out my ID. He took his 79-cent black Bic pen and branded me with a microscopic line -- The kind I make TinyTuna wash off her hands nearly every day after school. I was about to ask about "the problem" and he just waved me inside.
Seeya Standing In Line Losers!
I found my gang and settled in for some beer and conversation. The weather was gorgeous, The music was good (I didn't wince once!) and it was nice to see five years of law school and three months of studying evaporate into the night air.
But oh my goodness. The people.
THE PEOPLE.
The bar people.
(Worse Than Pool People, In Case You're Keeping Score)
The bar people were everywhere. Measure for measure, I'd put my plague of bar people up against your plague of Cicadas any day of the week. Cicadas swarm? Bar people swarm. Cicadas are gross and inconsiderate? Bar people are gross and inconsiderate. Cicadas are stupid and can't fly? Bar people are stupid and can't walk. Cicadas make loud obnoxious noises? Bar people make loud obnoxious noises. And I'll raise you one: Cicadas don't have cell phones. Cicadas emerge from the ground to have sex? Bar people... Well, you see where this is going.
And it was WEDNESDAY. Cicadas not only have timing, they also take a 17-year nap. Not bar people. And (in case you've forgotten) this was WEDNESDAY.
So needless to say, there were some prime people-watching moments. The men (with the exception of the Black Pantsed Bouncers and my illustrious party of grown ups) looked like they had either just gotten out of bed, or had just finished playing three hours of basketball. But compared to the women, I would have taken the Rumpled Stiltskin look any day.
The women. What can I say here? The women promoted literacy by wearing skirts so tight I could read the size and brand of their thong. There were skirts so high and shirts so not-low-enough that I thought I was on the Poseidon adventure, where everything is upside down. The shoes, they were chunky and funky and would have served well in case of a flash flood. There were toe rings and belly rings and nose rings and I'm not even going to look to check out tongue bolts or anything else.
To say something positive: Their purses, tucked neatly directly under their armpit, almost always matched...something. Good show!
Throughout the evening the bar people stumbled and the wait-staff fumbled and at one point, we watched our tray of drinks take a detour down a girl's front. It was funny until we realized it would now take another twenty minutes for Subway boy (our waiter was Jerrad) to milk the magic beer cow and bring us another round.
Finally, the dreaded time came
(scary music Duh-Duh-DUHHHHH)
and I had to go inside and find....the restroom
(scary music but louder DUH-DUH-DUH-DUH-DUHHHHHHH)
As I left the comfy confines of ye olde porch and opened the door to go inside, I was magically transported into my worst nightmare. It was wall-to-wall people (IT WAS WEDNESDAY, FOR CRYIN' OUT LOUD), and it would have been easier to cross the La Brea Tar Pits on Pogo Stick than to make my way some 25 feet to the promised land. Sure, there were the stumblers and fumblers, but inside there were also pool-stickers, gropers, groupies and General Revelistas -- Oh My! -- each armed with a beer the size of a bassoon, blocking my path.
I made my way past several cocktail-napkin clad girls and found the bathroom. Little did I know that I was supposed to bring Steinway the Schooner of beer WITH ME into the bathroom. There were so many beers lined up on the sink, I started looking for the portable wet bar. Never in my life have I seen people take their fermented beverage of choice into a bathroom. As I stood in line, half-bemused and half-horrified, some considerate purple-thonged (Victoria's Secret) woman in a too-short white skirt told me I had better grab some toilet paper from a different stall, because these were all out. She pointed me to a stall, but told me I shouldn't look inside.
I took her at her word.
After crossing back over the River Styx and returning to the surface known as the outside patio, I returned to my chair and my beer (I'm sorry I didn't take you for a walk...I DIDN'T KNOW!). People watching was still at a premium, and I soon discovered another new and unusual sight: Butts, as far as my eye could see. If you were looking from the other direction, you would have seen a row of heads with a cell phone glued to one ear and a finger crammed in the other. Unfortunately, I got the bad end of the deal. No phones. Just butts.
Finally, it was time to go. I hoped to auction our table off to the biggest chump still in line, but I'm sure Black-Pantsed-Bouncers Numbers 1-2 wouldn't allow it. As I left and walked past the line that had not gotten any smaller in three hours, I thought back to my own college days, and decided that right here and now, I was better off being like Moses: a stranger in a strange land. So I thought to myself, "Self? What would Moses Do?"
I took two tablets and called it a night.
If Moses thought the land of Midian was strange, he should have been with me last night at the bar in the land of Mitten. It wasn't strange in that "isn't that odd?" kind of way. It wasn't strange in that "Hmmph. Weird. Oh Well" kind of way. It was strange in that "Who on earth are these people, and how did I get here?" kind of way.
In the olden days (We're talking Reagan era -- alive Reagan, that is) bar night in the old college town was Friday night. Classes were over for the week, and it was neither surprising nor unreasonable to find students stumbling to and from their favorite watering hole to celebrate the end of another week of academia. This continued on Saturday night as an approved weekend activity. Sunday was generally reserved for sleeping it off, and then doing some half-hearted cramming before Monday classes began again.
Somewhere along the line -- after my college days were over -- Friday bar night creeped like Kudzu backwards in time, until Friday bar night was now Thursday bar night. Someone, somewhere deemed Friday and Saturday to be an insufficient amount of time to achieve the appropriate level of drunken stupor required to erase the stress of the week, so an additional 24 hours were added. Evidently this was not a difficult transition, as the university class schedule had already all but given up on Friday classes anyway.
If truth be told, nowadays, for the most part, my bar activity has pretty much dried up. But I went out last night -- WEDNESDAY NIGHT -- to sit outside, drink a beer, listen to some live music and celebrate with the lawyer-to-be upon the completion of his bar exam. Remember, not only is it a Wednesday night, it's also summertime, when most students are enjoying firewater in their home town, not mine.
So. Wednesday night. Summertime. I drove into the Kingdom of TunaVille at approximately 6:30pm and discovered a billion people, all lined up in front of the drinking establishment. I parked the car, walked across the street and up the steps to the restaurant, bypassing the entire line of prospective stumblers. I told Black Pantsed Bouncer The First (BPB-1) that I was there to meet someone who was already here....on the patio. BPB-1 frowned and said, "that's going to be a problem." I asked why, but he gave me that FBI "If I told you, I'd have to kill you" look and said I'd have to talk to Black Pantsed Bouncer The Second (BPB-2).
I waited while BPB-2 finished his current interrogation. He turned to me and I explained again that I was meeting someone who was already here and had a table on the porch. BPB-2 looked at me and said, "I.D. Please". I broke into a HUGE grin that said, "I'm 42, and I thank you" as I fished out my ID. He took his 79-cent black Bic pen and branded me with a microscopic line -- The kind I make TinyTuna wash off her hands nearly every day after school. I was about to ask about "the problem" and he just waved me inside.
Seeya Standing In Line Losers!
I found my gang and settled in for some beer and conversation. The weather was gorgeous, The music was good (I didn't wince once!) and it was nice to see five years of law school and three months of studying evaporate into the night air.
But oh my goodness. The people.
THE PEOPLE.
The bar people.
(Worse Than Pool People, In Case You're Keeping Score)
The bar people were everywhere. Measure for measure, I'd put my plague of bar people up against your plague of Cicadas any day of the week. Cicadas swarm? Bar people swarm. Cicadas are gross and inconsiderate? Bar people are gross and inconsiderate. Cicadas are stupid and can't fly? Bar people are stupid and can't walk. Cicadas make loud obnoxious noises? Bar people make loud obnoxious noises. And I'll raise you one: Cicadas don't have cell phones. Cicadas emerge from the ground to have sex? Bar people... Well, you see where this is going.
And it was WEDNESDAY. Cicadas not only have timing, they also take a 17-year nap. Not bar people. And (in case you've forgotten) this was WEDNESDAY.
So needless to say, there were some prime people-watching moments. The men (with the exception of the Black Pantsed Bouncers and my illustrious party of grown ups) looked like they had either just gotten out of bed, or had just finished playing three hours of basketball. But compared to the women, I would have taken the Rumpled Stiltskin look any day.
The women. What can I say here? The women promoted literacy by wearing skirts so tight I could read the size and brand of their thong. There were skirts so high and shirts so not-low-enough that I thought I was on the Poseidon adventure, where everything is upside down. The shoes, they were chunky and funky and would have served well in case of a flash flood. There were toe rings and belly rings and nose rings and I'm not even going to look to check out tongue bolts or anything else.
To say something positive: Their purses, tucked neatly directly under their armpit, almost always matched...something. Good show!
Throughout the evening the bar people stumbled and the wait-staff fumbled and at one point, we watched our tray of drinks take a detour down a girl's front. It was funny until we realized it would now take another twenty minutes for Subway boy (our waiter was Jerrad) to milk the magic beer cow and bring us another round.
Finally, the dreaded time came
(scary music Duh-Duh-DUHHHHH)
and I had to go inside and find....the restroom
(scary music but louder DUH-DUH-DUH-DUH-DUHHHHHHH)
As I left the comfy confines of ye olde porch and opened the door to go inside, I was magically transported into my worst nightmare. It was wall-to-wall people (IT WAS WEDNESDAY, FOR CRYIN' OUT LOUD), and it would have been easier to cross the La Brea Tar Pits on Pogo Stick than to make my way some 25 feet to the promised land. Sure, there were the stumblers and fumblers, but inside there were also pool-stickers, gropers, groupies and General Revelistas -- Oh My! -- each armed with a beer the size of a bassoon, blocking my path.
I made my way past several cocktail-napkin clad girls and found the bathroom. Little did I know that I was supposed to bring Steinway the Schooner of beer WITH ME into the bathroom. There were so many beers lined up on the sink, I started looking for the portable wet bar. Never in my life have I seen people take their fermented beverage of choice into a bathroom. As I stood in line, half-bemused and half-horrified, some considerate purple-thonged (Victoria's Secret) woman in a too-short white skirt told me I had better grab some toilet paper from a different stall, because these were all out. She pointed me to a stall, but told me I shouldn't look inside.
I took her at her word.
After crossing back over the River Styx and returning to the surface known as the outside patio, I returned to my chair and my beer (I'm sorry I didn't take you for a walk...I DIDN'T KNOW!). People watching was still at a premium, and I soon discovered another new and unusual sight: Butts, as far as my eye could see. If you were looking from the other direction, you would have seen a row of heads with a cell phone glued to one ear and a finger crammed in the other. Unfortunately, I got the bad end of the deal. No phones. Just butts.
Finally, it was time to go. I hoped to auction our table off to the biggest chump still in line, but I'm sure Black-Pantsed-Bouncers Numbers 1-2 wouldn't allow it. As I left and walked past the line that had not gotten any smaller in three hours, I thought back to my own college days, and decided that right here and now, I was better off being like Moses: a stranger in a strange land. So I thought to myself, "Self? What would Moses Do?"
I took two tablets and called it a night.
Party of the Red Sea
I have been a stranger in a strange land (Exodus 2:22)
If Moses thought the land of Midian was strange, he should have been with me last night at the bar in the land of Mitten. It wasn't strange in that "isn't that odd?" kind of way. It wasn't strange in that "Hmmph. Weird. Oh Well" kind of way. It was strange in that "Who on earth are these people, and how did I get here?" kind of way.
In the olden days (We're talking Reagan era -- alive Reagan, that is) bar night in the old college town was Friday night. Classes were over for the week, and it was neither surprising nor unreasonable to find students stumbling to and from their favorite watering hole to celebrate the end of another week of academia. This continued on Saturday night as an approved weekend activity. Sunday was generally reserved for sleeping it off, and then doing some half-hearted cramming before Monday classes began again.
Somewhere along the line -- after my college days were over -- Friday bar night creeped like Kudzu backwards in time, until Friday bar night was now Thursday bar night. Someone, somewhere deemed Friday and Saturday to be an insufficient amount of time to achieve the appropriate level of drunken stupor required to erase the stress of the week, so an additional 24 hours were added. Evidently this was not a difficult transition, as the university class schedule had already all but given up on Friday classes anyway.
If truth be told, nowadays, for the most part, my bar activity has pretty much dried up. But I went out last night -- WEDNESDAY NIGHT -- to sit outside, drink a beer, listen to some live music and celebrate with the lawyer-to-be upon the completion of his bar exam. Remember, not only is it a Wednesday night, it's also summertime, when most students are enjoying firewater in their home town, not mine.
So. Wednesday night. Summertime. I drove into the Kingdom of TunaVille at approximately 6:30pm and discovered a billion people, all lined up in front of the drinking establishment. I parked the car, walked across the street and up the steps to the restaurant, bypassing the entire line of prospective stumblers. I told Black Pantsed Bouncer The First (BPB-1) that I was there to meet someone who was already here....on the patio. BPB-1 frowned and said, "that's going to be a problem." I asked why, but he gave me that FBI "If I told you, I'd have to kill you" look and said I'd have to talk to Black Pantsed Bouncer The Second (BPB-2).
I waited while BPB-2 finished his current interrogation. He turned to me and I explained again that I was meeting someone who was already here and had a table on the porch. BPB-2 looked at me and said, "I.D. Please". I broke into a HUGE grin that said, "I'm 42, and I thank you" as I fished out my ID. He took his 79-cent black Bic pen and branded me with a microscopic line -- The kind I make TinyTuna wash off her hands nearly every day after school. I was about to ask about "the problem" and he just waved me inside.
Seeya Standing In Line Losers!
I found my gang and settled in for some beer and conversation. The weather was gorgeous, The music was good (I didn't wince once!) and it was nice to see five years of law school and three months of studying evaporate into the night air.
But oh my goodness. The people.
THE PEOPLE.
The bar people.
(Worse Than Pool People, In Case You're Keeping Score)
The bar people were everywhere. Measure for measure, I'd put my plague of bar people up against your plague of Cicadas any day of the week. Cicadas swarm? Bar people swarm. Cicadas are gross and inconsiderate? Bar people are gross and inconsiderate. Cicadas are stupid and can't fly? Bar people are stupid and can't walk. Cicadas make loud obnoxious noises? Bar people make loud obnoxious noises. And I'll raise you one: Cicadas don't have cell phones. Cicadas emerge from the ground to have sex? Bar people... Well, you see where this is going.
And it was WEDNESDAY. Cicadas not only have timing, they also take a 17-year nap. Not bar people. And (in case you've forgotten) this was WEDNESDAY.
So needless to say, there were some prime people-watching moments. The men (with the exception of the Black Pantsed Bouncers and my illustrious party of grown ups) looked like they had either just gotten out of bed, or had just finished playing three hours of basketball. But compared to the women, I would have taken the Rumpled Stiltskin look any day.
The women. What can I say here? The women promoted literacy by wearing skirts so tight I could read the size and brand of their thong. There were skirts so high and shirts so not-low-enough that I thought I was on the Poseidon adventure, where everything is upside down. The shoes, they were chunky and funky and would have served well in case of a flash flood. There were toe rings and belly rings and nose rings and I'm not even going to look to check out tongue bolts or anything else.
To say something positive: Their purses, tucked neatly directly under their armpit, almost always matched...something. Good show!
Throughout the evening the bar people stumbled and the wait-staff fumbled and at one point, we watched our tray of drinks take a detour down a girl's front. It was funny until we realized it would now take another twenty minutes for Subway boy (our waiter was Jerrad) to milk the magic beer cow and bring us another round.
Finally, the dreaded time came
(scary music Duh-Duh-DUHHHHH)
and I had to go inside and find....the restroom
(scary music but louder DUH-DUH-DUH-DUH-DUHHHHHHH)
As I left the comfy confines of ye olde porch and opened the door to go inside, I was magically transported into my worst nightmare. It was wall-to-wall people (IT WAS WEDNESDAY, FOR CRYIN' OUT LOUD), and it would have been easier to cross the La Brea Tar Pits on Pogo Stick than to make my way some 25 feet to the promised land. Sure, there were the stumblers and fumblers, but inside there were also pool-stickers, gropers, groupies and General Revelistas -- Oh My! -- each armed with a beer the size of a bassoon, blocking my path.
I made my way past several cocktail-napkin clad girls and found the bathroom. Little did I know that I was supposed to bring Steinway the Schooner of beer WITH ME into the bathroom. There were so many beers lined up on the sink, I started looking for the portable wet bar. Never in my life have I seen people take their fermented beverage of choice into a bathroom. As I stood in line, half-bemused and half-horrified, some considerate purple-thonged (Victoria's Secret) woman in a too-short white skirt told me I had better grab some toilet paper from a different stall, because these were all out. She pointed me to a stall, but told me I shouldn't look inside.
I took her at her word.
After crossing back over the River Styx and returning to the surface known as the outside patio, I returned to my chair and my beer (I'm sorry I didn't take you for a walk...I DIDN'T KNOW!). People watching was still at a premium, and I soon discovered another new and unusual sight: Butts, as far as my eye could see. If you were looking from the other direction, you would have seen a row of heads with a cell phone glued to one ear and a finger crammed in the other. Unfortunately, I got the bad end of the deal. No phones. Just butts.
Finally, it was time to go. I hoped to auction our table off to the biggest chump still in line, but I'm sure Black-Pantsed-Bouncers Numbers 1-2 wouldn't allow it. As I left and walked past the line that had not gotten any smaller in three hours, I thought back to my own college days, and decided that right here and now, I was better off being like Moses: a stranger in a strange land. So I thought to myself, "Self? What would Moses Do?"
I took two tablets and called it a night.
If Moses thought the land of Midian was strange, he should have been with me last night at the bar in the land of Mitten. It wasn't strange in that "isn't that odd?" kind of way. It wasn't strange in that "Hmmph. Weird. Oh Well" kind of way. It was strange in that "Who on earth are these people, and how did I get here?" kind of way.
In the olden days (We're talking Reagan era -- alive Reagan, that is) bar night in the old college town was Friday night. Classes were over for the week, and it was neither surprising nor unreasonable to find students stumbling to and from their favorite watering hole to celebrate the end of another week of academia. This continued on Saturday night as an approved weekend activity. Sunday was generally reserved for sleeping it off, and then doing some half-hearted cramming before Monday classes began again.
Somewhere along the line -- after my college days were over -- Friday bar night creeped like Kudzu backwards in time, until Friday bar night was now Thursday bar night. Someone, somewhere deemed Friday and Saturday to be an insufficient amount of time to achieve the appropriate level of drunken stupor required to erase the stress of the week, so an additional 24 hours were added. Evidently this was not a difficult transition, as the university class schedule had already all but given up on Friday classes anyway.
If truth be told, nowadays, for the most part, my bar activity has pretty much dried up. But I went out last night -- WEDNESDAY NIGHT -- to sit outside, drink a beer, listen to some live music and celebrate with the lawyer-to-be upon the completion of his bar exam. Remember, not only is it a Wednesday night, it's also summertime, when most students are enjoying firewater in their home town, not mine.
So. Wednesday night. Summertime. I drove into the Kingdom of TunaVille at approximately 6:30pm and discovered a billion people, all lined up in front of the drinking establishment. I parked the car, walked across the street and up the steps to the restaurant, bypassing the entire line of prospective stumblers. I told Black Pantsed Bouncer The First (BPB-1) that I was there to meet someone who was already here....on the patio. BPB-1 frowned and said, "that's going to be a problem." I asked why, but he gave me that FBI "If I told you, I'd have to kill you" look and said I'd have to talk to Black Pantsed Bouncer The Second (BPB-2).
I waited while BPB-2 finished his current interrogation. He turned to me and I explained again that I was meeting someone who was already here and had a table on the porch. BPB-2 looked at me and said, "I.D. Please". I broke into a HUGE grin that said, "I'm 42, and I thank you" as I fished out my ID. He took his 79-cent black Bic pen and branded me with a microscopic line -- The kind I make TinyTuna wash off her hands nearly every day after school. I was about to ask about "the problem" and he just waved me inside.
Seeya Standing In Line Losers!
I found my gang and settled in for some beer and conversation. The weather was gorgeous, The music was good (I didn't wince once!) and it was nice to see five years of law school and three months of studying evaporate into the night air.
But oh my goodness. The people.
THE PEOPLE.
The bar people.
(Worse Than Pool People, In Case You're Keeping Score)
The bar people were everywhere. Measure for measure, I'd put my plague of bar people up against your plague of Cicadas any day of the week. Cicadas swarm? Bar people swarm. Cicadas are gross and inconsiderate? Bar people are gross and inconsiderate. Cicadas are stupid and can't fly? Bar people are stupid and can't walk. Cicadas make loud obnoxious noises? Bar people make loud obnoxious noises. And I'll raise you one: Cicadas don't have cell phones. Cicadas emerge from the ground to have sex? Bar people... Well, you see where this is going.
And it was WEDNESDAY. Cicadas not only have timing, they also take a 17-year nap. Not bar people. And (in case you've forgotten) this was WEDNESDAY.
So needless to say, there were some prime people-watching moments. The men (with the exception of the Black Pantsed Bouncers and my illustrious party of grown ups) looked like they had either just gotten out of bed, or had just finished playing three hours of basketball. But compared to the women, I would have taken the Rumpled Stiltskin look any day.
The women. What can I say here? The women promoted literacy by wearing skirts so tight I could read the size and brand of their thong. There were skirts so high and shirts so not-low-enough that I thought I was on the Poseidon adventure, where everything is upside down. The shoes, they were chunky and funky and would have served well in case of a flash flood. There were toe rings and belly rings and nose rings and I'm not even going to look to check out tongue bolts or anything else.
To say something positive: Their purses, tucked neatly directly under their armpit, almost always matched...something. Good show!
Throughout the evening the bar people stumbled and the wait-staff fumbled and at one point, we watched our tray of drinks take a detour down a girl's front. It was funny until we realized it would now take another twenty minutes for Subway boy (our waiter was Jerrad) to milk the magic beer cow and bring us another round.
Finally, the dreaded time came
(scary music Duh-Duh-DUHHHHH)
and I had to go inside and find....the restroom
(scary music but louder DUH-DUH-DUH-DUH-DUHHHHHHH)
As I left the comfy confines of ye olde porch and opened the door to go inside, I was magically transported into my worst nightmare. It was wall-to-wall people (IT WAS WEDNESDAY, FOR CRYIN' OUT LOUD), and it would have been easier to cross the La Brea Tar Pits on Pogo Stick than to make my way some 25 feet to the promised land. Sure, there were the stumblers and fumblers, but inside there were also pool-stickers, gropers, groupies and General Revelistas -- Oh My! -- each armed with a beer the size of a bassoon, blocking my path.
I made my way past several cocktail-napkin clad girls and found the bathroom. Little did I know that I was supposed to bring Steinway the Schooner of beer WITH ME into the bathroom. There were so many beers lined up on the sink, I started looking for the portable wet bar. Never in my life have I seen people take their fermented beverage of choice into a bathroom. As I stood in line, half-bemused and half-horrified, some considerate purple-thonged (Victoria's Secret) woman in a too-short white skirt told me I had better grab some toilet paper from a different stall, because these were all out. She pointed me to a stall, but told me I shouldn't look inside.
I took her at her word.
After crossing back over the River Styx and returning to the surface known as the outside patio, I returned to my chair and my beer (I'm sorry I didn't take you for a walk...I DIDN'T KNOW!). People watching was still at a premium, and I soon discovered another new and unusual sight: Butts, as far as my eye could see. If you were looking from the other direction, you would have seen a row of heads with a cell phone glued to one ear and a finger crammed in the other. Unfortunately, I got the bad end of the deal. No phones. Just butts.
Finally, it was time to go. I hoped to auction our table off to the biggest chump still in line, but I'm sure Black-Pantsed-Bouncers Numbers 1-2 wouldn't allow it. As I left and walked past the line that had not gotten any smaller in three hours, I thought back to my own college days, and decided that right here and now, I was better off being like Moses: a stranger in a strange land. So I thought to myself, "Self? What would Moses Do?"
I took two tablets and called it a night.
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