Kill the Happy Vampire!

One thing you may not remember about me is that I have a very, very active imagination. My daydreams are often ridiculously vivid, life-threatening narratives involving family and friends, and yes, tragic death. Chris just shakes his head and asks me to “share” a little less often. And then he asks what the life insurance limits are.

And one thing you may remember about me is my confession to having read all of the Twilight novels – twice – and that my real guilty pleasure is TRUE BLOOD, both the novels and the HBO series. Well, with both authors holding out on their next books, and the second Twilight movie still shooting somewhere in Canada, I have to get my supernatural fix somewhere…

So, Chris and I opted to download the Vampire Diaries series on the CW. Yes, the CW. Yes, I’m 46. No, I’m not in therapy. Just move on, please. This is a ridiculous rip-off of the Twilight series, without the sex angst. Soooo without the sex angst. No sex angst here at all. Trust me. You still get all of the famed Edward and Bella “love me, love me not; go away, come here; love interest-to-incite-jealousy” drama that just makes you want to scream and hit mute, but these teens act as though they are in their late twenties.

There are no adults in the town, except for a few “legal guardians” who may be in their early thirties; all of the high school fundraisers are car washes where the kids are wearing pretty much nothing and have bodies so sculpted it puts Olympic gymnasts to shame; every high school hang-out scene occurs at a bar, where drinks are served to every kid over 12; and every individual in this school is so skilled at sex, they must have taken classes with a Kama Sutra instructor. Yes, I know this because I’ve watched every episode — swearing through clenched teeth and rolling eyes that I won’t — and can testify in court to its idiocy. This is one TV show that really makes me glad I don’t have kids. No way could I, as a parent, compete with that. But let’s get to the title of the post: Kill the Happy Vampire!

Lexie -- the Breath of Fresh Air

The writers made a marvelous decision to interrupt the weekly display of angst, frustration, family tragedies (apparently a high number of this town’s parents are either dead, simply missing, or running away with another adult leaving someone behind… it’s actually written into the script), drug and alcohol-induced hangovers and/or depression (we actually went back and reviewed the downloads… none of the main characters smile… ever), lovesick fighting, best friend dumping and locker room brawling to introduce a lovely, funny, beautiful, 350 year-old vampire with a smile that lit up every scene! She was fabulously refreshing, brought out the smiles and best in everyone, and actually made you breathe a sigh of relief at the change of pace and behavior of the characters. AND THEN THEY KILLED HER ALL IN THE SAME EPISOSDE! What? Are you kidding me? The one bright spot in the series snuffed out in 48 minutes. We started laughing when we realized that it didn’t matter who this character was, what she looked like, whether she was human or vampire, but that we had latched onto her like magnets simply because she smiled and laughed! Not so much any more. Dead. Gone. Back to depression and angst. How long can this series really run? As long as suckers like me continue to watch it and post about it, probably. I’m just perpetuating the drama. Maybe it’s time for me to put some of my own tragic, life-threatening narratives into script form and see which network bites… or just rip off someone else’s plot lines. That seems to be a sure thing…

Oh, and about those Twilight novels. Once you discover that Stephanie Meyer, the author of the Twilight novels, is a Mormon woman, working out of her home, all of the sex angst and abstention, stoic resovle to endure and sacrifice, and the protagaonist/newly-turned vampire’s power to protect her loved ones through the power of her love becomes crystal clear. Read them again with that in mind. Completely different story.

The Purity of Animal Communication

By now you know how much I love my little menagerie. They are the most ridiculous creatures — wonderfully vocal and physically demonstrative. And every time I am certain I am just projecting my human emotions upon them, they do something that conversely makes me think that perhaps it is they that project their animal emotions upon me.

Take Geronimo, our 4 year-old Sun Conure. Frighteningly intelligent, he not only mimics phrases such as “Hi Sweetie,” and  “I’m a good boy,” and human laughter (all my conversations while working from home rubbed off on him), but also inserts the mimicry appropriately into conversation. If he’s screaming noisily (is there any other way to scream?), we tell him he’s getting a time out, and we move to cover the cage with his sleeping cover. Quickly, he responds with “I’m a good boy, I’m a good boy,” to which we reply “no, you’re not,” to which he replies, “I’m a good boy, I’m a good boy.” Then, when he’s been quiet in his “time out phase” for about 15 minutes or so, he’ll starting inserting himself into whatever conversations with subtle laughter in the form of “heh, heh, heh,” just to let us know he’s in there and ready to behave.

Geronimo also mimics our attempts to mimic him, creating a Parenglish (Parrot/English) vocabulary that he uses on us to get what he wants. Little calls, little grunts, little clucks, all in the name of flock communication. We respond happily, and in the end, he’s accomplished exactly what he set out to do: get out of the cage, get on one of us, and get his head and neck scratched.

The dogs? Chloe and Samson are just as adept in their own way, though for them the barking version communication is saved for the most exciting moments of their life — the games, the balls, the visitors, the play-fights. The gutteral, in-throat communication is a completely different ball game, but equally effective. Chloe picks up her toys and growls and barks “around them” to show her excitement at your arrival home, without ever opening her mouth. It’s hysterically funny and like someone trying to talk through a gag. Samson? His in-throat communications are all about different levels of whining: the long, drawn out, rolling whine is his version of a human stretch; the wheezing whistle is all about his desire to get your attention so you’ll throw his ball; his “silent bark” — where he simply claps his jaws together without sound a few times — is the preamble to joyful exhuberance.

More visual and possibly more easily interpreted is the physical involvement of their entire bodies — the Dachshund Wiggle — in communicating complete happiness of the moment. The lie on the floor, head on paws, eyes raised and following your movements “pout” is ridiculously apparent, and occurs with regularity, whenever a suitcase comes out of the closet. Chloe is notorious for “unpacking” a packed suitcase by stealing your socks and underwear while you are not looking.

All in all, they’ve taught us well. Sure, Geronimo politely “steps up” when I ask him to step onto my finger, and Chloe and Samson obediently “sit” when they see my hand gesture, run to me when they hear “Puppies, come!” But when I reflect on our “humanimal” pack, I realize that it is they who have done most of the teaching, most of the communicating, and a helluva lot of the loving.

Taking Gay Advantage of Male Steretypes

You know you need some work/life balance when you realize that yesterday was your 5-year anniversary and you missed it. And your other half missed it. Maybe that makes it okay? Maybe that’s why gay male relationships work, because if you both commit a relationship faux paus that blantantly reinforces a male stereotype in general, it cancels itself out? Let’s hope so! Score one for being a guy and getting away with it!

Chris and I have both been working at such a fast and furious pace that we simply missed it. In fact, I’m not even sure it’s crossed his mind, yet. He’s in London on business. So random. Even last week, in a moment of subdued panic, I looked at Chris and said, “What day is it, I think we forgot our anniversary.” Then, of course, that lead us into our standard mock-argument that he really has no idea what day our anniversary is, anyway, so he really can’t be much help to me in remembering it. He just knows it falls somewhere between his birthday and mine with Thanksgiving thrown in the mix. But even so, we checked calendars in that moment, and noted that we still had a week, so we were okay. That week came and went in a flash on into the next…

So, here’s to celebrating 5 years… with a memory of our first Thanksgiving going up in flames to celebrate!

I Believe in Music!

Actually, I do believe in music, very much. But that line is also the title of my very first audition song. It was my “up tempo” and “He Ain’t Heavy” was my ballad. Both were solid hits for the time period, and sang my heart out. I even remember belting out the “I Believe in Music” refrain riff, “sing it to me, children…” as a 17 year old. Kills me when I think about it, but god, life was so wonderfully raw and undiscovered at that point in my life. As it should have been.

Life now? Jaded. Tired. Spent. Okay, okay, I’m not quite that caloused. It’s probably the weekend weather and vortex that is work that is sending me down that slippery slope. Thus, (does anyone really use that word any more?) the post about music. It lifts me up. And, specifically, these artists — new to me — are delivering me from the commotion and turmoil all around me. Check them out:

Dave Barnes – “Me and You and the World” and “You, the Night & Candlelight”  are both sweet. Love his voice and the mood he sets across both. “Until You,” “On a Night Like This,” and “Home” are a must listen. Just be patient and let him do what he does… lull you to peace…

Graham Colton – His “Here Right Now” CD is refreshing — a nice mix of great melodies, clear vocals and guitar. My favorites here are “Best Days” and “Let It Go.” Introspective but not meloncholy.

 

 

Jon McLaughlin — “OK Now” was my first introduction, folllowed by “Indiana.” I can’t say enough about them. Very talented man. And “Why I’m Talking to You” is simply the sexiest song I’ve heard in a very long time. The groove, the lyrics, everything about it makes you smile and want to get it on. Great tune. His newest single “Proud Father” takes him in a new direction. Love that.

Marc Broussard – I know I’m so late to the party with this guy, but that’s the joy of discovery, right? “Man for Life” is just plain fun, “Going Home” sweet and memorable, and duets with both LeeAnne Rimes and Sara Bareilles deliver, as well. His latest, “Must be the Water” is all in the name of New Orleans, and is a great mix of blues and dixieland.

Matthew West – My newest find, and favorite for the time being. “The Day Before You” from “The Writer’s Room” is unashamedly romantic and soulful. I can listen to it repeatedly and not tire of it. “More” from his CD titled “Happy” is equally romantic, but much more playful in delivery. He’s one of those artists that you are happy for. You truly want him to succeed.

Ronan Keating — Another recent discovery. He covers “She Believes in Me” (Kenny Rogers?), a surprisingly refreshing approach. Just enough of himself in there to make you appreciate it all over again. He duets with LeeAnne Rimes (isn’t everyone now? She’s the duet “it” girl) and they find a nice harmonic groove together. He gets romantic on “This is Your Song” and lays some nice tracks over himself that really fill it out, as simple as it is.

Going Postal While Going Mobile

Source: quickpwn.com

I love my USAA iPhone app. Let me say that again. I love my USAA iPhone app. As a bank, USAA has never done me wrong. Gave me my first car loan. My first credit card. My first car and renters’ insurance. They stuck by me and I’ve stuck by them. It’s been over 20 years now. I may have wandered into a few competitive branches now and then, but I always come home. So — when they introduced the new app that let’s me photograph a check with my iPhone (front and back), send the image via a Deposit@Mobile menu, and then give me access to those funds WITHIN TWO MINUTES? I was sold all over again. Crazy good stuff.

So, I’m cranking at work this week, trying to catch a flight and keep meetings going on my Blackberry phone while in a car to the airport. I get the crazy idea that I can truly multi-task by depositing a check on my iPhone at the same time. Good idea. Okay, may just an okay idea, given the situation, but I still liked it.

But an okay idea quickly turned ludicrous, as I tried to maintain conversation on my call, perch the check between my legs on the seat for best visibility (it requires a dark background and the edges of the check must be visibile), and then snap photos of the check for the deposit — all in ridiculous motion as the driver is trying to get me to LaGuardia from Manhattan within 20 minutes after getting stuck for 25 minutes waiting for a break in the Veteran’s Day Parade in the city by my office! Every time I was poised for the perfect photo, we’d round a bend at 70 MPH or brake to 55 MPH, throwing my bag to the floor, me into the door, and the check floating to where ever it felt inclined. If I hadn’t been so focused and frustrated — and on a call — I would have probably started laughing and realized the situation was hopeless…  But no, stubborn me just kept trying. I kept seeing the driver checking me out in the rear view mirror, trying to figure out exactly what I was doing. I’m sure he’s seen and heard worse, so no drama there.

In the end? I made the check deposit after I check through security. And that’s still pretty cool.

Fabulous Frocks and Elegant Airs

Lady in White

I was walking home from work the other evening and came upon a woman who must have been in her early eighties.  Having loved two grandmas and seen them live long, healthy lives into their late eighties and early nineties, I’m making a relatively safe bet, here.

She was fabulous. So fabulous, she brought out the Lady GaGa in me — Paparazzi. I pulled out my iPhone and tried to photograph her while walking. The result? The grainy “surveillance photo” above. It does her absolutely no justice.

She was in pumps with a 2″ heel, nylon stockings with an elegant seam up the back, matching black leather bag — of course — and the the coat? Just look at it. Stunning, white and fitted perfectly around her shoulders and fastened with a single button at her throat.

Her silver hair was pulled back in a tasteful, simple bun that was enclosed in a hairnet just around the bun. In her right hand was a beautiful walking stick (not visible in this photo).

Her make-up was understated, her gait was calm, her eyes focused on the horizon. She was breath-taking. She was beautiful. And she welcomed it. There was no pretense. There was no pride. She was simply a woman in a fabulous frock with an elegant air.

Read Them and Weep

In this case, the tears may be just as much for boredom and sorrow, as they are for joy. But two out of three isn’t bad. Here’s my take:

“Cross Country” — James Patterson… Let’s get this out of the way quickly. Pass. I was in need of some adventure reading to take my mind off of business while traveling, and thought for sure Mr. Patterson would not let me down. Wrong. The synopsis spelled intrigue and mystery — with no mention of societal grandstanding. But the book? Right from page one we’re knee deep in the horrendous violence of war-torn Nigeria. My thoughts of pleasurable escape turned into guilt and sorrow for not liking the book. Mr. Patterson has cloaked this mystery in humanitarian activism and set it in DC with a multitude of chapters in Africa. I kept wanting to toss it aside, but was internally torn with wondering whether or not that meant I didn’t care about the genocide and unspeakable crimes happening to those people across the globe, or simply did not like the book. It was incredibly perplexing. Doubling my frustration was the fact that I cared NOTHING about the central character, who somehow survived everything from gunshot wounds to pistol-whipping to starvation and beating in prison to a CIA kidnapping, all on minimal sleep and with nothing more than a broken nose. Oh, and he’s a detective AND a clinical psychologist. In the end, I finished the book and swore off James Patterson for a while.

“World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War” — Max Brooks… A wonderfully sane approach to an outrageous topic. This guy weaves “personal interviews” of WWZ survivors into a global account of catastophic proportions. Some professional reviewers have likened it to a modern day Welles’ “War of the Worlds” broadcast, and I’d have to agree. The realness completely overrides the absurdity of the fact that a Zombie virus has basically wiped out the world, and every country has been forced to deal with their survival separately. It’s an interesting political commentary on our unified response to a global disaster. Take a chance. Read it.

 

“The Road” — Cormac McCarthy… Since first diving into Mr. McCarthy’s voice with “Blood Meridian” (and yes, I had both my thesaurus and dictionary out the entire time), I fell in love with the guy. His “Border Trilogy” and multiple earlier works are all worth a read. “The Road”? It falls right in line, but surprised me in its hopelessness. It’s hopelessness was beautiful. How do you write that? Oddly, it too, follows a global disaster, and the changes in society and humanity, but focuses on a father and son, and their journey to stay human and reach someplace they really aren’t sure exists — but hope it does — to live in relative safety from the dangers of the new world. It’s heavy-hearted, but not heavy-handed. I admit I’m biased, and maybe I enjoyed it so much just because it was Mr. McCarthy’s next work, and I had been combing the bookstores in anticipation. But I still enjoyed it. And I’d definitely recommend it.

How I See It

Or not. Literally. And last night’s adventure in sight was completely appropriate as we were celebrating Chris’ 40-something birthday with two friends.

We headed to Rosa Mexicano at Lincoln Center. Yeah, yeah, a bit over-priced (1 Corona and 1 Margerita at the bar — with house Tequila — came to $18.50) but when you think about that guacamole made-to-order right at your table? You forgive the price, revel in the attentive service, and enjoy the evening… as long as you can read the menu. Thank god it’s Mexican food and you pretty much know your favorites at this point in life… If you don’t? You sure as hell won’t find it on the menu. It’s there, oh, I’m sure it’s there, but who can read it? Not one of us at the table!

The funniest realization was that even if you knew what you wanted, if you weren’t intimately familiar with the Spanish language or cuisine, you were in trouble: Mariposa de Huachingo, Arrachera con Camarones, Alambre a la Mexicana — all lovely titles, but what exactly were they? Ni idea. Nada. And none of us had brought our reading glasses. Vanity wins. We lose.

And when the bill came? I labored over it, Chris labored over it, and finally we gave in, passed it across the table to ask for a third opinion and determine if we were seeing a 9 or an 8, a 64 or 84, and, oh, by the way, can you just tell me the final bill? Miserable. And until my statement comes? I’ll truly have no idea of what it really was… We were laughing so hard — Chris had actually prepared ahead of time with his reading glasses, and then changed coats at the last minute, leaving the holy objects behind at home. We were in trouble from the start.

After dinner, however, we met friends at Serafina for a drink, and were immediately vindicated as the two of them sheepishly passed a pair of reading glasses back and forth in order to read the appetizer menu. Our laughter wasn’t truly appreciated until we explained our experience at dinner. And then the next 30 minutes were spent swapping blurred, double, near and far sights.

Ah, life is good. Even the parts of it you can’t see.

Quote of the Month

It’s not quite the end of the month, yet, but I have a feeling this one can’t be topped. Thank you, Chris.

I was snacking the other night. 10 PM. Starving. Raiding the cupboards. Peanuts, almonds, crackers, even looked closely at dry cereal. Then I heard: “Stop eating! I didn’t marry William Shatner!”

Really? William Shatner? The former hottie gone soft? The captain gone capsule? The actor so in tune with his Boston Legal “Denny Craig” character — and himself –  that he lets “puffy gawker” quips be written into the script and delivered by Heather Locklear? THAT William Shatner? Really?

THEN

NOW

Once I got over the horror of the slur, I actually laughed out loud. The delivery was perfect. The source authentic. And yeah, I’m a little puffy. Now where did I put the Hagen Daas?

Rude Awakening

Literally… a RUDE awakening. I guess maybe I deserved it. But I definitely wasn’t ready for it. Are we ever? I’m coming off a rough week, a rough few months, a rough three years. Multiple cross-country moves. A few job changes. A number of losses of family members, friends, and pets. And this month? Last week came to a screeching halt at 9:05 PM on Friday, after a week full of new business propasals, industry award entries, business travel, current client program executions, all kicking some serious 46-year old ass. But I can take it. Par for the course. Part of the job. You take it in stride, keep your head down, and focus on getting through.

With that in mind, picture me walking to my local market to do some grocery shopping, and happily running into a friend with whom I used to play volleyball regularly — four years ago. “Hey (name witheld)! How are you!” “Alan? Wow, hi! How are you? I thought you were in Minnesota?” And the conversation continued with average normalcy until our parting, when he gave me that slow once-over (head to toe, as only a NY gay can do), and simply said: “I didn’t even recognize you. Take care.” And off he went.

Me? I stood there in the rain giving myself the once-over, and noticed the MN all-weather boots, the jeans from target (yes, 34 x 34, because I’m a little more rotund than I used to be), a Winter ‘08 puffy coat, and a Nike ball cap that I know should never be worn in public, but what the hell, right? And then I remembered my face from the mirror this morning — the dark circles under my eyes, the jawline that seems just a little puffy right now (not to mention the cheeks), the less then vibrant skin tone. The wear and tear of the last four years and, specifically, the last six months. And I remembered that the last time this guy had seen me was on the beach in Fire Island playing some serious beach volleyball in an all-day tournie in which my team placed second. I was ripped, lean, vibrant, and, most importantly, healthy. And THAT was the rude awakening.

As I walked to the market, I forgave “player x” — he was always known for being less-than-tactful, anyway — but I realized that I need to get back in the game. And fast.

Why I Hate NYC

I know, dramatic, right? But equal time for the trials of living here must be paid… So… our quick”zip-car” trip across the river to Target for supplies (we needed a Midwestern suburban fix) turned into a trek equal to my pioneer heritage. Getting there was a breeze. The shopping was bliss. The return trip was quick — no traffic in the Holland Tunnel… Then the real fun began.

We headed up the West Side Highway, only to discover that a bike race had closed it down — but had no idea exactly how much of it — and we were routed to 10th Ave. We made fairly good time until around 34th Street. Then gridlock. Standstill. We could almost hear the frozen goods whimpering in the trunk. We extend the zip-car for another hour. And we take a few deep breaths.

20 minutes later we’re at 40th Street. We can see the parking garage where we have to drop off the car, but have a car-load of groceries and supplies that will be grueling to carry the four blocks to our apartment, so we decide to stick it out and try for the left turn on to 42nd street that heads to 11th Ave, where we live.

20 minutes later we’re at 41st Street. Count the blocks. One. We extend the zip-car for another hour. The worst part? Not knowing! How can we be 4 blocks from home and have no idea why we can’t get there? Ridiculous. And so is this story. Getting  boring. I’m wrapping it up.

We swing a right, head up 8th Ave, turn left at 48th, only to discover that they’ve shut off 11th Ave at 47th, so we can’t turn down that way either. We shout obscenities at no one in particular and swing back the other way, hit 42nd Street, get all the way to 9th Ave, where the traffic cops force us to turn right and head uptown. AAAUUUGGGHHH!!!! The ice cream is mush. The zip-car is extended AGAIN. And the conversation between us and the traffic cops gets ugly fast.  I’m trying to have a controlled conversation with the woman, while Chris is in the passenger seat channeling Satan. Spittle flying. Head spinning. Love me a Scorpio. He’s yelling at her. I’m yelling at him. She’s laughing at us. Not pretty. Just not pretty. In the end, we have Minnesota ID on us, so couldn’t prove our address anyway, and were forced to move on.Two blocks away from home. What is this, a police state?

We head around the block AGAIN, return the zip-car, load up like pack mules and head toward home, only to discover that in the 7 minutes it took us to go around the block and park the car, the barricades had been removed, and all roads were open. Now the traffic cop HAD to know that they were ready to open the roads. She HAD to. But noooooo. Move along, sir. Move along.

By this point Chris and I are not speaking to each other at all. Not a word. Too volatile. Pedestrians were parting around us like Moses parted the Red Sea. They knew better. We get past the police station at 10th Ave., noting the flag flying at half-mast by a thread of a rope, tattered and torn, well after 911, and that sends Chris off on ANOTHER tyrade about New York’s finest, traffic cops, and politics in general, all the while trying to keep the ice cream from dripping down his leg. I’m walking ten paces behind (how very Japanese wife of me) and see him pause, side-step, and go completely silent. There in the middle of the sidewalk is a large, freshly killed rat. Disgusting. I busted out laughing. I laughed so hard, I dropped my grocery bags. It was just too perfect. What could have topped off such a New York morning than a fresh rat kill? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. At that moment, I hated NYC so much I fell in love with it all over again.

Why I Love NYC

In the words of one of my favorite bloggers (Through the Looking Glass — a must-read), “Oh, that’s where I left my blog…” I won’t belabor the point, or the post, but simply get back to it.

Every once in a while I meet someone or observe a happening in NYC that involves a character that no one could actually write. No way. Because the eccentricity levels are beyond imagination, and the personality and physical package are just too much for one mind to envision. That’s why I love New York City.

In Soho, at a dive of a coffee shop — where of course the coffee rules — a woman, clearly a regular, popped in while Chris and I were making a coffee run before some of the shops opened. How did I know she was a regular?The person behind the counter visibly shut down. Chakras closed. Face walled off. She left us defenseless. But the next 10 minutes were pure NYC bliss…

• She commented on the lighting — “Honey, you got a couple of bulbs burned out, unless you like it like this…” and as we were leaving, again called out, “You want me to come back there and fix that light for you?”
• She personally answered Chris’ query to the woman behind the  counter about blueberry muffins with a full run-down on EVERY parcel of food in the display case. including what was normally in stock, and what they were out of.
• And, when she engaged the two men behind us in conversation, was so surprised by the bass quality of one of the men, juxtaposed to his youthful appearance, that she responded with this: “Your voice is full of wisdom and age, but your face? It kind of looks like a grown-up Dennis the Menace or something.”

Ah, it’s good to be back… And I can’t tell you where that glorious little coffee shop was… Somewhere in Soho west of Wooster and east of West Broadway between Houston and Spring, a half a block up from a cute little park… just look for the dim lights and a woman asking to help brighten up the place a bit…

Fiction Addiction

The latest works that have brought me pleasure. Excellent reads, all of them:

Hood (Stephen R. Lawhead): I’ve always been a fan of all things Robin Hood (except, of course, that horrible film with Kevin Costner and Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio), and this falls into that category with a wonderful mix of historical fact and fiction. Check it out… and the sequel “Tuck,” is now available and on my reading list, as well.

The Gargoyle (Andrew Davidson): As earlier noted, this book grabbed me from the initial paragraphs and didn’t disappoint through to the end. The characters were well-developed, likeable, loveable, and missed when the story ended. I still think this might be my best read of the year.

The Likeness (Tana French): You remember that I often have difficulty diving into murder mysteries of the English/Irish ilk… This proved absolutely worth the investment. Well-told, and well-paced, its lead character narates through the voice of a murder victim (think Lovely Bones, but more action and less heavy tragedy). Give it a read.

The Miracle Life of Edgar Mint (Brady Udall): Okay, this one is just something else entirely. It initially caught my eye because the author had woven a Mormon foster family into the story. In my high school days, Native American (called “Lamanites” by the Mormons) students were always in our schools through Mormon foster family placements, so I was amused and interested that this author would have introduced such a piece of Mormon fabric into this book, and that it should play so prominently. But the rest of the book outshines even that piece of the story, and is wonderfully amusing, tragic,  gritty and rewarding. Read it.

The Weekend of our Discontent

Adequate. Mediocre. Vanilla. Common. Pedestrian. Passable. And, yes, Average. Bored, yet? I sure am. And worse? I’m still hungry. I’ve just described every meal and snack I’ve had between Friday night at 5 PM and Sunday afternoon at 3 PM. Friday evening found us at Yum Yum, Too in Hell’s Kitchen/Midtown West. Not bad, but not memorable. And the drinks? Overly sweet with minimal alcohol.

Saturday mid-morning found as Time Warner Center’s Whole Foods where the flatbread pizza was just that: flat. Crust too thick. Toppings cold. Completely unsatisfactory. Saturday night we ordered in: Chinese from Wu Liang Ye. Online reviews were positive, the restaurant touted as upscale and authentic, but the meal just didn’t deliver. Weak flavors in bland dishes. The reheat Sunday at lunch was a little better, but still unsatisfying. And it arrived in under 15 minutes. Just think about that for a moment. 4 blocks over 2 blocks up, full meal delivered in under 15 minutes. Fresh? Not!

Sunday afternoon brought treats from Cupcake Cafe on 9th Ave. The cake portion was dry, and the icing was heavy crisco- or shortening-based, to keep the flowers looking pretty. Unfortunately, it didn’t help in the flavor department. When I think cupcakes, I admit, I think Magnolia Bakery or Crumbs. I crave the rush and the crash. I admit it. But getting that from one of these at CC? No such luck. Three quarters of it went in the trash. If you know me, you know that says something.

That brings us to tonight. I’m afraid to go out. Afraid to order in. Even afraid to cook. The opportunities for run-of-the-mill, so-so, second-rate, undistinguished, unexceptional and uninspired are the ONLY overwhelming possibilities. Is it possible to actually look forward to a Monday morning?

Stupid, Embarassing, Redundant Modes of Transportation

Necessity is the mother of invention, true, but there are certain variations on a theme that should just never be explored. Not that the result is not exhilarating or genius, just that there are certain individuals who should never be given access to the result. Okay, okay, I’m getting to the point. Adult males should avoid the following at all costs: The recumbent bicyle, the Segway, and the scooter. Just walk away. Please, for the sake of the rest of the male population, just walk away.

There is nothing smart or sexy about a recumbent cycle. Let’s just appreciate it from afar for an interesting take on a bike. But let’s not ride it. Ever.

A Segway is like a poor man’s unicycle (an invention relegated to circus use by men in top hats, tails, tights, or any combination of the three). And the Segway has starred in two mall cop movies. Need I say more? And why the flocking instinct? Segway tours? It’s like watching geese fly South or quail families cross the road, but with humans. Makes a grown man proud.

Dude (yes, I said “dude,” because it applies here), just LET. IT. GO. Even the word scooter screams adolescence. I don’t care what big city you live in, and how convenient you think it is. You look stupid. Have a friend video you commuting to work on your “awesome scooter” and force yourself to watch it. Don’t be proud. Be embarrassed. You look stupid. Just stop it.

Vote for Geronimo & Samson in the Holiday Kick Start Video Contest.

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Geronimo and Samson are making a guest appearance in this Holiday Kick Start Video contest — my videography is a little shaky, but they make up for it in their enthusiasm. Enjoy!

Shock and Awe

I never thought I could use the phrase “recoil in horror” in a sentence honestly until today.

“I recoiled in horror upon discovering that a daughter of my high school girlfriend friended me on Facebook.”

It’s true. Both that I recoiled in horror and that a daughter of my high school girlfriend friended me on Facebook.

Next steps:
1. Close Facebook account
2. Try to figure out how she found me and why she knows me
3. Scedule appointment with a shrink to deal with my aging issues
4. Call high school girlfriend to find out just how old her daughters are (triplets) and why only ONE of them is friending me on Facebook. I do have an ego, after all.

Eastward Bound

We made it. Another truck. Another trip. Another home. NYC it is. And this was the first time in four years it was NOT over a holiday. We’ll actually be in a home over the holidays and not in the cab of a moving truck!

Here are a few photos of our adventure…

Enjoying the sun in our new window…

I think it’s all here…

Geronimo’s the better navigator

Samson’s gotta go…

Yo quiero Taco Bell

Having a little snack…

WordPress for iPhone

In trying to see just how “connected” I can get, I’ve downloaded the WordPress app for my iPhone. Mobile posting? Why not? I mean, I’m already updating my Twitter account via my Tweetie iPhone app, and that gets posted to my blog, so this is just one more stop on the road to complete digital addiction. Next stop? Having my blog updates announced via my Twitter account. Fairly adventurous for someone whose posts actually bore himself…

What a Flossing Shame!

Shame. Guilt. Remorse. I know, feels like we’re talking religion, right? Wrong. We’re talking DENTIST. What is it about a trip to the dentist for a teeth cleaning that can make years of Mormon guilt pale in comparison? Even after miserably trying to make up for lost time the night before and morning of, you still know that when that plastic-coated chair of doom tilts backward, the light shines blindingly down from above forcing you to look away or shut your eyes (religious parallels duly noted), and the gloved and masked technician speaks to you in tongues, (literally, god knows none of us can really respond intelligibly with our tongues tied up in gauze, suction, or “bite wing” paraphernalia) you are busted. No arguments. No discussion. No way out. Busted.

It’s not like when you go to your family doctor for a yearly physical and know that anything going wrong or not looking so good within your body can be chalked up to age, heredity, or plain old bad luck. It’s not your fault. All’s forgiven. All’s fair. Sympathy abounds. Nooooo. Not at the dentist’s office. When you go to the dentist and something doesn’t look good, you’ve got no one to blame but yourself. And if you aren’t good at placing blame on yourself, the smug technician clucking behind the surgical mask is only too happy to help. “Are you flossing regularly?” Are you flossing at all?” “How often are you brushing?” “Are you brushing for two minutes?” “Are you using a soft full-head or medium full-head?” “Have you tried a fluoride rinse?” And, my personal favorite, “Has it really been over a year since we’ve seen you?” I mean, come on! You’re the one having to use a jackhammer to clear the plaque away, enough with the patronizing!

And when all is said and done, and you actually DO NOT have any cavities, receding gums, or general tooth dysfunction, the dentist still never really congratulates you. There’s always an apology cloaked in a compliment. “Well, your teeth are actually in pretty good shape,” or “whatever you’re doing, keep it up” or even “hmmph (thoughtful frown), looks good (condescending bobbing nod), let’s get you in here sooner next time.” Like getting you in sooner might somehow help provide a better chance to actually get the drill out! Even when you’ve a reason to celebrate, you feel guilty about celebrating too much, because clearly there is still an opportunity for improvement. You’ve got no cavities. Your teeth are still white. Your gums are in good shape. And somehow, you still walk out of there feeling… well… shame, guilt and remorse. I’m so looking forward to my next visit. Maybe I’ll even floss the full week before…