My friend Laura said that was my signature phrase.†
But I do.‡
For 20 years, I have made Chex Mix with M&Ms for the Super Bowl.§ Oh, sure, sometimes I bring something in addition, but always Chex Mix with M&Ms.
Two years ago, we were standing around in Matt's kitchen, reminiscing. Matt brought up that it was our 20th year of Elk Bowl mayhem and we had missed an opportunity to ramp up the festivities for the 20th.
Justice, who is becoming more of an accountant every day,¶ through a series of hand gestures and convoluted explanations, illustrated how the next year would actually be the 20th.
And there was much rejoicing.
Meanwhile, back in my brain...#
Those personalised M&Ms had just come out and I'd been dying to make my own M&Ms. It seemed a match made in silly traditions heaven.
So in January 2010, I ordered the M&Ms with the picture of the elk, the "Elk Bowl XX," "Elks 20 years" and "Elks BBB."††
Five pounds of personalized M&Ms costs about $170.
Just for the record.
So this year, the Supreme Elk sent out an email about the 20th and did we want t-shirts? and let's design some t-shirts and such.‡‡
Justice, frickin' accountant, wrote back to say, "Uh, can you not count? This is the 21st. You missed the 20th."§§
Through a series of emails and convoluted explanations, he illustrated how the previous year had been the 20th.
We'll deal with Justice at the party today.¶¶ Meanwhile, we're saying fuck it## - we don't remember half of them anyway,††† so who cares if it's 20 or 21?
Happy Super Bowl, everybody.
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Along with, "I could make that," and "I have this CD."
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Have a story, that is.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): For the love of all that is holy, please sprinkle a whole flock of trademark and copyright and registered trademark stuff on that. There's enough proprietary material in there to keep a flotilla of lawyers happy for years.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): This is not a compliment.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Where it's dark and quiet. You should consider vacationing in there.
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Beer Babes Brotherhood
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): "Such" mostly revolving around "t-shirts."
§§FOOTNOTE (rage... swirling...): Must... control... fist of death...
¶¶FOOTNOTE (quack quack): I'm guessing it'll involve Duck Tape and nudity. His, not ours.
##FOOTNOTE (pound the Justice!): Mostly, we're saying, "Fuck him."
†††FOOTNOTE (I can see your house from here): Turns out that's the theme of the t-shirt we eventually agreed upon.
Showing posts with label Ducks. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ducks. Show all posts
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Islands in the Stream of Consciousness
It could be one of *those* blogposts.†
A few things‡ have happened since last I (really) posted.
*ahem*
I could get seriously philosophical here, because, as I was lining up my excuse ducks,§ I realised how telling they really are.
My first excuse duck?¶
Werk.#
I suspect I genuinely have more work than I used to, now that I'm a Paid Hack for the Corporate Machine, but I can say for a fact that my time is parcelled out very differently. I have vacation time. And sick time. And hours.
Practically, it's not that much different from when I was contract. Philosophically, I feel a much greater sense of obligation.
Plus, the stress is enormously greater, what with expense reporting and million-dollar deadlines and million-dollar deadlines and Hans and United Way campaigns and the impending Oompa Loompa Revolution and stuff.
Duck!††
Blogui.‡‡
Steve. §§
And Nathan.¶¶
Wii.##
I lost my camera.†††
But I now have a lot of stories.
So I'll be around.‡‡‡
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): One may wonder that there's a blogpost at all. One may have strongly hinted on Twitter about one's suspiciously absent blogposts. You know who you are.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): One. Two. 2010.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): You know, so you can shoot them down.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): It's a good, all-purpose duck, which is a real phrase about real ducks in duck shows and one of Steve's best-loved terms. More on Steve later. But in case you wanted to know, some ducks are raised for down, some for meat and a good, all-purpose duck has qualities that make it good for both. You're welcome.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Which differs from "work" in the face you make when you say it.
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): That's the second duck, but who's counting.
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Occasional bouts of techui, under which I shamefully ignored Twitter and occasionally email for abnormally wide swaths of time.
§§FOOTNOTE (time swirls when you're having fun): Because we've been doing lots of fun stuff, and fun stuff takes *time*.
¶¶FOOTNOTE (is that a Wii controler? EEK!): Who bribed me to Vegas with martinis and sushi, then moved to New Zealand, leaving me bereft. I was totally reft before that.
##FOOTNOTE (bomp bomp): Wii is totally kicking my ass. Not in the way you're thinking. I'm totally intimidated by it and, even though My Friends at Nintendo have sent me games and a disco light and a cool game involving yarn and felt, I still play more on the nephews' Wii than on my own. Because my Wii scares me.
†††FOOTNOTE (very, very cross): Seriously. All my Vegas photos - including the Liberace Museum, which is now closed - plus the Christmas Eve Ugly Sweater Party and an assortment of other worthy subjects. I think the car ate it. The car ate Kate's CDs; we tore the car apart looking for them, but the car just spit them out two years later when I was looking for the cell phone I'm convinced it ate.
‡‡‡FOOTNOTE (stitched together like Frankenstein's monster): I'd do more now, only I received what I see as barely-veiled threats should I not post something soon.
A few things‡ have happened since last I (really) posted.
*ahem*
I could get seriously philosophical here, because, as I was lining up my excuse ducks,§ I realised how telling they really are.
My first excuse duck?¶
Werk.#
I suspect I genuinely have more work than I used to, now that I'm a Paid Hack for the Corporate Machine, but I can say for a fact that my time is parcelled out very differently. I have vacation time. And sick time. And hours.
Practically, it's not that much different from when I was contract. Philosophically, I feel a much greater sense of obligation.
Plus, the stress is enormously greater, what with expense reporting and million-dollar deadlines and million-dollar deadlines and Hans and United Way campaigns and the impending Oompa Loompa Revolution and stuff.
Duck!††
Blogui.‡‡
Steve. §§
And Nathan.¶¶
Wii.##
I lost my camera.†††
But I now have a lot of stories.
So I'll be around.‡‡‡
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): One may wonder that there's a blogpost at all. One may have strongly hinted on Twitter about one's suspiciously absent blogposts. You know who you are.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): One. Two. 2010.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): You know, so you can shoot them down.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): It's a good, all-purpose duck, which is a real phrase about real ducks in duck shows and one of Steve's best-loved terms. More on Steve later. But in case you wanted to know, some ducks are raised for down, some for meat and a good, all-purpose duck has qualities that make it good for both. You're welcome.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Which differs from "work" in the face you make when you say it.
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): That's the second duck, but who's counting.
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Occasional bouts of techui, under which I shamefully ignored Twitter and occasionally email for abnormally wide swaths of time.
§§FOOTNOTE (time swirls when you're having fun): Because we've been doing lots of fun stuff, and fun stuff takes *time*.
¶¶FOOTNOTE (is that a Wii controler? EEK!): Who bribed me to Vegas with martinis and sushi, then moved to New Zealand, leaving me bereft. I was totally reft before that.
##FOOTNOTE (bomp bomp): Wii is totally kicking my ass. Not in the way you're thinking. I'm totally intimidated by it and, even though My Friends at Nintendo have sent me games and a disco light and a cool game involving yarn and felt, I still play more on the nephews' Wii than on my own. Because my Wii scares me.
†††FOOTNOTE (very, very cross): Seriously. All my Vegas photos - including the Liberace Museum, which is now closed - plus the Christmas Eve Ugly Sweater Party and an assortment of other worthy subjects. I think the car ate it. The car ate Kate's CDs; we tore the car apart looking for them, but the car just spit them out two years later when I was looking for the cell phone I'm convinced it ate.
‡‡‡FOOTNOTE (stitched together like Frankenstein's monster): I'd do more now, only I received what I see as barely-veiled threats should I not post something soon.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Saturday in the Park with Shanny
Some happy Saturdays, Shanny has a morning remote,† then an afternoon of Rockies Radio,‡ with a few hours in between to putter.
Some happy Saturdays, I putter with him.
A couple of Saturdays ago was one of those happy days. We decided to explore the relatively new RiNo§ area of Denver.
Once upon a time, when Coors Field first opened, I used to park on Little Raven and walk across desolate fields and many railroad tracks to get to baseball games.
My, how things have changed. It's shiny lofts, trendy restaurants and Commons Park.
I *love* Commons Park. It reminded me so much of a little, tiny¶ Central Park with its art, water, hills and little nooks where for just a moment, you can walk in the wilderness and forget the city mere yards away.
This is a cool and totally useless bit of art.#
It has lofty meaning...
...and when you get to the top, you reach the stairs and go right back down. It's a ramp to a stairway to nowhere...
...with a window to the sky.††
Anything that purposeless with lines that nice *has* to be art.
[SUMMARY: I know it when I see it.]
There are three bridges all in a row in RiNo.
One goes from Commons Park west across the river. The next goes west across the freeway into the Highlands neighbourhood.‡‡ The other is on the other side, going east across the railroad tracks.
First, we crossed the river.
At the foot of the Highlands Bridge, there's more art.§§
It's called National Velvet¶¶ and it... gleams.
[SUMMARY: Shiny!]
We quickly crossed Highlands Bridge and landed right next to the statuary supermarket.##
We gazed on art in a more classic style†††...
...and found duckies.
Across the street, urban hieroglyphics‡‡‡:
Having exhausted the west end of the bridge continuum, we realised the only thing to do to make our day complete was to cross the easternmost bridge: the Millenium Bridge.
Back across the freeway§§§...
..and across the river and onto the Millenium Bridge, with its ship's mast and starburst of cables.¶¶¶
We watched a train.
I was delighted by the simple ingenuity of the bike grooves on the stairs.###
And we gazed out over downtown Denver. This is Union Station.%
We headed south to 15th, where there's a charming viaduct.@
And more artwork tucked away in a stairwell.
We headed west on 15th back to Little Raven and saw this historic building.
According to the plaque, Historic Building No. 19, which you'd think one could look up on any number of registries, but it was a surprising bitch of a research project to find out what Historic Building No. 19 was all about. There's a lot of tangled information involving David Moffat and his brother and I think I gave Shanny my conclusion too soon.
This building is Moffat Station,^ but was indeed part of Moffat's railway empire. I haven't yet figured out what some of the articles are pointing to when they're talking about his brother's property.
Shanny may be the only person who would understand those last two paragraphs. Carry on.
[SUMMARY: Dot your Ts and cross your Is.]
It was time for Shanny to get back and wire up for the Rockies pre-show. Besides, we were exhausted. A couple of hours of wandering and stairs and bridges and cranes will drive a person to a good night's sleep.
It only seemed appropriate that this was the last artwork we saw on our adventure:
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): As they say on the Colorado Morning News, "...engineer Shannon Scott." And I always talk back to the radio and say, "Hi, Shanny!"
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): 850 KOA, home of your Rockies, Broncos and Buffs.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): River North.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): ...itty, bitty, wee, miniscule, a percentage of a percentage...
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Not entirely unlike the scene above it -- Shanny called it Windows desktop -- but more abstract.
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Though I like to think it's some sort of solar calendar thingie that tells us when to sacrifice the virgins.
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Home of your dear ol' AntiM.
§§FOOTNOTE (that's me, shaking my head): Um... "art."
¶¶FOOTNOTE (*headbonk*): Of COURSE it is.
##FOOTNOTE (I got your number): Not its real name.
†††FOOTNOTE (a tres of statuary): read: with boobs. I had a statuary penis too, but in a fit of feminism I forgot to upload it.
‡‡‡FOOTNOTE (on the wrong track): Pie, house plant, coffee, saucepan?
§§§FOOTNOTE (turn around and around): You may notice I have a thing for architectural stuff. I have whole volumes of vacation photos that are nothing but brick walls and trestles.
¶¶¶FOOTNOTE (not using my head head head): Any decent tourguide would have taken a picture of the mastiness of the bridge instead of just the weird up-angle.
###FOOTNOTE (three pounds of impressed in a two pound bag): I am so easily amused.
%FOOTNOTE (percented): With a crane.
@FOONOTE (atted): And another crane.
^FOOTNOTE (careted): Dear Shanny, in case you're reading this, I don't even remember David Moffat's brother's name, but it isn't his house.
Some happy Saturdays, I putter with him.
A couple of Saturdays ago was one of those happy days. We decided to explore the relatively new RiNo§ area of Denver.
Once upon a time, when Coors Field first opened, I used to park on Little Raven and walk across desolate fields and many railroad tracks to get to baseball games.
My, how things have changed. It's shiny lofts, trendy restaurants and Commons Park.
I *love* Commons Park. It reminded me so much of a little, tiny¶ Central Park with its art, water, hills and little nooks where for just a moment, you can walk in the wilderness and forget the city mere yards away.
This is a cool and totally useless bit of art.#
It has lofty meaning...
...and when you get to the top, you reach the stairs and go right back down. It's a ramp to a stairway to nowhere...
...with a window to the sky.††
Anything that purposeless with lines that nice *has* to be art.
[SUMMARY: I know it when I see it.]
There are three bridges all in a row in RiNo.
One goes from Commons Park west across the river. The next goes west across the freeway into the Highlands neighbourhood.‡‡ The other is on the other side, going east across the railroad tracks.
First, we crossed the river.
At the foot of the Highlands Bridge, there's more art.§§
It's called National Velvet¶¶ and it... gleams.
[SUMMARY: Shiny!]
We quickly crossed Highlands Bridge and landed right next to the statuary supermarket.##
We gazed on art in a more classic style†††...
...and found duckies.
Across the street, urban hieroglyphics‡‡‡:
Having exhausted the west end of the bridge continuum, we realised the only thing to do to make our day complete was to cross the easternmost bridge: the Millenium Bridge.
Back across the freeway§§§...
..and across the river and onto the Millenium Bridge, with its ship's mast and starburst of cables.¶¶¶
We watched a train.
I was delighted by the simple ingenuity of the bike grooves on the stairs.###
And we gazed out over downtown Denver. This is Union Station.%
We headed south to 15th, where there's a charming viaduct.@
And more artwork tucked away in a stairwell.
We headed west on 15th back to Little Raven and saw this historic building.
According to the plaque, Historic Building No. 19, which you'd think one could look up on any number of registries, but it was a surprising bitch of a research project to find out what Historic Building No. 19 was all about. There's a lot of tangled information involving David Moffat and his brother and I think I gave Shanny my conclusion too soon.
This building is Moffat Station,^ but was indeed part of Moffat's railway empire. I haven't yet figured out what some of the articles are pointing to when they're talking about his brother's property.
Shanny may be the only person who would understand those last two paragraphs. Carry on.
[SUMMARY: Dot your Ts and cross your Is.]
It was time for Shanny to get back and wire up for the Rockies pre-show. Besides, we were exhausted. A couple of hours of wandering and stairs and bridges and cranes will drive a person to a good night's sleep.
It only seemed appropriate that this was the last artwork we saw on our adventure:
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): As they say on the Colorado Morning News, "...engineer Shannon Scott." And I always talk back to the radio and say, "Hi, Shanny!"
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): 850 KOA, home of your Rockies, Broncos and Buffs.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): River North.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): ...itty, bitty, wee, miniscule, a percentage of a percentage...
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Not entirely unlike the scene above it -- Shanny called it Windows desktop -- but more abstract.
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Though I like to think it's some sort of solar calendar thingie that tells us when to sacrifice the virgins.
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Home of your dear ol' AntiM.
§§FOOTNOTE (that's me, shaking my head): Um... "art."
¶¶FOOTNOTE (*headbonk*): Of COURSE it is.
##FOOTNOTE (I got your number): Not its real name.
†††FOOTNOTE (a tres of statuary): read: with boobs. I had a statuary penis too, but in a fit of feminism I forgot to upload it.
‡‡‡FOOTNOTE (on the wrong track): Pie, house plant, coffee, saucepan?
§§§FOOTNOTE (turn around and around): You may notice I have a thing for architectural stuff. I have whole volumes of vacation photos that are nothing but brick walls and trestles.
¶¶¶FOOTNOTE (not using my head head head): Any decent tourguide would have taken a picture of the mastiness of the bridge instead of just the weird up-angle.
###FOOTNOTE (three pounds of impressed in a two pound bag): I am so easily amused.
%FOOTNOTE (percented): With a crane.
@FOONOTE (atted): And another crane.
^FOOTNOTE (careted): Dear Shanny, in case you're reading this, I don't even remember David Moffat's brother's name, but it isn't his house.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Lent: Day 1
Forewent† Diet Pepsi at lunch.
When nice little Japanese lady at Tokyo Express said, "So good see you 'gain. Have special treat for special customer,"‡ and handed me a ramekin of candied walnuts,§ I smiled, thanked her and schlepped it back to the office, where I handed it off to Hans. Hans made inordinately appreciative yummy noises.
Joanne pointed out that I had chicken and, as it was Ash Wednesday, I wasn't supposed to be eating meat. I pointed out I'm not actually Catholic.
[SUMMARY: In which I publish my dorkitude.]
Passed up wine at Annie's.
Passed up amaretto/almond cheesecake at Annie's -- the kind that Hector says she didn't make for him until after they were married, but if she had made it while they were dating, he would have proposed to her on the spot. All book club attendees made inordinately appreciative yummy noises.
[SUMMARY: Sainthood is no primrose path.]
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): I started every sentence with "I had to..." then thought the better of it. But "...had to forego" is an easier construct than trying to figure out the past of "forego." It's residual, small-scale martyrdom.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): For the record, the three people in line who ordered while I was waiting for my lunch did NOT get candied walnuts. I really am special.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): When Tallest, Hairiest Nephew was pretty young and just starting to parrot what we said, I made him a treat from my childhood: pie crust cookies. I used a tiny duck cookie cutter to cut tiny duck shapes out of extra pie crust, then sprinkled them with cinnamon and sugar and baked them. When they were done (and tiny ducks hardly take any time at all to bake), I put them in a ramekin and presented it to him as a ramekin full of ducks. We taught him to say, "ramekin full of ducks." That was one of the best days ever. And it beats all hell out of having to give up a ramekin full of candied walnuts.
When nice little Japanese lady at Tokyo Express said, "So good see you 'gain. Have special treat for special customer,"‡ and handed me a ramekin of candied walnuts,§ I smiled, thanked her and schlepped it back to the office, where I handed it off to Hans. Hans made inordinately appreciative yummy noises.
Joanne pointed out that I had chicken and, as it was Ash Wednesday, I wasn't supposed to be eating meat. I pointed out I'm not actually Catholic.
[SUMMARY: In which I publish my dorkitude.]
Passed up wine at Annie's.
Passed up amaretto/almond cheesecake at Annie's -- the kind that Hector says she didn't make for him until after they were married, but if she had made it while they were dating, he would have proposed to her on the spot. All book club attendees made inordinately appreciative yummy noises.
[SUMMARY: Sainthood is no primrose path.]
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): I started every sentence with "I had to..." then thought the better of it. But "...had to forego" is an easier construct than trying to figure out the past of "forego." It's residual, small-scale martyrdom.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): For the record, the three people in line who ordered while I was waiting for my lunch did NOT get candied walnuts. I really am special.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): When Tallest, Hairiest Nephew was pretty young and just starting to parrot what we said, I made him a treat from my childhood: pie crust cookies. I used a tiny duck cookie cutter to cut tiny duck shapes out of extra pie crust, then sprinkled them with cinnamon and sugar and baked them. When they were done (and tiny ducks hardly take any time at all to bake), I put them in a ramekin and presented it to him as a ramekin full of ducks. We taught him to say, "ramekin full of ducks." That was one of the best days ever. And it beats all hell out of having to give up a ramekin full of candied walnuts.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Sticks 'n' Stitches 'n' Nephews 'n' Bitches
It was a busy weekend, what with angsting over missing mail and all.†
[SUMMARY: Got your bitches right here.]
Mostly, you're getting pictures. I shot my blabber wad‡ on bitching about the USPS. And, as always, 1 picture = 1000 words.§
Saturday, I played the role of sole volunteer to Mya's Queen of this year's Sticks 'n' Stitches.¶
Sylvia# and her two boys came...
...Brother and Dr. Doom each brought a friend††...
...and people knit.‡‡
[SUMMARY: Still a knitblog!]
Oh, yeah. There was hockey too...
...and quite a bit of it,§§ but the Avs didn't win.¶¶
Hey! You know what else is in the greater downtown area?
How long has it been since we had a good, old-fashioned crane slurp?##
Tomorrow: What I did on Super Bowl Sunday (abridged)†††
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): If your yarn was missing, you'd angst too.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): *giggle* Blabber wad. It's fun to say and it sounds funny. Blabber wad.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Over 6000 words today alone. That's dedication to the cause.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Next year, I will be in charge.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Knitting related.
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): I didn't get pictures of their friends.
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): And I took blurry photos of them.
§§FOOTNOTE (double toe loop!): Seven goals between the two teams.
¶¶FOOTNOTE (club footed hockey players): Damned Ducks have always had our number. And by "our," I mean, "the Avalanche's"
##FOOTNOTE (like girder frames soaring high): Too long, far too long.
†††FOOTNOTE (holy...): For the sake of the children and several political careers.
[SUMMARY: Got your bitches right here.]
Mostly, you're getting pictures. I shot my blabber wad‡ on bitching about the USPS. And, as always, 1 picture = 1000 words.§
Saturday, I played the role of sole volunteer to Mya's Queen of this year's Sticks 'n' Stitches.¶
Sylvia# and her two boys came...
...Brother and Dr. Doom each brought a friend††...
...and people knit.‡‡
[SUMMARY: Still a knitblog!]
Oh, yeah. There was hockey too...
...and quite a bit of it,§§ but the Avs didn't win.¶¶
Hey! You know what else is in the greater downtown area?
How long has it been since we had a good, old-fashioned crane slurp?##
Tomorrow: What I did on Super Bowl Sunday (abridged)†††
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): If your yarn was missing, you'd angst too.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): *giggle* Blabber wad. It's fun to say and it sounds funny. Blabber wad.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Over 6000 words today alone. That's dedication to the cause.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Next year, I will be in charge.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Knitting related.
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): I didn't get pictures of their friends.
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): And I took blurry photos of them.
§§FOOTNOTE (double toe loop!): Seven goals between the two teams.
¶¶FOOTNOTE (club footed hockey players): Damned Ducks have always had our number. And by "our," I mean, "the Avalanche's"
##FOOTNOTE (like girder frames soaring high): Too long, far too long.
†††FOOTNOTE (holy...): For the sake of the children and several political careers.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Bring the Music
Part I of today's 3-part series on why this was the best birthday ever.
Brother musics. I read.
Not that I don't listen to music and not that Brother doesn't read, but Brother has a music problem and I clearly have a book problem.†
For my 31st birthday, he got me a CD player. I got one for myself for my 20th birthday‡ and it had ceased to work long before.
As dopey% as it may be to get sentimental about a piece of stereo equipment, that 31st birthday CD player brought music back to my life. I probably hadn't listened to six hours of radio and no CDs in three years when he gave me that.
[SUMMARY: *sniff*]
Now, for my 41st, Brother has brought the music again.
He gave me a one-year subscription to emusic. Now, I have an iPod. I've been musically capable all on my own for years now, but this will bring something back I haven't had for a good, long while: exploration.
I've done most of my musical exploration through my brother for the last three or four years.§ He makes me a CD every Christmas¶ and I go buy various CDs or MP3s from the artists on it and I feel very hip and underground.
Sometimes a little dangerous.^
[SUMMARY: I am dork once removed.]
emusic doesn't trade much in the mainstream.#
I'm going to have to listen to a lot of weird stuff. I love listening to weird stuff so long as I have some means of organising the weird stuff. Just going to Cheapo Discs and randomly pulling potential weirdness out of the bins... well, actually, that might be fun once or twice,†† but guided weirdness suits my inner planning Nazi so much better.
So I get 30 tracks a month, with all the joy of musical discovery married to the complete time-suck of Music Maker.‡‡
[SUMMARY: Hey, wait...]
Brother is still trying to take over the world.
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): And we will both admit to having video game problems so severe that neither of us will keep games on our computers. Brother once, in an attempt to subvert my powers and take over the world, got me Music Maker for Christmas. This is a musical video game, more or less, that allows one to remix songs, compose songs, distort notes, add syncopation, change keys... in short, I spent 17 straight hours remixing one bar of "First and Last and Always" and had to remove the software from my computer. Later, Brother admitted he really wanted Music Maker for himself but he knew he would be homeless and unhygienic within a month if he had it.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Trust me, this was a hundred years ago. I don't think anybody else at my whole college had a CD player in 1987. Not only am I influential, apparently I'm a trendspotter. I am also pleased and more than a little smug to report that my college boyfriend didn't think CDs were going to last and refused to invest in the player or the media until he was confident they'd be around to stay. I believe he was still running vinyl and cassette tapes in 1992.
%FOOTNOTE (percented): Is there an "e" in dopy? Dopey? Dopie?
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): To be honest, my finding The Duhks and Margot and the Nuclear So and Sos was indirectly through Brother, as he was directly responsible for my XM Radio. Just so's you know... I keep a tiny notebook, about the size of a business card, in my car so I can write down bands and songs off obscure XM channels. I am that dork.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): With some odd stuff he thinks I need and often some utterly esoteric circa-1983 thing that's been off my radar for years.
^FOOTNOTE (careted): Y'know... hip hop...
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): I tried Rush. No Rush. I tried Sisters of Mercy... *that's* too mainstream for emusic. They do, however, trade in Duhks and Margot, so I know there's something out there for me.
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): I did that at Bleecker Bob's in the Village on one of my NYC trips. Cool, but kinda like trying to kill pigeons with a scatter gun. You miss more than you hit.
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): *ahem* I probably shouldn't admit this, but the first time I played computer solitaire (1992, for the trendspotter record), I discovered it (while watching the evening news - I mention that so you can get a bead on the time frame) buried in the directory of a DOS-based computer my uncle had given me to take to Antarctica. I messed around with it, gradually figuring out all the key commands (no mouse) and looked up and it was 4:00 in the morning.
No, I've never played Prisoner of Zenda. Now you see why.
Brother musics. I read.
Not that I don't listen to music and not that Brother doesn't read, but Brother has a music problem and I clearly have a book problem.†
For my 31st birthday, he got me a CD player. I got one for myself for my 20th birthday‡ and it had ceased to work long before.
As dopey% as it may be to get sentimental about a piece of stereo equipment, that 31st birthday CD player brought music back to my life. I probably hadn't listened to six hours of radio and no CDs in three years when he gave me that.
[SUMMARY: *sniff*]
Now, for my 41st, Brother has brought the music again.
He gave me a one-year subscription to emusic. Now, I have an iPod. I've been musically capable all on my own for years now, but this will bring something back I haven't had for a good, long while: exploration.
I've done most of my musical exploration through my brother for the last three or four years.§ He makes me a CD every Christmas¶ and I go buy various CDs or MP3s from the artists on it and I feel very hip and underground.
Sometimes a little dangerous.^
[SUMMARY: I am dork once removed.]
emusic doesn't trade much in the mainstream.#
I'm going to have to listen to a lot of weird stuff. I love listening to weird stuff so long as I have some means of organising the weird stuff. Just going to Cheapo Discs and randomly pulling potential weirdness out of the bins... well, actually, that might be fun once or twice,†† but guided weirdness suits my inner planning Nazi so much better.
So I get 30 tracks a month, with all the joy of musical discovery married to the complete time-suck of Music Maker.‡‡
[SUMMARY: Hey, wait...]
Brother is still trying to take over the world.
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): And we will both admit to having video game problems so severe that neither of us will keep games on our computers. Brother once, in an attempt to subvert my powers and take over the world, got me Music Maker for Christmas. This is a musical video game, more or less, that allows one to remix songs, compose songs, distort notes, add syncopation, change keys... in short, I spent 17 straight hours remixing one bar of "First and Last and Always" and had to remove the software from my computer. Later, Brother admitted he really wanted Music Maker for himself but he knew he would be homeless and unhygienic within a month if he had it.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Trust me, this was a hundred years ago. I don't think anybody else at my whole college had a CD player in 1987. Not only am I influential, apparently I'm a trendspotter. I am also pleased and more than a little smug to report that my college boyfriend didn't think CDs were going to last and refused to invest in the player or the media until he was confident they'd be around to stay. I believe he was still running vinyl and cassette tapes in 1992.
%FOOTNOTE (percented): Is there an "e" in dopy? Dopey? Dopie?
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): To be honest, my finding The Duhks and Margot and the Nuclear So and Sos was indirectly through Brother, as he was directly responsible for my XM Radio. Just so's you know... I keep a tiny notebook, about the size of a business card, in my car so I can write down bands and songs off obscure XM channels. I am that dork.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): With some odd stuff he thinks I need and often some utterly esoteric circa-1983 thing that's been off my radar for years.
^FOOTNOTE (careted): Y'know... hip hop...
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): I tried Rush. No Rush. I tried Sisters of Mercy... *that's* too mainstream for emusic. They do, however, trade in Duhks and Margot, so I know there's something out there for me.
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): I did that at Bleecker Bob's in the Village on one of my NYC trips. Cool, but kinda like trying to kill pigeons with a scatter gun. You miss more than you hit.
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): *ahem* I probably shouldn't admit this, but the first time I played computer solitaire (1992, for the trendspotter record), I discovered it (while watching the evening news - I mention that so you can get a bead on the time frame) buried in the directory of a DOS-based computer my uncle had given me to take to Antarctica. I messed around with it, gradually figuring out all the key commands (no mouse) and looked up and it was 4:00 in the morning.
No, I've never played Prisoner of Zenda. Now you see why.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Famine to Feast
Ain't that just the way it goes?
Nothing to say,† no wisdom to impart,‡ no pictures to share, no good news, no nothing... then *BAM! *
Something!
And on a short week! When I spent the first blogday§ in Wisconsin! Eating Swedish meatballs!¶ When I should have been catching up! It's not even news anymore, people!
[SUMMARY: I'm late, I'm late for a very important date...]
So I'm putting myself on a very strict schedule:
...then I won't be too far behind†† going into the holiday weekend and Lake Week. And then I won't have to sweat and panic and worry about protocol and how do I do this and can I combine and is this boring or important or funny or think of the children and...
[SUMMARY: This is what the inside of my head looks like every night when I try to go to sleep.]
Most birthdays are disappointing in some lingering way.
It seems there's always something I really wanted I didn't get or someone who cancelled on my party at the last minute or I don't even get a birthday cake or a bad day at work.‡‡
Etcetera.
Despite my lifelong commitment to "please don't fuss," I do like acknowledgment.
You know Dante's constant refrain in Clerks? Well, there have been a lot of birthdays where I really wanted to whine a birthday version of, "I'm not even supposed to be here today!"
For many of my childhood birthdays, none of my friends were in town, so a birthday party was impossible.
When I turned eight, I'd lost a bunch of school library books and Mom told me I could either find a way to pay for them myself or forego a birthday party that year and have her pay my piper.§§
When I turned fourteen,¶¶ Mom made me pick strawberries in the backyard for dinner.
For one, I absolutely hated picking strawberries: dirt, hot, spiders... hated.
For two, I never heard her stick her head through the back door to say, "Your brother and I are going to run some errands. We'll be back in a little while."
So when I got finished with my horrible drudge strawberry duties, I went inside to find I'd been abandoned.
Abandoned.
On. My. Birthday.
[SUMMARY: I'm not even supposed to be here today!]
I was grounded for my sixteenth birthday, in serious Mom-not-speaking-to-me trouble for my 21st, cancelled upon in a most last-minute of ways by my stupid boyfriend for my 24th, nursing broken ribs and a nasty black eye by the hand of my roommate for my 25th, too hot to bake a cake for my 40th... and after Mom died, nobody called at midnight anymore to sing me happy birthday.
[SUMMARY: see, "‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed)," below.]
This birthday was as close to perfect as we're likely to see in our collective lifetime.&
I got Secret Pal's package.
I got acknowledgment-without-fuss at work.
I got Kim's cranes.
I got the lovely comments right here from all y'all.
On the way home, I listened to Secret Pal's CD. Holy cow, can that girl sing. And she did... she sang me a Marin birthday song with my name and angels and everything. It ranks up there with the coolest birthday gifts EVER.%
*************
NOTE TO SECRET PAL: Yes, you pronounce my name correctly. I love the disc and as I got deeper into it, I thought, "I'll have to tell Secret Pal about The Duhks.## I bet she'd like The Duhks."
And then there were Duhks.
*************
When I got home, my dad had called mid-morning to sing Happy Birthday to me on my voice mail.^
I met Bag Lady Kathryn at the Coral Room for dinner and wine, which was lovely all by itself. She brought me flowers and a card.†††
And they'd had a wine tasting dinner on Tuesday that hadn't been as popular as they'd hoped, so they did a mini version Friday -- three courses, each with wine. That's what I had.
And I got a birthday card from the Coral Room signed by all the waiters and bartenders and dishwashers and all the people I know and love at my favourite bar.
And Brother showed up and had a couple of glasses of wine with us. I told him we'd be there and to drop by, but I figured being sans wife as he was, he probably had all sorts of bacheloresque activities with his single friends planned and I never, ever would have bet a single dollar he'd show up. But he did. And he was charming.
And Kelley came and we had some drinks. There were shots.
And my pheremonally-charged‡‡‡ vampire§§§ of an ex-boyfriend¶¶¶ took me home and I got laid on my birthday for the first time ever.###
[SUMMARY: Ringing in my own personal new year right.]
When I got home Saturday morning, an orchid I was sure I'd maimed for life and would eventually have to throw out had budded. I'm pretty sure overnight.
It's going to bloom again.
[SUMMARY: *WHAM!* Don't let the symbolism catch you upside the head.*]
When I got to the Coral Room for Saturday brunch, I had SuzyQ all to myself for awhile and there were special cocktails and free food and... it just wrapped everything up so nicely.
[SUMMARY: Birthdays need not be constrained to a single day. I like Birthday Season.]
I'm still all glowy and content -- like those Buddha statues@ people put in their Feng Shui decor. I feel just how they look.
If you can swing it,$ I highly recommend getting laid on your birthday.
Double points if he smells like burnt sugar and almonds and will rub your feet while you watch War Games.
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Not that that stopped me from babbling on.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): I'm not necessarily including the extensive Rush slurp in the "wisdom" thing, though I clearly think it counts.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): That would be Monday, for those of you who haven't caught on to how little commune I have with a computer on weekends.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Entire menu: Baked chicken (skin on) with festive parsley flakes, Swedish meatballs, mashed potatoes, corn, white rolls... a tiny bowl of pasta salad with bits of peppers and onions amid the pepperoni (a Wisconsin nod to 5 a Day)... dessert bars... a choice of coffee, water or whole milk (it *is* America's dairy land, after all). Thank goodness for my new Door-to-Door Organic delivery service. I need food that's not white.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Because I am. And this still is.
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): So much for
If you're obligated to yourself, is that OK?
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): I know, I know, there are starving children in Third World countries who don't even have birthdays.
§§FOOTNOTE (so hard to make a decision!): At twenty-five cents a week allowance, me paying my own bills was a pipe dream... you'd think I'd have more sympathy for the working poor now. However, you can also see where the beginnings of my loathing of libraries began. This was apparently a weird bookmark in my psychological makeup.
¶¶FOOTNOTE (beat the drums slowly): I think. Coulda been fifteen. Coulda been twelve. Twelve might explain my devotion to Brainless Twelvehood. As shallow and whiny as this post is, it might be a great treatise on the psychology that is Marin. Apparently, my whole life has been dictated by birthdays.
&FOOTNOTE (ampersanded): Not that I'd discourage you to keep from trying to make next year's birthday even better. Just sayin'.
%FOOTNOTE (percented): Like with the Great Ticket Birthday and the Dovetail skull mug.
##FOOTNOTE (pounded like the spankéd ass of an elderly birthday girl): For those of you not Secret Pal or myself... as in Daffy and Donald. Quack.
^FOOTNOTE (careted): I do love it when someone will sing to me. With all the musicians I've dated, you'd think it would have happened more often.
†††FOOTNOTE (are we heading into triple-doubles?): Which said I was the queen for the day, but she got to be Vice Queen. VQ for short. Which I think is very, very funny.
‡‡‡FOOTNOTE (the primrose path of dalliance): That boy always smells like burnt sugar and almonds and if I nuzzle the back of his neck I get just a little high. The Universe clearly wants us to reproduce, so why couldn't it give him the ability to keep a date?
§§§FOOTNOTE (oh, my curly head!): Throat, chest, belly, arms, neck... I am a marked woman. Sorry, Brother.
¶¶¶FOOTNOTE (golf clubs, seal clubs... that was an inside joke only two people in the world would get): The Boy, for those of you scoring at home.
###FOOTNOTE (man, did that spankéd ass take a pounding. Sorry, Brother): This is NOT little brother approved.
*FOOTNOTE (staid, conventional asterisk): I'm not talking about The Boy. I'm just talkin' about me. I figure some of you may be worried about that.
@FOOTNOTE (I just can't bring myself to go to four): And did I mention that's where the resemblance between me and those statues ends? I believe my post-surgery water blob has dispersed. I got into my normal-sized pants for my birthday. Can I get a w00t-w00t!?
$FOOTNOTE (money shot!): Pun!
Nothing to say,† no wisdom to impart,‡ no pictures to share, no good news, no nothing... then *BAM! *
Something!
And on a short week! When I spent the first blogday§ in Wisconsin! Eating Swedish meatballs!¶ When I should have been catching up! It's not even news anymore, people!
[SUMMARY: I'm late, I'm late for a very important date...]
So I'm putting myself on a very strict schedule:
- Tuesday: brief mention of Wisconsin, birthday recap
- Wednesday: Nintendo party (with pictures!)
- Thursday: knitting#
...then I won't be too far behind†† going into the holiday weekend and Lake Week. And then I won't have to sweat and panic and worry about protocol and how do I do this and can I combine and is this boring or important or funny or think of the children and...
[SUMMARY: This is what the inside of my head looks like every night when I try to go to sleep.]
Most birthdays are disappointing in some lingering way.
It seems there's always something I really wanted I didn't get or someone who cancelled on my party at the last minute or I don't even get a birthday cake or a bad day at work.‡‡
Etcetera.
Despite my lifelong commitment to "please don't fuss," I do like acknowledgment.
You know Dante's constant refrain in Clerks? Well, there have been a lot of birthdays where I really wanted to whine a birthday version of, "I'm not even supposed to be here today!"
For many of my childhood birthdays, none of my friends were in town, so a birthday party was impossible.
When I turned eight, I'd lost a bunch of school library books and Mom told me I could either find a way to pay for them myself or forego a birthday party that year and have her pay my piper.§§
When I turned fourteen,¶¶ Mom made me pick strawberries in the backyard for dinner.
For one, I absolutely hated picking strawberries: dirt, hot, spiders... hated.
For two, I never heard her stick her head through the back door to say, "Your brother and I are going to run some errands. We'll be back in a little while."
So when I got finished with my horrible drudge strawberry duties, I went inside to find I'd been abandoned.
Abandoned.
On. My. Birthday.
[SUMMARY: I'm not even supposed to be here today!]
I was grounded for my sixteenth birthday, in serious Mom-not-speaking-to-me trouble for my 21st, cancelled upon in a most last-minute of ways by my stupid boyfriend for my 24th, nursing broken ribs and a nasty black eye by the hand of my roommate for my 25th, too hot to bake a cake for my 40th... and after Mom died, nobody called at midnight anymore to sing me happy birthday.
[SUMMARY: see, "‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed)," below.]
This birthday was as close to perfect as we're likely to see in our collective lifetime.&
I got Secret Pal's package.
I got acknowledgment-without-fuss at work.
I got Kim's cranes.
I got the lovely comments right here from all y'all.
On the way home, I listened to Secret Pal's CD. Holy cow, can that girl sing. And she did... she sang me a Marin birthday song with my name and angels and everything. It ranks up there with the coolest birthday gifts EVER.%
*************
NOTE TO SECRET PAL: Yes, you pronounce my name correctly. I love the disc and as I got deeper into it, I thought, "I'll have to tell Secret Pal about The Duhks.## I bet she'd like The Duhks."
And then there were Duhks.
*************
When I got home, my dad had called mid-morning to sing Happy Birthday to me on my voice mail.^
I met Bag Lady Kathryn at the Coral Room for dinner and wine, which was lovely all by itself. She brought me flowers and a card.†††
And they'd had a wine tasting dinner on Tuesday that hadn't been as popular as they'd hoped, so they did a mini version Friday -- three courses, each with wine. That's what I had.
And I got a birthday card from the Coral Room signed by all the waiters and bartenders and dishwashers and all the people I know and love at my favourite bar.
And Brother showed up and had a couple of glasses of wine with us. I told him we'd be there and to drop by, but I figured being sans wife as he was, he probably had all sorts of bacheloresque activities with his single friends planned and I never, ever would have bet a single dollar he'd show up. But he did. And he was charming.
And Kelley came and we had some drinks. There were shots.
And my pheremonally-charged‡‡‡ vampire§§§ of an ex-boyfriend¶¶¶ took me home and I got laid on my birthday for the first time ever.###
[SUMMARY: Ringing in my own personal new year right.]
When I got home Saturday morning, an orchid I was sure I'd maimed for life and would eventually have to throw out had budded. I'm pretty sure overnight.
It's going to bloom again.
[SUMMARY: *WHAM!* Don't let the symbolism catch you upside the head.*]
When I got to the Coral Room for Saturday brunch, I had SuzyQ all to myself for awhile and there were special cocktails and free food and... it just wrapped everything up so nicely.
[SUMMARY: Birthdays need not be constrained to a single day. I like Birthday Season.]
I'm still all glowy and content -- like those Buddha statues@ people put in their Feng Shui decor. I feel just how they look.
If you can swing it,$ I highly recommend getting laid on your birthday.
Double points if he smells like burnt sugar and almonds and will rub your feet while you watch War Games.
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Not that that stopped me from babbling on.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): I'm not necessarily including the extensive Rush slurp in the "wisdom" thing, though I clearly think it counts.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): That would be Monday, for those of you who haven't caught on to how little commune I have with a computer on weekends.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Entire menu: Baked chicken (skin on) with festive parsley flakes, Swedish meatballs, mashed potatoes, corn, white rolls... a tiny bowl of pasta salad with bits of peppers and onions amid the pepperoni (a Wisconsin nod to 5 a Day)... dessert bars... a choice of coffee, water or whole milk (it *is* America's dairy land, after all). Thank goodness for my new Door-to-Door Organic delivery service. I need food that's not white.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): Because I am. And this still is.
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): So much for
If you're obligated to yourself, is that OK?
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): I know, I know, there are starving children in Third World countries who don't even have birthdays.
§§FOOTNOTE (so hard to make a decision!): At twenty-five cents a week allowance, me paying my own bills was a pipe dream... you'd think I'd have more sympathy for the working poor now. However, you can also see where the beginnings of my loathing of libraries began. This was apparently a weird bookmark in my psychological makeup.
¶¶FOOTNOTE (beat the drums slowly): I think. Coulda been fifteen. Coulda been twelve. Twelve might explain my devotion to Brainless Twelvehood. As shallow and whiny as this post is, it might be a great treatise on the psychology that is Marin. Apparently, my whole life has been dictated by birthdays.
&FOOTNOTE (ampersanded): Not that I'd discourage you to keep from trying to make next year's birthday even better. Just sayin'.
%FOOTNOTE (percented): Like with the Great Ticket Birthday and the Dovetail skull mug.
##FOOTNOTE (pounded like the spankéd ass of an elderly birthday girl): For those of you not Secret Pal or myself... as in Daffy and Donald. Quack.
^FOOTNOTE (careted): I do love it when someone will sing to me. With all the musicians I've dated, you'd think it would have happened more often.
†††FOOTNOTE (are we heading into triple-doubles?): Which said I was the queen for the day, but she got to be Vice Queen. VQ for short. Which I think is very, very funny.
‡‡‡FOOTNOTE (the primrose path of dalliance): That boy always smells like burnt sugar and almonds and if I nuzzle the back of his neck I get just a little high. The Universe clearly wants us to reproduce, so why couldn't it give him the ability to keep a date?
§§§FOOTNOTE (oh, my curly head!): Throat, chest, belly, arms, neck... I am a marked woman. Sorry, Brother.
¶¶¶FOOTNOTE (golf clubs, seal clubs... that was an inside joke only two people in the world would get): The Boy, for those of you scoring at home.
###FOOTNOTE (man, did that spankéd ass take a pounding. Sorry, Brother): This is NOT little brother approved.
*FOOTNOTE (staid, conventional asterisk): I'm not talking about The Boy. I'm just talkin' about me. I figure some of you may be worried about that.
@FOOTNOTE (I just can't bring myself to go to four): And did I mention that's where the resemblance between me and those statues ends? I believe my post-surgery water blob has dispersed. I got into my normal-sized pants for my birthday. Can I get a w00t-w00t!?
$FOOTNOTE (money shot!): Pun!
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Las Arañas en la Pelicula Bailan
Or, as we say on Thursdays here in Piglatnia, "Oslay Rañasay enay alay Eliculapay Ailanbay."%
The other day, I dropped off a couple of NPR maps for my dad and one of his little girlfriends.† Heading around the corner to the back, I saw a mass of yellow speckles wafting in a spider web on the downspout of his rain gutter.
At first I thought it was pollen, and I blew on it a little to see if it would fall out of the web and it started crawling.
Spiders.
Tiny yellow spiders.
Hundreds of 'em.
Now, I am just this side of terrified when it comes to spiders, but I think they're elegant and beautiful creatures, so I watched them for awhile then went home, skin crawling all the way.
Hi, Mom!
[SUMMARY: I am a complex and unpredictable creature. Or maybe just weird.]
*************
Hans pointed these ladies out to me. I'm waffling between them being exact negative images of each other or could-they-be-more-different, but they do have similar metallic purses.
[SUMMARY: It is our similarities and not our differences that bring us together.‡]
*************
There are many vintage Guinness posters on the walls at Patrick Carroll's. The knitters were in the back room§ last week and sat right across from this one.
We all took it to mean there was a Guinness hidden picture game in the offing. We spent a fair amount of time going, "Is that a Guinness there... in the lobster tail? Wait! Look at the crab's claw..."
I have since decided the crab and the lobster are just really pissed at the fish for bringing a zucchini instead of a Guinness.
[SUMMARY: Who the hell mistakes a zucchini for a Guinness?]
*************
I was at Target the other night. This goose just stood there and watched me¶ put my new summer bedding# in the car. I thought that was worth a photo.††
[SUMMARY: I may be running out of viable infotainment already.]
*************
When I walked over to Sylvia's Tuesday night, pre-Drunken Knitting, I saw this:
It made me sing‡‡ that song from Sesame Street. You know...
♪One of these things is not like the other.
One of these things just doesn't belong.♪
Can you tell me which thing is not like the other
before I finish this song?♪♪
[SUMMARY: ...black ...black ...black ...purple! run! run!]
*************
As your reward for putting up with this lame and disjointed pig-licking, I now give you a movie short.§§ It's the AntiM Productions classic, "Dance of the Crawly Scourge."
[SUMMARY: Ang Lee, eat your heart out.]
%FOOTNOTE (percented): Admit it... Spanish translated to Pig Latin is going above and beyond the call of duty. And so multicultural, it's practically a petrie dish.
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Not snarky. OK, a little snarky. Hey, give me a little buffer. Some of you are used to your parents dating. I'm not even used to my dad having *friends*.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Later, when I say, "opposites attract," I'd like you to look the other way.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): With the pool table, the shuffleboard and the oddly obnoxious people.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Until I grabbed the camera to take his picture, then he turned his head as if camera shy. Really, though -- before he turned his head he was so perfectly symmetrical and so still, I almost thought he was a decoy or some sort of plastic garden decoration.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): There's a story. Isn't there always a story? And aren't I usually more than willing to tell you? Anyway... I have the big fluffy comforter covered by the rosy-pink duvet...
...but it's getting too heavy for the weather.^ This was not a big surprise, as it happens every year, but last year I bought a thin little quilt from Target. It was rosy-pink and had ecru crewel jigsaw stitching all over it (so I thought) and I thought it would be perfect with my existing stuff. Only I got it home and unrolled it from its sleeping bag-like state and found it had a BRIGHT orange stripe in the middle. I lived with it for a summer, but hated it with a passion. So I decided to go for something new this year and donate the BRIGHT orange stripe to a worthy charity.
^FOOTNOTE WITHIN A FOOTNOTE (careted): Considering we had two days of spring this year. Seriously... it snowed and snowed and snowed, then it was 70 degrees for a couple of days, then *bam!* 80! 90!
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): And I'm sure the half-dozen bemused shoppers watching me take the picture agreed.
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Sometimes I don't think, I sing. It's charming. I'm sure the half-dozen bemused bikers listening to me sing agreed.
§§FOOTNOTE (what a tangled web): Sometimes I take movies of odd things. It's artsy. I'm sure the half-dozen hundred yellow spiders agreed.
The other day, I dropped off a couple of NPR maps for my dad and one of his little girlfriends.† Heading around the corner to the back, I saw a mass of yellow speckles wafting in a spider web on the downspout of his rain gutter.
At first I thought it was pollen, and I blew on it a little to see if it would fall out of the web and it started crawling.
Spiders.
Tiny yellow spiders.
Hundreds of 'em.
Now, I am just this side of terrified when it comes to spiders, but I think they're elegant and beautiful creatures, so I watched them for awhile then went home, skin crawling all the way.
Hi, Mom!
[SUMMARY: I am a complex and unpredictable creature. Or maybe just weird.]
*************
Hans pointed these ladies out to me. I'm waffling between them being exact negative images of each other or could-they-be-more-different, but they do have similar metallic purses.
[SUMMARY: It is our similarities and not our differences that bring us together.‡]
*************
There are many vintage Guinness posters on the walls at Patrick Carroll's. The knitters were in the back room§ last week and sat right across from this one.
We all took it to mean there was a Guinness hidden picture game in the offing. We spent a fair amount of time going, "Is that a Guinness there... in the lobster tail? Wait! Look at the crab's claw..."
I have since decided the crab and the lobster are just really pissed at the fish for bringing a zucchini instead of a Guinness.
[SUMMARY: Who the hell mistakes a zucchini for a Guinness?]
*************
I was at Target the other night. This goose just stood there and watched me¶ put my new summer bedding# in the car. I thought that was worth a photo.††
[SUMMARY: I may be running out of viable infotainment already.]
*************
When I walked over to Sylvia's Tuesday night, pre-Drunken Knitting, I saw this:
It made me sing‡‡ that song from Sesame Street. You know...
♪One of these things is not like the other.
One of these things just doesn't belong.♪
Can you tell me which thing is not like the other
before I finish this song?♪♪
[SUMMARY: ...black ...black ...black ...purple! run! run!]
*************
As your reward for putting up with this lame and disjointed pig-licking, I now give you a movie short.§§ It's the AntiM Productions classic, "Dance of the Crawly Scourge."
[SUMMARY: Ang Lee, eat your heart out.]
%FOOTNOTE (percented): Admit it... Spanish translated to Pig Latin is going above and beyond the call of duty. And so multicultural, it's practically a petrie dish.
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Not snarky. OK, a little snarky. Hey, give me a little buffer. Some of you are used to your parents dating. I'm not even used to my dad having *friends*.
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Later, when I say, "opposites attract," I'd like you to look the other way.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): With the pool table, the shuffleboard and the oddly obnoxious people.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Until I grabbed the camera to take his picture, then he turned his head as if camera shy. Really, though -- before he turned his head he was so perfectly symmetrical and so still, I almost thought he was a decoy or some sort of plastic garden decoration.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): There's a story. Isn't there always a story? And aren't I usually more than willing to tell you? Anyway... I have the big fluffy comforter covered by the rosy-pink duvet...
...but it's getting too heavy for the weather.^ This was not a big surprise, as it happens every year, but last year I bought a thin little quilt from Target. It was rosy-pink and had ecru crewel jigsaw stitching all over it (so I thought) and I thought it would be perfect with my existing stuff. Only I got it home and unrolled it from its sleeping bag-like state and found it had a BRIGHT orange stripe in the middle. I lived with it for a summer, but hated it with a passion. So I decided to go for something new this year and donate the BRIGHT orange stripe to a worthy charity.
^FOOTNOTE WITHIN A FOOTNOTE (careted): Considering we had two days of spring this year. Seriously... it snowed and snowed and snowed, then it was 70 degrees for a couple of days, then *bam!* 80! 90!
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): And I'm sure the half-dozen bemused shoppers watching me take the picture agreed.
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): Sometimes I don't think, I sing. It's charming. I'm sure the half-dozen bemused bikers listening to me sing agreed.
§§FOOTNOTE (what a tangled web): Sometimes I take movies of odd things. It's artsy. I'm sure the half-dozen hundred yellow spiders agreed.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Sick and Twisted
Talking literally, here, folks.† I had a really spectacular flu the last three days. Poor Steve had it first, and I had to call him Monday to say, "Hey, hope you're feeling better, but I really need to know this is going to be over soon."
It was one of those where I spent a significant amount of time thinking I was going to die and another significant amount of time thinking it may not be the worst thing.
[SUMMARY: That's what she said.]
I've been gone so long... today I feel I'm a stranger‡ in a strange land.
It's going to be disjointed, but we'll all get there together. Without joints.§ And you know what that means...
That pig is gonna get the tongue-bath of his life.
[SUMMARY: That's what she said.]
*************
First, happy Super Tuesday. Go read this book:
I'm a big fan of the "Click Clack Moo" series¶ anyway, but this isn't really a kids' book. Well, maybe. But you'll get more out of it than your five-year-old.
And you can read it standing up at your local B&N.
[SUMMARY: That's what he said.]
*************
Second, happy Super Bowl. Don't drink this:
Me and My Main Shanny doin' what we do best
And maybe you think you have no call to drink Boone's Farm Sangria-Flavoured Wine Product Food Stuff, but, hey... this isn't what I thought I'd be using my college degree for either.
See, our Super Bowl is about tradition. The Elks have been Super Bowling for nearly 20 years. In fact, next year is our 20th anniversary.# Because most of us were just out of college when this whole mess started, a lot of our traditions revolve around alcohol.
Because we're all still wildly immature and in denial about our age,†† we've seen no reason to delete, modify‡‡ or render symbolic+ any of these alcoholic traditions.
These traditions include the National Anthem Chug, in which the *stated* object of the game is to begin chugging a grossly cheap beer§§ at the first note of the anthem, finishing as the anthem finishes. Around, "...does that star-spangled banner yet wave..." it devolves into a highly competitive race to finish first.
These traditions also include the Lonely Guy Hour, which used to mean passing around a bottle of Boone's Farm at half-time, but now means everybody brings four or five bottles, which are cracked right after the national anthem and somewhere around the post-game confetti explosion, someone says, "Gorrdamit! Where's the best of the Roone's Flarm?"
After years of delicate tasting, we have highly sophisticated Boone's Farm palates.
Thusly:
"Where's the pink?¶¶ The pink is really good!"
"Are you high? The pink made me barf. Now, the blue..."
"Oh, dude, the blue SUCKS! Ya gotta get the orange."
"You'd drink that peach shit?"
"Not PEACH, dumbass, ORANGE..."
"Ha! That's what she said!"
Anyway, our verdict is the Sangria is just bad. It actually tastes like blood.##
Also? This year we may have started a new tradition. Y'all twelve-year-olds will appreciate it: just about anytime anybody says anything, answer with, "That's what she said," or the occasionally snarf-worthier, "That's what he said."
Funniest thing ever. I still giggle every time I say it.
Maybe you had to be there.&
[SUMMARY: That's what I said.]
*************
Soldier Boy called Friday night. I think I'm gonna get me some this weekend.
[SUMMARY: WOOOOOOOOOT! I mean... That's what she said!]
*************
At one time, I had a lot of words to impart on the whole Queensryche/Dokken experience. Because it's so far gone, I'm going to give you some bullet points:
*************
THIS JUST IN:
I received an plane ticket sales email thingie* from Frontier under the heading, "Why Hibernate?" and saying you could escape with low airfare. On the "to/from Denver" list? Anchorage. Chicago. Billings. Rapid City. Detroit.
What exactly am I escaping? And why would I leave hibernation to do it?
[SUMMARY: That's what he said!]
*************
Speaking of concerts, did I mention Rush? At Red Rocks?@ I got my ticket last week. $120. Fuck me.^
So I guess I won't be leaving the eighties any time this year. It's a total celebration of lack of maturation.
[SUMMARY: That's what she said.]
*************
While I was sick, I spent a lot of time in front of the TiVi,††† and this is on Comcast On-Demand. Watch it:
*************
Dang. I'm sure there's lots more. I'll probably have to lick that lucky pig tomorrow.
[SUMMARY: All together now: THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID!]
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): I know you're used to my metaphorical... um... flights of fancy and purple prose whatsits, but there I was, sick (throwing up every hour on the hour for 22 hours) and twisted (wrapping myself around the toilet in new ways I never I could manage).
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Well, even stranger than usual.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Not those kind. If you ever saw me stoned, you'd know why I never, ever mean *those* kind. Mentally, I went straight to Lyda's zombies.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Don't judge. Anyone who has kids or has bedtimed for, "Read it again. Read it again. Read it again," appreciates a book you can both appreciate.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): There will be T-shirts.
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Except for some of the guys whose daughters are rapidly approaching teenage-hood. Ah, Mateo... this is where you get it back for all your slick, horn-dog years.
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): At least not to save our souls and livers.
+FOOTNOTE (plussed): You know... like substituting Crystal Light for Boone's Farm or tossing confetti instead of our cookies.
§§FOOTNOTE (now, there's a nice, tight spiral... that's what she said): In honour of our humble beginnings.
¶¶FOOTNOTE (two bottles for the price of one!): Because Boone's Farm, like Gatorade, doesn't so much come in flavours as colours.
##FOOTNOTE (pounded like a Patriot): Well, Blood-Flavoured Wine Food Product Stuff, in any case.
&FOOTNOTE (ampersanded): I will, of course, be forcing it down your throat for the rest of the post. *pause* *think* *giggle* That's what he said!
%FOOTNOTE (percented): Yes, Don Dokken has a new album coming out. Acoustic. All new stuff. Seriously.
$FOOTNOTE (moneyed): A little geology humour for those of you who are so inclined. Or synclined. Or anticlined, if you'd rather. Gosh, I think I'm funny.
*FOOTNOTE (asterisked, if you can believe that): Plane Ticket Sales Email Thingie® Frontier Airlines. All saints preserve us.
@FOOTNOTE (atted): The place where U2's "Sunday Bloody Sunday" video was shot. You know, where the girl in the polar bear jacket mauls Bono, then he waves a flag.
^FOOTNOTE (careted): That's what he said.
†††FOOTNOTE (triple your pleasure): Except for Monday, when I spent a lot of time in front of the toilet and the rest of the time chasing ducks in fever delusions. Fever delusions are kinda cool.
It was one of those where I spent a significant amount of time thinking I was going to die and another significant amount of time thinking it may not be the worst thing.
[SUMMARY: That's what she said.]
I've been gone so long... today I feel I'm a stranger‡ in a strange land.
It's going to be disjointed, but we'll all get there together. Without joints.§ And you know what that means...
That pig is gonna get the tongue-bath of his life.
[SUMMARY: That's what she said.]
*************
First, happy Super Tuesday. Go read this book:
I'm a big fan of the "Click Clack Moo" series¶ anyway, but this isn't really a kids' book. Well, maybe. But you'll get more out of it than your five-year-old.
And you can read it standing up at your local B&N.
[SUMMARY: That's what he said.]
*************
Second, happy Super Bowl. Don't drink this:
Me and My Main Shanny doin' what we do best
And maybe you think you have no call to drink Boone's Farm Sangria-Flavoured Wine Product Food Stuff, but, hey... this isn't what I thought I'd be using my college degree for either.
See, our Super Bowl is about tradition. The Elks have been Super Bowling for nearly 20 years. In fact, next year is our 20th anniversary.# Because most of us were just out of college when this whole mess started, a lot of our traditions revolve around alcohol.
Because we're all still wildly immature and in denial about our age,†† we've seen no reason to delete, modify‡‡ or render symbolic+ any of these alcoholic traditions.
These traditions include the National Anthem Chug, in which the *stated* object of the game is to begin chugging a grossly cheap beer§§ at the first note of the anthem, finishing as the anthem finishes. Around, "...does that star-spangled banner yet wave..." it devolves into a highly competitive race to finish first.
These traditions also include the Lonely Guy Hour, which used to mean passing around a bottle of Boone's Farm at half-time, but now means everybody brings four or five bottles, which are cracked right after the national anthem and somewhere around the post-game confetti explosion, someone says, "Gorrdamit! Where's the best of the Roone's Flarm?"
After years of delicate tasting, we have highly sophisticated Boone's Farm palates.
Thusly:
"Where's the pink?¶¶ The pink is really good!"
"Are you high? The pink made me barf. Now, the blue..."
"Oh, dude, the blue SUCKS! Ya gotta get the orange."
"You'd drink that peach shit?"
"Not PEACH, dumbass, ORANGE..."
"Ha! That's what she said!"
Anyway, our verdict is the Sangria is just bad. It actually tastes like blood.##
Also? This year we may have started a new tradition. Y'all twelve-year-olds will appreciate it: just about anytime anybody says anything, answer with, "That's what she said," or the occasionally snarf-worthier, "That's what he said."
Funniest thing ever. I still giggle every time I say it.
Maybe you had to be there.&
[SUMMARY: That's what I said.]
*************
Soldier Boy called Friday night. I think I'm gonna get me some this weekend.
[SUMMARY: WOOOOOOOOOT! I mean... That's what she said!]
*************
At one time, I had a lot of words to impart on the whole Queensryche/Dokken experience. Because it's so far gone, I'm going to give you some bullet points:
- Look! Bullet!
- We got our tickets under face value from a scalper. I didn't know that happened. I felt dangerous and hip and savvy.
- It was the first time in (probably) twenty years that I haven't been vigorously frisked going into a concert. 1) Damnit. It would have been the most action I'd seen in months, and 2) if I'd had a clue, I'd've brought my camera.
- Don Dokken now looks like Kenny Rogers.
- Don Dokken did an all-acoustic set, and all of Dokken's Greatest Hits sound pretty much alike, acoustially presented.
- Don Dokken pulled a Tragedy Vampire on the whole Heath Ledger thing with, "I wasn't going to play anything off the new album,% but this is for a guy... a guy who liked music. And he used a lot of music. And I met him a couple of times..." I will never forget the chorus to the alleged song because I was so intent on memorising it just so I could share with ya'll:
I've been driven by wild horses, dragged beneath their feet.
Why do the children cry? How can we get relief?
- All that said, Don Dokken was personable, friendly, cheerful (other than the Tragedy Vampire portion of the program), played the hits and got off stage. I think I could have a beer with Don Dokken.
- Queensryche rocked. Geoff Tate has lost the tiniest bit off his highest wail, but mostly just rocked like an antiformal syncline.$ They did not do "The Lady Wore Black," though I had a dork moment when I thought they were going to and I turned to Greg and said, "No way. No fucking way." Later, I had to confess I'd failed to recognise some Queensryche hit that sounded a lot like TLWB and Greg said he thought it was TLWB too. So... vindicated.
- Geoff Tate is DEADLY serious about his work. While that often makes art and culture more laughable, I came to the conclusion that if he wasn't so very, very serious, his work would be a joke.
- Geoff Tate doesn't cuss. Not so much as a "hell" or a "damn." Particularly in contrast to Don Dokken's every-other-word-is-fuck, it was kinda refreshing.
- Reservoir tip ski hats are back in. Half the roadies were wearing them, but I also saw a couple of escaped Abercrombie & Fitch models in front of us and one was wearing a Dolce & Gabbana reservoir tip hat and I have a strong feeling that if it was five minutes passé, the boy wouldn't be caught dead in it.
- I'm pretty sure the couple to my left at the encore actually had sex. Right there. Next to me. And she was wearing this strappy, complicated, dominatrix thing that took her about ten minutes to get straightened when the lights came up.
*************
THIS JUST IN:
I received an plane ticket sales email thingie* from Frontier under the heading, "Why Hibernate?" and saying you could escape with low airfare. On the "to/from Denver" list? Anchorage. Chicago. Billings. Rapid City. Detroit.
What exactly am I escaping? And why would I leave hibernation to do it?
[SUMMARY: That's what he said!]
*************
Speaking of concerts, did I mention Rush? At Red Rocks?@ I got my ticket last week. $120. Fuck me.^
So I guess I won't be leaving the eighties any time this year. It's a total celebration of lack of maturation.
[SUMMARY: That's what she said.]
*************
While I was sick, I spent a lot of time in front of the TiVi,††† and this is on Comcast On-Demand. Watch it:
*************
Dang. I'm sure there's lots more. I'll probably have to lick that lucky pig tomorrow.
[SUMMARY: All together now: THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID!]
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): I know you're used to my metaphorical... um... flights of fancy and purple prose whatsits, but there I was, sick (throwing up every hour on the hour for 22 hours) and twisted (wrapping myself around the toilet in new ways I never I could manage).
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Well, even stranger than usual.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): Not those kind. If you ever saw me stoned, you'd know why I never, ever mean *those* kind. Mentally, I went straight to Lyda's zombies.
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Don't judge. Anyone who has kids or has bedtimed for, "Read it again. Read it again. Read it again," appreciates a book you can both appreciate.
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): There will be T-shirts.
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): Except for some of the guys whose daughters are rapidly approaching teenage-hood. Ah, Mateo... this is where you get it back for all your slick, horn-dog years.
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): At least not to save our souls and livers.
+FOOTNOTE (plussed): You know... like substituting Crystal Light for Boone's Farm or tossing confetti instead of our cookies.
§§FOOTNOTE (now, there's a nice, tight spiral... that's what she said): In honour of our humble beginnings.
¶¶FOOTNOTE (two bottles for the price of one!): Because Boone's Farm, like Gatorade, doesn't so much come in flavours as colours.
##FOOTNOTE (pounded like a Patriot): Well, Blood-Flavoured Wine Food Product Stuff, in any case.
&FOOTNOTE (ampersanded): I will, of course, be forcing it down your throat for the rest of the post. *pause* *think* *giggle* That's what he said!
%FOOTNOTE (percented): Yes, Don Dokken has a new album coming out. Acoustic. All new stuff. Seriously.
$FOOTNOTE (moneyed): A little geology humour for those of you who are so inclined. Or synclined. Or anticlined, if you'd rather. Gosh, I think I'm funny.
*FOOTNOTE (asterisked, if you can believe that): Plane Ticket Sales Email Thingie® Frontier Airlines. All saints preserve us.
@FOOTNOTE (atted): The place where U2's "Sunday Bloody Sunday" video was shot. You know, where the girl in the polar bear jacket mauls Bono, then he waves a flag.
^FOOTNOTE (careted): That's what he said.
†††FOOTNOTE (triple your pleasure): Except for Monday, when I spent a lot of time in front of the toilet and the rest of the time chasing ducks in fever delusions. Fever delusions are kinda cool.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Houston: Marin's Mystery Hair Tour Continues
Welcome to the Four Seasons.†
Here is the living room...
...and the bedroom.‡
There is a work area for your convenience.§
A full marble bathroom...
...with fine L'Occitane bath products¶ and decorative toilet paper seals...
...along with the VERY COOL magnifying mirror with a light built right in.#
[SUMMARY: Cool is in the eye of the beholder.]
Besides the rather pedestrian accoutrements such as big, fluffy robes and slippers, the Four Seasons provides an umbrella.
Besides the rather pedestrian assortment of snacks, soft drinks and tiny bottles of liquor, the Four Seasons offers such useful items as Purell, Listerine Pocket Packs, bath salts, fussy green tea and a handy Four Seasons purse hanger.
Despite the old fashioned luxury you'd expect from the Four Seasons, there is also technological comfort.††
See the doorbell? Only the suites have doorbells. That's how you know‡‡ your next door neighbour isn't in a suite: he doesn't have a doorbell.
[SUMMARY: Competitive hotel residency.]
When you order room service from the Four Seasons, they call you by name.% They are solicitous. And when your food is ready, they call and say, "Your dinner is prepared. May I bring it to you now?
And there's an orchid in the white napkin origami surrounding your silverware.^
Yes, I did knit. And despite my hissy fit the other day, I did take a before picture of the bowl. Y'know... in the Four Seasons.
Four Seasons pencil for scale.§§
For the record, if you knit the felted bowl from Leigh Radford's "One Skein," but you bump it up to a 75-stitch cast-on, this is all the yarn you have left over from that one skein.¶¶
[SUMMARY: Still a knitblog! With terminology!]
Of course, Houston wasn't just about lounging around the Four Seasons knitting and ordering orchids from room service. Houston was about muttering, "I think you have my thtapler"@ to myself a hundred times a day and laughing like a loon.##
Also, wishing I could meet the IT guy whose desk sported these compelling items:
I think that IT guy and I could be friends. †††
And Houston was not just about lounging around the Four Seasons, not just about blogdorking a major client's office decor... Houston was also about Christmas lights:
And cranes.‡‡‡
And a decorated airport.
And 80 degrees and 112% humidity. No, I did *not* take a picture of my hair for your amusement. Macy Gray got nothin' on me.
Houston also brought the brief and subtle return of the Texas accent I acquired from ages five through ten. Don't make me mad this week -- I'm liable to "Whut in the naym of Sayam Hyoust'n are y'all doin'?" you without a second thought.
Just so's y'all know, I brought a pile of knitting stuff to the office today so I could take pictures in daylight so I could be sure to have plenty of fibre-related pictures tomorrow to show you this is still, at its heart, a knitblog.
Apparently, I'm willing to blogdork my way through any client's office.
[SUMMARY: Professionalism is our watchword here at the Rickety Blog.]
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Did I mention I was staying at the Four Seasons?
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Down comforter, down pillows, ironed sheets... televisions in both the living room and the bedroom, which was funny, 'cause the first night I settled in with my knitting in the living room, I pointed the remote at the TiVi and both TiVis came on. There were also padded hangers and cedar sachets in the closet. And spray starch. I might have mentioned I wanted to spritz spray starch around the room just because I love that crisp, fresh laundry smell of spray starch.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): And pleated for your pleasure!
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Which I'm madly in love with and it turns out they're wildly expensive. Of course. How can someone as inherently, basically, joyfully dorky as me have such expensive taste?
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): And when they do turndown service, they turn the light in the magnifying mirror on and it creates a lovely, soft glow in the bathroom and provides a nightlight so you don't bump into shit when you're navigating 600 squart feet of hotel space.
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): I am also in love with the dimmer switch, which is applied judiciously at turndown too. I want all my lamps to have dimmer switches.
%FOOTNOTE (percented): And, since my name is ten kinds of weird, they pronounce it four different ways throughout the course of your order. (wonky grammar intentional)
^FOOTNOTE (careted): Told you there'd be flowers in Houston. There are always flowers.
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): And by "you," I mean, "me."
§§FOOTNOTE (hisssssssss): When was the last time I mentioned I stayed at the Four Seasons?
¶¶FOOTNOTE (prairie dogs): And by "you," I mean, "me." Seriously, as tight as I knit... your mileage may vary.
@FOOTNOTE (atted): For those of you scoring at home, I was *not* in Glenda's office, nor did I ever meet anyone named Glenda or see the name Glenda on a doorplate. It was a random Glenda stapler that fell under my radar like gigglefodder from heaven.
##FOOTNOTE (pint's a pound): And taking pictures of staplers. How much more dork? None. None more dork.
†††FOOTNOTE (telegraph hill): Maybe the IT guy and I should breed. Like pandas. With the soft rustle of ruffled kleenex. Nice segueway, huh? I just tied yesterday's post AND yesterday's comments in with today's post. Shouldn't I get an award or something?
‡‡‡FOOTNOTE (stitches!): There are *always* cranes.
Here is the living room...
...and the bedroom.‡
There is a work area for your convenience.§
A full marble bathroom...
...with fine L'Occitane bath products¶ and decorative toilet paper seals...
...along with the VERY COOL magnifying mirror with a light built right in.#
[SUMMARY: Cool is in the eye of the beholder.]
Besides the rather pedestrian accoutrements such as big, fluffy robes and slippers, the Four Seasons provides an umbrella.
Besides the rather pedestrian assortment of snacks, soft drinks and tiny bottles of liquor, the Four Seasons offers such useful items as Purell, Listerine Pocket Packs, bath salts, fussy green tea and a handy Four Seasons purse hanger.
Despite the old fashioned luxury you'd expect from the Four Seasons, there is also technological comfort.††
See the doorbell? Only the suites have doorbells. That's how you know‡‡ your next door neighbour isn't in a suite: he doesn't have a doorbell.
[SUMMARY: Competitive hotel residency.]
When you order room service from the Four Seasons, they call you by name.% They are solicitous. And when your food is ready, they call and say, "Your dinner is prepared. May I bring it to you now?
And there's an orchid in the white napkin origami surrounding your silverware.^
Yes, I did knit. And despite my hissy fit the other day, I did take a before picture of the bowl. Y'know... in the Four Seasons.
Four Seasons pencil for scale.§§
For the record, if you knit the felted bowl from Leigh Radford's "One Skein," but you bump it up to a 75-stitch cast-on, this is all the yarn you have left over from that one skein.¶¶
[SUMMARY: Still a knitblog! With terminology!]
Of course, Houston wasn't just about lounging around the Four Seasons knitting and ordering orchids from room service. Houston was about muttering, "I think you have my thtapler"@ to myself a hundred times a day and laughing like a loon.##
Also, wishing I could meet the IT guy whose desk sported these compelling items:
I think that IT guy and I could be friends. †††
And Houston was not just about lounging around the Four Seasons, not just about blogdorking a major client's office decor... Houston was also about Christmas lights:
And cranes.‡‡‡
And a decorated airport.
And 80 degrees and 112% humidity. No, I did *not* take a picture of my hair for your amusement. Macy Gray got nothin' on me.
Houston also brought the brief and subtle return of the Texas accent I acquired from ages five through ten. Don't make me mad this week -- I'm liable to "Whut in the naym of Sayam Hyoust'n are y'all doin'?" you without a second thought.
Just so's y'all know, I brought a pile of knitting stuff to the office today so I could take pictures in daylight so I could be sure to have plenty of fibre-related pictures tomorrow to show you this is still, at its heart, a knitblog.
Apparently, I'm willing to blogdork my way through any client's office.
[SUMMARY: Professionalism is our watchword here at the Rickety Blog.]
†FOOTNOTE (crossed): Did I mention I was staying at the Four Seasons?
‡FOOTNOTE (double-crossed): Down comforter, down pillows, ironed sheets... televisions in both the living room and the bedroom, which was funny, 'cause the first night I settled in with my knitting in the living room, I pointed the remote at the TiVi and both TiVis came on. There were also padded hangers and cedar sachets in the closet. And spray starch. I might have mentioned I wanted to spritz spray starch around the room just because I love that crisp, fresh laundry smell of spray starch.
§FOOTNOTE (swerved): And pleated for your pleasure!
¶FOOTNOTE (paragraphed): Which I'm madly in love with and it turns out they're wildly expensive. Of course. How can someone as inherently, basically, joyfully dorky as me have such expensive taste?
#FOOTNOTE (pounded): And when they do turndown service, they turn the light in the magnifying mirror on and it creates a lovely, soft glow in the bathroom and provides a nightlight so you don't bump into shit when you're navigating 600 squart feet of hotel space.
††FOOTNOTE (ddouble-ccrossed): I am also in love with the dimmer switch, which is applied judiciously at turndown too. I want all my lamps to have dimmer switches.
%FOOTNOTE (percented): And, since my name is ten kinds of weird, they pronounce it four different ways throughout the course of your order. (wonky grammar intentional)
^FOOTNOTE (careted): Told you there'd be flowers in Houston. There are always flowers.
‡‡FOOTNOTE (doubble-crossssed): And by "you," I mean, "me."
§§FOOTNOTE (hisssssssss): When was the last time I mentioned I stayed at the Four Seasons?
¶¶FOOTNOTE (prairie dogs): And by "you," I mean, "me." Seriously, as tight as I knit... your mileage may vary.
@FOOTNOTE (atted): For those of you scoring at home, I was *not* in Glenda's office, nor did I ever meet anyone named Glenda or see the name Glenda on a doorplate. It was a random Glenda stapler that fell under my radar like gigglefodder from heaven.
##FOOTNOTE (pint's a pound): And taking pictures of staplers. How much more dork? None. None more dork.
†††FOOTNOTE (telegraph hill): Maybe the IT guy and I should breed. Like pandas. With the soft rustle of ruffled kleenex. Nice segueway, huh? I just tied yesterday's post AND yesterday's comments in with today's post. Shouldn't I get an award or something?
‡‡‡FOOTNOTE (stitches!): There are *always* cranes.
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