I'm sick for what can only be the last time in 2007. There are many more germs awaiting my entry into 2008, for sure. The only blessing about this final 2007 bug is that I'm sick early enough to make a speedy recovery for New Year's Eve, and that means sitting around with some parents whose kids are probably sick, and we'll be talking about what we used to do on New Year's Eve's before we did this.
The added bonus of being sick this time is knowing exactly when, where, and who I got my illness from. The added bonus not being the knowing, but the added animosity toward the person who was so kind as to show up at my cousin's Xmas Eve dinner knowing she was coming down with something nasty, and sharing it with the rest of us.
She's a woman of probably about 57, named Roz. Roz didn't really have much to say to us (or anyone), other than to remark about how rambunctious Judah was being, and also that the Poinsettia he was playing next to was poisonous. According to the Bible (Wikipedia), Poinsettia's aren't poisonous, but we didn't have that information at the time so we all silently watched Judah like a hawk until he moved to a non-Poinsettia region of my cousin's house. The next morning I woke up feeling like crap, and I recalled how good I was feeling until that precise moment.
In any case, here I sit drinking Nighttime Airborne, loathing Roz. Nighty-night.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Trim Up The Tree
What I really want for Xmas this year is to know, once and for all, what my ethnic background really is. When I was a kid, it was simple: Dad was German/English, Mom was Filipino. But over the years it's gotten oh so muddled.
Upon doing a family tree homework assignment in high school, I found out that moms was not just Filipino, but her father was Spanish & Chinese. And then a couple years ago, Lily did some more questioning of my mom to find out what was up with my father's side of the picture, and she found out that there was Scottish and French in there as well.
I wanted to get to the bottom of this, and being as my dad's attending the great gig in the sky and not around to answer questions, I asked his brother. He told me there wasn't any Scottish or French in our family but there was German and Welsh. I'd never heard that I was Welsh before, but I felt like I was getting someplace.
The moment of truth finally arrived this year when we had a family reunion at my uncle's house in San Diego. I was so excited to ask the question about our ancestry and get the last word on what I'm really made of. Nope. Nothing but divergent opinions and ideas on what we were. Oh, and that my grandfather had a completely separate family from the one I knew about.
And then just the other day my cousin, who didn't bother to make the trek down to San Diego to help fill in the blanks in the family tree, calls me on the telephone. I explain the whole story of the reunion and the lack of information. He then tells me that years ago one of our relatives, who's not a relative anymore because of divorce, did the research and told our family (including the people at my family reunion) that not only were we German, English, and Welsh, but IRISH too! Well if that don't beat all. I hope at some point I find out I'm Italian as well. I've always wanted to be Italian.
Upon doing a family tree homework assignment in high school, I found out that moms was not just Filipino, but her father was Spanish & Chinese. And then a couple years ago, Lily did some more questioning of my mom to find out what was up with my father's side of the picture, and she found out that there was Scottish and French in there as well.
I wanted to get to the bottom of this, and being as my dad's attending the great gig in the sky and not around to answer questions, I asked his brother. He told me there wasn't any Scottish or French in our family but there was German and Welsh. I'd never heard that I was Welsh before, but I felt like I was getting someplace.
The moment of truth finally arrived this year when we had a family reunion at my uncle's house in San Diego. I was so excited to ask the question about our ancestry and get the last word on what I'm really made of. Nope. Nothing but divergent opinions and ideas on what we were. Oh, and that my grandfather had a completely separate family from the one I knew about.
And then just the other day my cousin, who didn't bother to make the trek down to San Diego to help fill in the blanks in the family tree, calls me on the telephone. I explain the whole story of the reunion and the lack of information. He then tells me that years ago one of our relatives, who's not a relative anymore because of divorce, did the research and told our family (including the people at my family reunion) that not only were we German, English, and Welsh, but IRISH too! Well if that don't beat all. I hope at some point I find out I'm Italian as well. I've always wanted to be Italian.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Deep in the Heart of Texas
When my employer asked me to travel to Dallas to edit a spot, I was asked one minor question: Do you want a rental car? Seems like an easy answer: Yes! But after speaking to another editor who'd traveled to Dallas, the likelihood of getting lost in Dallas in my rental car seemed very possible. And because I'd never been to Texas before, I decided it was probably a better idea to use taxis to get around.
Simple enough. Cab drivers know their city, right? Wrong. Every morning, I'd hop in the taxi, tell the driver the address and neighborhood, and each one would turn around and look at me like I was speaking Tagalog or something. The first day, the driver drove away from the hotel, pulled out a Thomas Guide and proceeded to look for the name of the street. Seeing's how I didn't want to get in a wreck over something as silly as getting me to the office, I said "gimme that" and looked for it myself.
The next day, things were looking up. The cab driver had a GPS thingy on his dashboard. Aside from the fact that he didn't know how to punch in the address, it functioned perfectly. Except for the fact that 75% of the roads around the office are under construction/not there anymore. We drove around in circles, with the GPS thingy saying "Turn right. Recalculating" every time we made a right. Luckily I had some modern technology of my own, a cellular telephone, to make a call to a co-worker and get real directions.
By the time you read this, I should be halfway to the office or circling around the same patch of roads under construction.
Simple enough. Cab drivers know their city, right? Wrong. Every morning, I'd hop in the taxi, tell the driver the address and neighborhood, and each one would turn around and look at me like I was speaking Tagalog or something. The first day, the driver drove away from the hotel, pulled out a Thomas Guide and proceeded to look for the name of the street. Seeing's how I didn't want to get in a wreck over something as silly as getting me to the office, I said "gimme that" and looked for it myself.
The next day, things were looking up. The cab driver had a GPS thingy on his dashboard. Aside from the fact that he didn't know how to punch in the address, it functioned perfectly. Except for the fact that 75% of the roads around the office are under construction/not there anymore. We drove around in circles, with the GPS thingy saying "Turn right. Recalculating" every time we made a right. Luckily I had some modern technology of my own, a cellular telephone, to make a call to a co-worker and get real directions.
By the time you read this, I should be halfway to the office or circling around the same patch of roads under construction.
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Sweet Child O' Mine
Lily tells me our son now says the word "Dammit". I wonder where he picked that up from? Damn!
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Bellbottoms
Not long ago, probably about a month ago, it dawned on me that my wardrobe was getting some serious wear. And tear. Which is a good thing, because I want to get as much mileage as I can out of my gear before the style police come along and tell me it's time to get into whatever retro year it is this time.
So on a Sunday, the family went on a little outing to the Beverly Center to do some shopping and basically hit the closest H&M to our neck of the proverbial woods. To make a long story start, we went into Club Monaco and I tried on some slacks. Nice, but they needed tailoring, and Club Monaco does free tailoring with your purchase. At least that's what the fashionista working the dressing rooms told me. Turns out that it's free if your merchandise is not on sale, which mine was, so I had to pay 10 bucks. Not bad for the convenience of not needing to go someplace else and do the whole fitting, pinning, paying exercise all over again.
The much-younger-than-me guy working the register handed me a ticket to fill out with my name and phone number. He tore off one part of the ticket and handed it back to me, and he told me my pants would be ready next Wednesday. I walked out of the store feeling oddly satisfied that I did some shopping, but I had no merchandise.
Wednesday arrives and Lily is kind enough to brave the Beverly Center again to pick up my pants. That night I pull the pants out of the bag to try them on and complete the shopping nirvana feeling. But I find that there are still pins in my folded, cinched pants. No tailoring had been done. I asked Lily about it, and she said she just picked up the bag from the store. The employee said they were done. Done has a lot of meanings I guess, but this didn't fit my definition of done.
At my earliest convenience, I called Club Monaco @ Beverly Center and spoke with a manager. He apologized not so profusely and said I could bring the pants back in and it would be done. Really? I'm allowed to drive my car into one of the worst parking lots ever and enter one of the few places I really consider hell on earth just so they could finish what they were supposed to have completed in the first place? No no no. I asked if I could bring the pants to any Club Monaco to have the tailoring done. He said yes, and that if anyone gave me a problem, to have them call him. Ooh. Tough guy.
There's a Club Monaco on the 3rd Street Promenade in lovely Santa Monica, and it's conveniently located walking distance from work. I drive there and bring the pants in on a Friday. I tell an employee my story, and we're good. She tells me to come back Monday, and they'll be done. I come back Tuesday. They're not done. There's no apology. Just a smile and the kind of blank stare you get from a lot of vendors in Southern California, begging you to say or do something you'll probably regret.
I assumed that they expected me to come back at some undefined later date in hopes that my pants will one day be tailored as we agreed upon way back when at the Beverly Center. But instead of playing that game, I asked them if they could be so kind as to call me when they're done. Blank smile girl said "of course". No apology.
Time passes and there's no phone call. I make the call, and I discover that the pants are ready, and they've been ready for a week. I ask for the manager, and I find out that I'm already speaking to him. I tell him my plight, and he's sympathetic. When I go in and get my pants, they're ready and they fit perfectly. The manger gives me a $30 store credit. What do I do with it? I buy more pants that need tailoring.
So on a Sunday, the family went on a little outing to the Beverly Center to do some shopping and basically hit the closest H&M to our neck of the proverbial woods. To make a long story start, we went into Club Monaco and I tried on some slacks. Nice, but they needed tailoring, and Club Monaco does free tailoring with your purchase. At least that's what the fashionista working the dressing rooms told me. Turns out that it's free if your merchandise is not on sale, which mine was, so I had to pay 10 bucks. Not bad for the convenience of not needing to go someplace else and do the whole fitting, pinning, paying exercise all over again.
The much-younger-than-me guy working the register handed me a ticket to fill out with my name and phone number. He tore off one part of the ticket and handed it back to me, and he told me my pants would be ready next Wednesday. I walked out of the store feeling oddly satisfied that I did some shopping, but I had no merchandise.
Wednesday arrives and Lily is kind enough to brave the Beverly Center again to pick up my pants. That night I pull the pants out of the bag to try them on and complete the shopping nirvana feeling. But I find that there are still pins in my folded, cinched pants. No tailoring had been done. I asked Lily about it, and she said she just picked up the bag from the store. The employee said they were done. Done has a lot of meanings I guess, but this didn't fit my definition of done.
At my earliest convenience, I called Club Monaco @ Beverly Center and spoke with a manager. He apologized not so profusely and said I could bring the pants back in and it would be done. Really? I'm allowed to drive my car into one of the worst parking lots ever and enter one of the few places I really consider hell on earth just so they could finish what they were supposed to have completed in the first place? No no no. I asked if I could bring the pants to any Club Monaco to have the tailoring done. He said yes, and that if anyone gave me a problem, to have them call him. Ooh. Tough guy.
There's a Club Monaco on the 3rd Street Promenade in lovely Santa Monica, and it's conveniently located walking distance from work. I drive there and bring the pants in on a Friday. I tell an employee my story, and we're good. She tells me to come back Monday, and they'll be done. I come back Tuesday. They're not done. There's no apology. Just a smile and the kind of blank stare you get from a lot of vendors in Southern California, begging you to say or do something you'll probably regret.
I assumed that they expected me to come back at some undefined later date in hopes that my pants will one day be tailored as we agreed upon way back when at the Beverly Center. But instead of playing that game, I asked them if they could be so kind as to call me when they're done. Blank smile girl said "of course". No apology.
Time passes and there's no phone call. I make the call, and I discover that the pants are ready, and they've been ready for a week. I ask for the manager, and I find out that I'm already speaking to him. I tell him my plight, and he's sympathetic. When I go in and get my pants, they're ready and they fit perfectly. The manger gives me a $30 store credit. What do I do with it? I buy more pants that need tailoring.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Hair
You may have heard, by first-hand accounts or by reading this space or otherwise, that I'm a marked man. Marked in terms of having incredibly bizarre misfortune at restaurants, coffee shops, etc. One place neglects to order my meal, another place decides to leave a broken bread tie in my eggs. One place has every beer imaginable on tap, they take our order and bring everybody's beer except mine because they just ran out of the beer I ordered.
These things usually occur when I walk into any establishment. And they happen almost every time, without fail. There's a sign imprinted on my forehead that reads "fuck with this guy" that's visible to everyone but me. I'm convinced. It's happened way too many times for it not to be there.
But this time I didn't even have to venture out into the world, make a phone call or interact in any way whatsoever with a vendor to get fucked with. I enjoyed half my delivered lunch and then discovered what looked like a pubic hair in there. Bon appetit.
These things usually occur when I walk into any establishment. And they happen almost every time, without fail. There's a sign imprinted on my forehead that reads "fuck with this guy" that's visible to everyone but me. I'm convinced. It's happened way too many times for it not to be there.
But this time I didn't even have to venture out into the world, make a phone call or interact in any way whatsoever with a vendor to get fucked with. I enjoyed half my delivered lunch and then discovered what looked like a pubic hair in there. Bon appetit.
Thursday, November 08, 2007
Flying High Again
I'd never done this before, and I hope to not make it a regular occurrence, but I took the skybus this week. Flew up to San Francisco and back in the same day. It may have possibly consumed less time than a lot of people's driving commutes here in the Southland.
I woke up at 4:20 am to get on a flight departing at 6:30 am. Fine. No problem. I just stayed away from the caffeine enough to sleep like a baby for the 45 minutes or so that we were in the air neither taking off nor landing. I even ran into a friend who was on the same flight, and he was kind enough to offer me a ride to work in his rental car. I was looking forward to riding the BART, but I was happy to have a comrade in travel.
The return trip was a little more adventurous. I decided to ride the BART to SFO, thereby leaving a narrow window of time to actually make my flight. BART drops you off right at the international terminal of SFO. Domestic travelers must go upstairs to catch a tram to the domestic terminal. Seeing's how I wasn't even leaving the state, much less the country, I went upstairs to catch the tram. 45 minutes before takeoff. I looked at the Information map to see where the Virgin America gates were. No listing for Virgin America. Must be too new.
The tram arrives, I step on with the rest of the travelers, and I remove my earphones just in time to hear: "Next stop, International Terminal. Virgin America, blah blah." I look at the tram system map and it contradicts the voice on the loudspeaker. The map says that Virgin America is the final tram stop. A couple standing next to me is apparently flying Virgin America because they saw and heard the same thing I did and they begin arguing in a rapidly escalating manner.
Doors open. The loudspeaker doesn't repeat the info. I quickly make the decision to go with the voice instead of the sign and I step off the train. I head down the escalator to the International Terminal (the one I could have walked to from where BART dropped me off in the first place) and I find one of those "Departures" screens and I see my flight number and gate assignment. It says A-11. I look up at the gate sign I'm standing under and it says "Gates G-1 through G-11". 40 minutes til takeoff.
I have no idea where the "A" gates are, but luckily there's an information booth nearby, so I walk over. A non-native-English speaking man beats me to the information booth and he asks (in non-native-English) the ancient sage working the counter where he can buy a ticket. Who the hell buys a ticket AT THE AIRPORT?!?!??!!! The sage tells me "be right with you" as he struggles to find the information. Moments later it's my turn, and I ask where Virgin America's gates are. The sage tells me where I can buy a ticket. (Apparently he neglected to notice the difference between me and the guy before me.) I tell him I have a ticket and I need to know where the "A" gates are.
The sage points up at a huge number on a pillar that says 11. "You see that number 11? Well when you get down to 1, you'll be there." I asked him if I should get back on the tram, but he said I could walk it. More like run it with the time I had left. I did my best speedwalker impression and hoofed it down to 1, and there indeed were the "A" gates. 35 minutes til takeoff.
The security check line is comprised mainly of Filipino travelers who don't have their shit together like I do. Meaning they're digging through their luggage to find passports and boarding passes. Things are not moving quickly enough for those of us who are about to miss our flights. This lack of speed continues all the way through the metal detector to the other side where somebody's bag has to go through the x-ray 3 times. As I wait, I look back at the security line and spot the arguing couple from the tram, and they still haven't made it through the ID check part of security.
I was about to ask security if I could grab my bag/laptop/shoes/jacket from behind the part of the x-ray machine where it has passed through, but not really past the part where you're supposed to grab it, but then I had a vision of a lengthy strip-search and me missing my flight. I waited patiently. 25 minutes til takeoff.
Finally I was able to grab my stuff and cram my feet into my loafers enough to get going. Speedwalking continued and I reached the end of the terminal where my gate was located with 20 minutes til takeoff. And to my left was an Il Fornaio cafe proudly displaying an Anchor Steam sign that I couldn't resist. Virgin America could wait.
I ordered, noticed a bar type of setup on the other side of the cafe, and moseyed over with my large glass of beer. I looked up at the TV hoping to see Monday Night Football, but instead it was some pirate movie that turned out to have Johnny Depp playing Keith Richards as a pirate. I was about to ask if they'd change it to the game, but a group of euro-looking travelers seemed really into the pirate movie.
I took a sip of beer and sent a taunting text message regarding drinking beer to a co-worker who I knew was still working. Then the loudspeaker came on: "Virgin America flight blah blah going to Los Angeles will be closing its doors in 5 minutes. If you want to go to Los Angeles, be here in 5 minutes." Couldn't be clearer about how long I had to finish my beer. Plenty of time.
I woke up at 4:20 am to get on a flight departing at 6:30 am. Fine. No problem. I just stayed away from the caffeine enough to sleep like a baby for the 45 minutes or so that we were in the air neither taking off nor landing. I even ran into a friend who was on the same flight, and he was kind enough to offer me a ride to work in his rental car. I was looking forward to riding the BART, but I was happy to have a comrade in travel.
The return trip was a little more adventurous. I decided to ride the BART to SFO, thereby leaving a narrow window of time to actually make my flight. BART drops you off right at the international terminal of SFO. Domestic travelers must go upstairs to catch a tram to the domestic terminal. Seeing's how I wasn't even leaving the state, much less the country, I went upstairs to catch the tram. 45 minutes before takeoff. I looked at the Information map to see where the Virgin America gates were. No listing for Virgin America. Must be too new.
The tram arrives, I step on with the rest of the travelers, and I remove my earphones just in time to hear: "Next stop, International Terminal. Virgin America, blah blah." I look at the tram system map and it contradicts the voice on the loudspeaker. The map says that Virgin America is the final tram stop. A couple standing next to me is apparently flying Virgin America because they saw and heard the same thing I did and they begin arguing in a rapidly escalating manner.
Doors open. The loudspeaker doesn't repeat the info. I quickly make the decision to go with the voice instead of the sign and I step off the train. I head down the escalator to the International Terminal (the one I could have walked to from where BART dropped me off in the first place) and I find one of those "Departures" screens and I see my flight number and gate assignment. It says A-11. I look up at the gate sign I'm standing under and it says "Gates G-1 through G-11". 40 minutes til takeoff.
I have no idea where the "A" gates are, but luckily there's an information booth nearby, so I walk over. A non-native-English speaking man beats me to the information booth and he asks (in non-native-English) the ancient sage working the counter where he can buy a ticket. Who the hell buys a ticket AT THE AIRPORT?!?!??!!! The sage tells me "be right with you" as he struggles to find the information. Moments later it's my turn, and I ask where Virgin America's gates are. The sage tells me where I can buy a ticket. (Apparently he neglected to notice the difference between me and the guy before me.) I tell him I have a ticket and I need to know where the "A" gates are.
The sage points up at a huge number on a pillar that says 11. "You see that number 11? Well when you get down to 1, you'll be there." I asked him if I should get back on the tram, but he said I could walk it. More like run it with the time I had left. I did my best speedwalker impression and hoofed it down to 1, and there indeed were the "A" gates. 35 minutes til takeoff.
The security check line is comprised mainly of Filipino travelers who don't have their shit together like I do. Meaning they're digging through their luggage to find passports and boarding passes. Things are not moving quickly enough for those of us who are about to miss our flights. This lack of speed continues all the way through the metal detector to the other side where somebody's bag has to go through the x-ray 3 times. As I wait, I look back at the security line and spot the arguing couple from the tram, and they still haven't made it through the ID check part of security.
I was about to ask security if I could grab my bag/laptop/shoes/jacket from behind the part of the x-ray machine where it has passed through, but not really past the part where you're supposed to grab it, but then I had a vision of a lengthy strip-search and me missing my flight. I waited patiently. 25 minutes til takeoff.
Finally I was able to grab my stuff and cram my feet into my loafers enough to get going. Speedwalking continued and I reached the end of the terminal where my gate was located with 20 minutes til takeoff. And to my left was an Il Fornaio cafe proudly displaying an Anchor Steam sign that I couldn't resist. Virgin America could wait.
I ordered, noticed a bar type of setup on the other side of the cafe, and moseyed over with my large glass of beer. I looked up at the TV hoping to see Monday Night Football, but instead it was some pirate movie that turned out to have Johnny Depp playing Keith Richards as a pirate. I was about to ask if they'd change it to the game, but a group of euro-looking travelers seemed really into the pirate movie.
I took a sip of beer and sent a taunting text message regarding drinking beer to a co-worker who I knew was still working. Then the loudspeaker came on: "Virgin America flight blah blah going to Los Angeles will be closing its doors in 5 minutes. If you want to go to Los Angeles, be here in 5 minutes." Couldn't be clearer about how long I had to finish my beer. Plenty of time.
Thursday, November 01, 2007
Who Are You
Lily and I took the li'l bugger out for his first Halloween last night. Not really his first Halloween, but the first that he dressed up in a costume, walked around the neighborhood and took candy from strangers. So cute. He didn't want to wear the head part to his Tiger costume, so I wore it so people could at least make the connection.
At one point - the point where we walked by the house with the really loud stereo blaring haunted house noises - Judah got scared. He refused to walk anymore and he tried to crawl up Lily's leg or my leg to be held, so I assume that meant he was scared. He's incapable of looking me in the eye and telling me, "Father, I have a great sense of fear because of the really loud stereo blaring haunted house noises, of which I have no association to this day you call Halloween." So I'm assuming he was scared.
We carried him around for a bit, setting him down in each doorway so he could get the loot and people could say, "Aw, cute." After a while, he seemed okay with the everyone-in-costume thing, and he started to charge around on his own.
At one point, he darted off up the walkway to somebody's door with the rest of the kids, and I made eye contact with a woman who looked like a mis-colored rendition of Raggedy Ann. She stopped and declared somewhat excitedly, "I know you from somewhere!" I knew her from somewhere too, but I couldn't remember where.
An industry person at an industry party? The mental face rolodex was spinning, but no match. A parent at one of Judah's multitiude of social events? That's possible, but we'd never know, seeing's how most parents are too busy chasing their kid around to remember people's names and such. A random hookup? I've never hooked up with any random person in LA, and seeing's how I've got my girl, I never will.
Well we stood there for a sec trying to sort out each others masqueraded faces, until she looked at Lily and said "I know you too!" Lily reacted similarly. Then Raggedy Ann realized we had all talked at the playground at the beach recently. And as soon as that realization came, she said her goodbye and took off faster than a kid grabbing a handful of candy. Was it something we said at the beach? My guess is that she would have stuck around for chit-chat if there had been a random hookup in our past. Who cares. I needed to get Judah away from the candy bowl.
At one point - the point where we walked by the house with the really loud stereo blaring haunted house noises - Judah got scared. He refused to walk anymore and he tried to crawl up Lily's leg or my leg to be held, so I assume that meant he was scared. He's incapable of looking me in the eye and telling me, "Father, I have a great sense of fear because of the really loud stereo blaring haunted house noises, of which I have no association to this day you call Halloween." So I'm assuming he was scared.
We carried him around for a bit, setting him down in each doorway so he could get the loot and people could say, "Aw, cute." After a while, he seemed okay with the everyone-in-costume thing, and he started to charge around on his own.
At one point, he darted off up the walkway to somebody's door with the rest of the kids, and I made eye contact with a woman who looked like a mis-colored rendition of Raggedy Ann. She stopped and declared somewhat excitedly, "I know you from somewhere!" I knew her from somewhere too, but I couldn't remember where.
An industry person at an industry party? The mental face rolodex was spinning, but no match. A parent at one of Judah's multitiude of social events? That's possible, but we'd never know, seeing's how most parents are too busy chasing their kid around to remember people's names and such. A random hookup? I've never hooked up with any random person in LA, and seeing's how I've got my girl, I never will.
Well we stood there for a sec trying to sort out each others masqueraded faces, until she looked at Lily and said "I know you too!" Lily reacted similarly. Then Raggedy Ann realized we had all talked at the playground at the beach recently. And as soon as that realization came, she said her goodbye and took off faster than a kid grabbing a handful of candy. Was it something we said at the beach? My guess is that she would have stuck around for chit-chat if there had been a random hookup in our past. Who cares. I needed to get Judah away from the candy bowl.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Song 2
At the risk of potentially turning this space into rantings about coffee instead of rantings about music (?), I'm dipping into the coffee story well for the 2nd week in a row. Because yesterday I had the best coffee in the world: Poop coffee.
Call me crazy, but coffee that's been through an animal, a cat-monkey animal called a Paradoxurus, is the best I've ever tasted. I almost always take cream & sugar in my coffee, but this poop coffee didn't need any. Smooth, nutty, silky. Good to the last drop.
The coffee is actually called Kopi Luwak. Calling it Kopi Luwak probably gets more first-time customers than calling it poop coffee. It's expensive as hell. 60 bucks a cup. A cup! Three dudes from work and I went to our new favorite coffee house, Funnel Mill, because occasionally Funnel Mill sells Kopi Luwak at half-price, and yesterday was our lucky day. It was a brothers-in-arms sorta effort because we figured nobody should drink poop coffee by themselves.
Here's what the Funnel Mill site says about Kopi Luwak:
Kopi Luwak coffee comes from the Indonesian island of Sumatra, an area well-known for its excellent coffee. Also native to the area is a small civet- like animal called a Paradoxurus. That's the scientific name, but the locals called them Luwaks. These little mammals live in the trees and one of their favorite foods is the red, ripe coffee cherry. They eat the cherries, bean and all. While the beans are in the Luwak's stomach, they undergo chemical treatments and fermentations. The beans finish the journey through the digestive system, exit. The still-intact beans are collected from the forest floor, and are cleaned, then roasted and ground just like any other coffee.
Our group was in agreement that Kopi Luwak is one of the best coffees we'd ever tasted. Was it worth 30 bucks? Probably not. But the fact that this coffee is rare because it's been through a cat-monkey made the experience worth every penny. The owner of Funnel Mill even brought a pad that has the names of the individuals who've dared to try Kopi Luwak, and he asked us to add our names to the list. After I was the last of us to sign, the owner told us he'd be sending us personalized Kopi Luwak mugs with our number on it. I'm lucky 13.
As we were settling the bill, the woman behind the register told us that because of global warming, it's getting harder and harder to find the Paradoxurus and their magical coffee-enhancing intestines, so Funnel Mill doesn't get very many Kopi Luwak beans anymore. So better run out to your local coffee shop and ask for some poop coffee! Pronto!
Call me crazy, but coffee that's been through an animal, a cat-monkey animal called a Paradoxurus, is the best I've ever tasted. I almost always take cream & sugar in my coffee, but this poop coffee didn't need any. Smooth, nutty, silky. Good to the last drop.
The coffee is actually called Kopi Luwak. Calling it Kopi Luwak probably gets more first-time customers than calling it poop coffee. It's expensive as hell. 60 bucks a cup. A cup! Three dudes from work and I went to our new favorite coffee house, Funnel Mill, because occasionally Funnel Mill sells Kopi Luwak at half-price, and yesterday was our lucky day. It was a brothers-in-arms sorta effort because we figured nobody should drink poop coffee by themselves.
Here's what the Funnel Mill site says about Kopi Luwak:
Kopi Luwak coffee comes from the Indonesian island of Sumatra, an area well-known for its excellent coffee. Also native to the area is a small civet- like animal called a Paradoxurus. That's the scientific name, but the locals called them Luwaks. These little mammals live in the trees and one of their favorite foods is the red, ripe coffee cherry. They eat the cherries, bean and all. While the beans are in the Luwak's stomach, they undergo chemical treatments and fermentations. The beans finish the journey through the digestive system, exit. The still-intact beans are collected from the forest floor, and are cleaned, then roasted and ground just like any other coffee.
Our group was in agreement that Kopi Luwak is one of the best coffees we'd ever tasted. Was it worth 30 bucks? Probably not. But the fact that this coffee is rare because it's been through a cat-monkey made the experience worth every penny. The owner of Funnel Mill even brought a pad that has the names of the individuals who've dared to try Kopi Luwak, and he asked us to add our names to the list. After I was the last of us to sign, the owner told us he'd be sending us personalized Kopi Luwak mugs with our number on it. I'm lucky 13.
As we were settling the bill, the woman behind the register told us that because of global warming, it's getting harder and harder to find the Paradoxurus and their magical coffee-enhancing intestines, so Funnel Mill doesn't get very many Kopi Luwak beans anymore. So better run out to your local coffee shop and ask for some poop coffee! Pronto!
Thursday, October 18, 2007
War Stories
After a visit to the doctor and finding out that my peak flow rate was 10% lower than it was two weeks ago, I drove to get some coffee. I'd missed the 3 o'clock cup, and caffeine is supposed to be good medicine for asthma, so I pulled into the Starbucks in Brentwood.
There was hardly anybody in there. Nobody in line, one guy grabbing a cup from the pickup area, so I stepped right up to the register and ordered a grande iced coffee. $2.35. A silver platter displayed a bevy of mini coffee cakes. I asked the register guy, "Are these samples?" He said yeah, so I grabbed a chocolate one and took a bite.
By the time I strolled over to the pickup area, the barista yelled "GRANDE ICED COFFEE". After all, it merely took pouring the iced coffee into a plastic cup. The barista folded his arms and leaned back against the sink area. I asked "Do you guys have that liquid sweetener?" He begrudgingly grabbed my coffee, and as he added the sweetener he said "Next time ask for it at the register."
I took another bite of the chocolate coffee cake and then thought "Did I just get reprimanded by a barista who's not busy at all?" I replied mid-chew "They usually ask when I order." And I grabbed my coffee and walked over to get a straw.
As I walked away I could hear the barista giving it to the register guy, "BAD, BAD, BAD". Wild afternoon at the Starbucks in Brentwood.
There was hardly anybody in there. Nobody in line, one guy grabbing a cup from the pickup area, so I stepped right up to the register and ordered a grande iced coffee. $2.35. A silver platter displayed a bevy of mini coffee cakes. I asked the register guy, "Are these samples?" He said yeah, so I grabbed a chocolate one and took a bite.
By the time I strolled over to the pickup area, the barista yelled "GRANDE ICED COFFEE". After all, it merely took pouring the iced coffee into a plastic cup. The barista folded his arms and leaned back against the sink area. I asked "Do you guys have that liquid sweetener?" He begrudgingly grabbed my coffee, and as he added the sweetener he said "Next time ask for it at the register."
I took another bite of the chocolate coffee cake and then thought "Did I just get reprimanded by a barista who's not busy at all?" I replied mid-chew "They usually ask when I order." And I grabbed my coffee and walked over to get a straw.
As I walked away I could hear the barista giving it to the register guy, "BAD, BAD, BAD". Wild afternoon at the Starbucks in Brentwood.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Here Comes Sickness
I've been sick for working on two weeks now. My new and not-improved immune system has been doing a pretty lame job of keeping up. Symptoms are: congested as hell, occasional cough, runny nose. My co-workers are afraid of me.
I believe I've shared my germs with two people now. Oh yeah, and I got my kid sick too, so that makes three (or two and a half if you're counting restaurant style). This thing has gotten so old that I'm not resorting to taking a daily multivitamin and skipping the 3rd cup of coffee. The coffee's the really hard part.
One of these days I suppose I should see a doctor to give me some antibiotics or perhaps a bottle of pills to make me feel better. But for now, just make sure to get your daily vitamin C to keep this thing away. Cuz it's coming to a town near you soon.
I believe I've shared my germs with two people now. Oh yeah, and I got my kid sick too, so that makes three (or two and a half if you're counting restaurant style). This thing has gotten so old that I'm not resorting to taking a daily multivitamin and skipping the 3rd cup of coffee. The coffee's the really hard part.
One of these days I suppose I should see a doctor to give me some antibiotics or perhaps a bottle of pills to make me feel better. But for now, just make sure to get your daily vitamin C to keep this thing away. Cuz it's coming to a town near you soon.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Goodbye Cruel World
I'm a goner. They didn't tell me how long I've got to live. I hope it's not too painful. But when a doctor tells you it's trouble, then you're done. They didn't have to be so grim about it, but they did have to let me know the horrible news. I've got gum disease.
I know, I know. Thanks for all your sympathy. I appreciate it. It's probably one of the worst of all diseases, and the hygienists were certainly very very very concerned about it, but I know I must accept it and accept my fate.
The doctor told me I've got maybe, maybe another 20 years before a tooth falls out. I know. I know. It's horrific. I know. But at least knowing, well, that's half the battle. The dental team researched my case long and hard (possibly over 12 minutes at the very least) and they couldn't come up with any possible explanation for the state of my gums. I was quick to point out that I did all I could: Brushing often, flossing nightly, even using mouthwash. They were convinced my hard-livin ways were to blame, but I eventually told them I've got bad genes.
They've given me one final chance to make it through. Gave me a referral to see a periodontal specialist. It's my only hope. Keep me in your prayers, if you please.
I know, I know. Thanks for all your sympathy. I appreciate it. It's probably one of the worst of all diseases, and the hygienists were certainly very very very concerned about it, but I know I must accept it and accept my fate.
The doctor told me I've got maybe, maybe another 20 years before a tooth falls out. I know. I know. It's horrific. I know. But at least knowing, well, that's half the battle. The dental team researched my case long and hard (possibly over 12 minutes at the very least) and they couldn't come up with any possible explanation for the state of my gums. I was quick to point out that I did all I could: Brushing often, flossing nightly, even using mouthwash. They were convinced my hard-livin ways were to blame, but I eventually told them I've got bad genes.
They've given me one final chance to make it through. Gave me a referral to see a periodontal specialist. It's my only hope. Keep me in your prayers, if you please.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Girl You Know It's True
Last Friday night I braved the elements of torrential downpour, lightning and slick roads to eventually arrive at the El Rey theater in Los Angeles, California. A metal band named High on Fire, who claim Oakland, California as their home, was featured. High on Fire's music and album covers* contain themes surrounding medieval topics and songs with titles like "Cometh Down Hessian", "Brother in the Wind", "Cyclopian Scape" and so on.
Need I say more? Okay, I will.
The singer has a gravelly voice that's not quite as cookie-monster-ish as the Grindcore music, but it's in the same neighborhood. I'd seen a picture of the band somewhere before, so I had some idea as to what they might look like and perform like onstage.
I had imagined some longhaired bearded black-shirted with matching black-wristbanded singer/guitarist guy who shunned the whole rockstar thing so that he could concentrate on sounding like what a gargoyle might sound like as he plucked crushing thunderous riffage out of his axe (guitar), all the while staring out into the crowd and seeing only orcs and piles of dead where the fans should be. Man, was I wrong.
Instead, the signer/guitarist guy came out with no shirt on, sporting tattoos on sculpted muscles that you get from going to a modern gym, probably not from going back to the middle ages and carrying boulders to mountaintops. And he definitely embraced the rockstar thing with open arms: strutting, posing, and repeatedly pointing at the crowd for a quick second before banging his head to the beat.
But what did I care? The music sounded the same. They didn't start singing in falsetto and do the power-ballad windmill guitar dance. They didn't change the lyrics to be about chasing bimbos and guzzling beer. But I think I almost would've rather had GWAR appear onstage and finish the set by lip-sync. That would be more like what I had in mind.
And why is it like that? I can (and you can too) probably name more than a dozen bands whose look/performance doesn't match the look/performance in your head.
Arcade Fire: Didn't know the lead singer was a goofy giant who dances goofy and dwarfs the rest of the band
The Shins: Balding bearded emo-guy anyone?
Death Cab for Cutie: Not a cutie
Luckily for most of these bands, people listen to them more than they watch them. After all that, I went back to listening to High on Fire and the mental picture went back to where it was in the first place. Gargoyle with axe in front of piles of dead. Rock on.
*
Need I say more? Okay, I will.
The singer has a gravelly voice that's not quite as cookie-monster-ish as the Grindcore music, but it's in the same neighborhood. I'd seen a picture of the band somewhere before, so I had some idea as to what they might look like and perform like onstage.
I had imagined some longhaired bearded black-shirted with matching black-wristbanded singer/guitarist guy who shunned the whole rockstar thing so that he could concentrate on sounding like what a gargoyle might sound like as he plucked crushing thunderous riffage out of his axe (guitar), all the while staring out into the crowd and seeing only orcs and piles of dead where the fans should be. Man, was I wrong.
Instead, the signer/guitarist guy came out with no shirt on, sporting tattoos on sculpted muscles that you get from going to a modern gym, probably not from going back to the middle ages and carrying boulders to mountaintops. And he definitely embraced the rockstar thing with open arms: strutting, posing, and repeatedly pointing at the crowd for a quick second before banging his head to the beat.
But what did I care? The music sounded the same. They didn't start singing in falsetto and do the power-ballad windmill guitar dance. They didn't change the lyrics to be about chasing bimbos and guzzling beer. But I think I almost would've rather had GWAR appear onstage and finish the set by lip-sync. That would be more like what I had in mind.
And why is it like that? I can (and you can too) probably name more than a dozen bands whose look/performance doesn't match the look/performance in your head.
Arcade Fire: Didn't know the lead singer was a goofy giant who dances goofy and dwarfs the rest of the band
The Shins: Balding bearded emo-guy anyone?
Death Cab for Cutie: Not a cutie
Luckily for most of these bands, people listen to them more than they watch them. After all that, I went back to listening to High on Fire and the mental picture went back to where it was in the first place. Gargoyle with axe in front of piles of dead. Rock on.
*
Thursday, September 20, 2007
It Takes Two
A couple things I've noticed in conversations with people lately:
Cupcakes. Cupcakes. Cupcakes. I don't know where this whole rage came from, or who exactly wants 'em, but every time I turn around, somebody is shoving a cupcake in my face. Red Velvet ones, especially. Being a non-cake person, I'd just as soon go for the ice cream. But the ice cream renaissance is around the corner I guess.
Cell Phones. Cell Phones. Cell Phones. Not the iPhone, thank you. I'm referring to cell phone reception, specifically reception (or lack thereof) in your own home. Here's the deal: You notice that your cell reception sucks at home because you're at home a lot (unless your initials contain the letters A and C) therefore you notice that the reception sucks there. End of story.
Unless it's the cupcakes that are jamming cell phone reception at home. Which is entirely possible.
Cupcakes. Cupcakes. Cupcakes. I don't know where this whole rage came from, or who exactly wants 'em, but every time I turn around, somebody is shoving a cupcake in my face. Red Velvet ones, especially. Being a non-cake person, I'd just as soon go for the ice cream. But the ice cream renaissance is around the corner I guess.
Cell Phones. Cell Phones. Cell Phones. Not the iPhone, thank you. I'm referring to cell phone reception, specifically reception (or lack thereof) in your own home. Here's the deal: You notice that your cell reception sucks at home because you're at home a lot (unless your initials contain the letters A and C) therefore you notice that the reception sucks there. End of story.
Unless it's the cupcakes that are jamming cell phone reception at home. Which is entirely possible.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Ghost in the Machine
We were on vacation last week. Which explains why there was nothing new in this space last week. Anyhoo, we had a great time for 10 days away from home. And when we came back our TV was on. We didn't leave the TV on when we left.
Before we took off for vacation, I was concerned that some of the people who live in the library parking lot across the street would break in and steal some of Judah's toys. Actually, I was more concerned with them stealing the toys that Lily and I have in the apartment. Namely the computer and related electronics like DVD players and iPods and such, as well as the jewelry collection I'm building for Lily.
So I made a note to go out and buy a few of those electrical timers that you put on lights so it looks like you're home even when you're not at home. But I procrastinated that part of my list away to oblivion, and I was forced to leave a couple lights on for the entire vacation.
Which leads us back to the whole TV on when we returned thing. Lily and I thought that our apartment manager Jolene (who appeared in LLMB 070507), who we asked to collect our mail while we were gone, might have come over to watch a little TV and forgot to turn it off.
Lily knocked on Jolene's door, and her new temp roomie Josie - a Bettie Page / Suicide-ish Girl with facial piercings and hair that never moves - answered it. She said Jolene was asleep, and Josie told us she'd thought we came home days ago because she heard the TV when she came in the other night.
We decided to check the apartment to see if anything was missing. Nothing was missing, so we went about our business of unpacking. 10 minutes later I heard a gentle rapping on our door. I looked through the peephole but it was dark and I couldn't see anything. I opened the door, and there was Jolene looking like a ghost because she had just applied a green facial mask. (Do people really feel comfortable enough with their neighbors to knock on their door looking like that?)
Jolene told us she hadn't come into our apartment, but she had seen the TV on through our window for the past few days and she thought we had returned days ago. She ventured guesses like maybe it was on a timer (nope), or maybe there was a power outage and the TV automatically turns back on (nope, no digital clocks were flashing and the TV doesn't do that), or perhaps Judah had hit a button before we left and set a timer to turn on days later (wow, the kid is amazingly freakin smart, but no).
The mystery is still a mystery. And the TV hasn't magically turned itself on since we've been back. But if I find any green facial mask goop anywhere in the apartment, I'll know what really happened.
Before we took off for vacation, I was concerned that some of the people who live in the library parking lot across the street would break in and steal some of Judah's toys. Actually, I was more concerned with them stealing the toys that Lily and I have in the apartment. Namely the computer and related electronics like DVD players and iPods and such, as well as the jewelry collection I'm building for Lily.
So I made a note to go out and buy a few of those electrical timers that you put on lights so it looks like you're home even when you're not at home. But I procrastinated that part of my list away to oblivion, and I was forced to leave a couple lights on for the entire vacation.
Which leads us back to the whole TV on when we returned thing. Lily and I thought that our apartment manager Jolene (who appeared in LLMB 070507), who we asked to collect our mail while we were gone, might have come over to watch a little TV and forgot to turn it off.
Lily knocked on Jolene's door, and her new temp roomie Josie - a Bettie Page / Suicide-ish Girl with facial piercings and hair that never moves - answered it. She said Jolene was asleep, and Josie told us she'd thought we came home days ago because she heard the TV when she came in the other night.
We decided to check the apartment to see if anything was missing. Nothing was missing, so we went about our business of unpacking. 10 minutes later I heard a gentle rapping on our door. I looked through the peephole but it was dark and I couldn't see anything. I opened the door, and there was Jolene looking like a ghost because she had just applied a green facial mask. (Do people really feel comfortable enough with their neighbors to knock on their door looking like that?)
Jolene told us she hadn't come into our apartment, but she had seen the TV on through our window for the past few days and she thought we had returned days ago. She ventured guesses like maybe it was on a timer (nope), or maybe there was a power outage and the TV automatically turns back on (nope, no digital clocks were flashing and the TV doesn't do that), or perhaps Judah had hit a button before we left and set a timer to turn on days later (wow, the kid is amazingly freakin smart, but no).
The mystery is still a mystery. And the TV hasn't magically turned itself on since we've been back. But if I find any green facial mask goop anywhere in the apartment, I'll know what really happened.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Rain
I've been nearly spit on twice in the last couple of weeks. Not spit on intentionally, but I just happened to be near somebody spitting for spitting's sake. The first time I was walking down the Third Street Promenade in lovely Santa Monica, and as I strolled near one of those sunglass vendor carts, one of the vendor guys hawked a loogie directly where I was stepping. My reflexes must be wired tightly or something because I managed to delay my step a half second, narrowly avoiding a loogie on my blue Pumas. The vendor guy quickly looked me in the eye (my sunglasses really) and said "My bad." Really.
The next time I was nearly spit on I was walking by the fire station on 7th street in lovely Santa Monica. Just coming back from the library, or lunch, or buying those foam insert pads for Judah's bike helmet. Something. Minding my own business and enjoying the lovely Santa Monica perfect weather of 75 degrees with a light breeze and then BAM! Spit coming my way from a guy walking the same direction as me, but just slightly in front of me. This time it wasn't reflexes that saved me, it was sheer luck. If I had been walking a half second faster, I would have been slimed.
As I figure all things happen in threes, there's gotta be another spit encounter coming my way soon. Unless you count the time I inadvertently spit on someone walking out from behind a bus shelter. Just minding my own business, enjoying a lovely San Francisco morning, standing right next to the wall-ish part of the shelter where the big advertisement usually hangs. Hawked a loogie and spat out toward the street, when BAM! A lady walks out from behind the ad and right into my flying loogie. All she could say is "ugh." Ugh indeed.
The next time I was nearly spit on I was walking by the fire station on 7th street in lovely Santa Monica. Just coming back from the library, or lunch, or buying those foam insert pads for Judah's bike helmet. Something. Minding my own business and enjoying the lovely Santa Monica perfect weather of 75 degrees with a light breeze and then BAM! Spit coming my way from a guy walking the same direction as me, but just slightly in front of me. This time it wasn't reflexes that saved me, it was sheer luck. If I had been walking a half second faster, I would have been slimed.
As I figure all things happen in threes, there's gotta be another spit encounter coming my way soon. Unless you count the time I inadvertently spit on someone walking out from behind a bus shelter. Just minding my own business, enjoying a lovely San Francisco morning, standing right next to the wall-ish part of the shelter where the big advertisement usually hangs. Hawked a loogie and spat out toward the street, when BAM! A lady walks out from behind the ad and right into my flying loogie. All she could say is "ugh." Ugh indeed.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Touch Me, I'm Sick
The germ-induced loopyness in my head won't allow me to write anything worth reading. See you next week. Ack.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Thursday, August 09, 2007
Space Oddity
We've been living in The City of Angels for 1 whole year now. I still haven't made the adjustment to needing a car like I need legs, but I'm getting there. And because we made it over the 1 year hump, I figured we weren't going anywhere soon. Therefore it was time to get all the boxes out of our apartment.
After going through the motions of trying to get rid of excess stuff via Goodwill and the trash dumpster, I searched online for storage units. There's a storage facility about 2 blocks away from us in Venice, but that one cost about double what another one did less than a mile away in Marina Del Rey. I got a 4' x 5' unit for a bargain, especially considering we'd be getting more than that space back in our apartment, and the little boy would have more room to push his toys around.
Taryn at the storage center office had me sign documents saying: I wasn't in the military, I wasn't storing a car in a 4' x 5' space, or that I wouldn't live there or house animals or food in the unit. It felt like I was signing my life away when I was really only trying to rent a tiny piece of California. One of the last things to sign for was insurance, and because I already had renters insurance, I told her I didn't want it. Taryn told me that I get the first month's insurance free, but I'd have to come back into the office to cancel it later. I really didn't want to come back, but I thought: What the hell, it couldn't hurt.
So I loaded the boxes I had with me into the 4' x 5' space. I figured that was enough excitement for a Saturday and I'd bring the rest tomorrow. Besides, we had to go to Pasadena to meet Judah's brand new cousin, Siena.
The next morning I made at least seven trips up and down the stairs loading the wagon to take our boxes to the storage space. When I got there I did the routine of grabbing the cart, loading the boxes from the car to the cart, and going up the elevator. When I arrived at the third floor I saw some guy who looked like Borat with a couple carts of his crap blocking the hallway. I looked for an alternate route to get to my space, but another guy had blocked the hallway with his crap. I left my crap sitting on the cart and asked Borat-guy if he wouldn't mind moving his cart so I could get mine past. He was annoyed and told me to look in my space first because there was a flood last night, and I might not want to put my crap into a wet storage unit.
I walked over to my storage space, unlocked the padlock and looked inside. At first glance it looked fine. Then I touched the floor. Damp. Damn. I looked at a couple of the boxes and they were soggy near the floor. Luckily Taryn took care of me and got me a new, dry storage unit that was even better because it was near the entrance and the carts. She even gave me some new boxes to replace my soggy ones. Nothing was damaged too badly except the box that the microwave was in.
And the microwave is pretty sog-proof. Now I can cancel that insurance. What are the odds of lightning (or a flood) striking the same place twice?
After going through the motions of trying to get rid of excess stuff via Goodwill and the trash dumpster, I searched online for storage units. There's a storage facility about 2 blocks away from us in Venice, but that one cost about double what another one did less than a mile away in Marina Del Rey. I got a 4' x 5' unit for a bargain, especially considering we'd be getting more than that space back in our apartment, and the little boy would have more room to push his toys around.
Taryn at the storage center office had me sign documents saying: I wasn't in the military, I wasn't storing a car in a 4' x 5' space, or that I wouldn't live there or house animals or food in the unit. It felt like I was signing my life away when I was really only trying to rent a tiny piece of California. One of the last things to sign for was insurance, and because I already had renters insurance, I told her I didn't want it. Taryn told me that I get the first month's insurance free, but I'd have to come back into the office to cancel it later. I really didn't want to come back, but I thought: What the hell, it couldn't hurt.
So I loaded the boxes I had with me into the 4' x 5' space. I figured that was enough excitement for a Saturday and I'd bring the rest tomorrow. Besides, we had to go to Pasadena to meet Judah's brand new cousin, Siena.
The next morning I made at least seven trips up and down the stairs loading the wagon to take our boxes to the storage space. When I got there I did the routine of grabbing the cart, loading the boxes from the car to the cart, and going up the elevator. When I arrived at the third floor I saw some guy who looked like Borat with a couple carts of his crap blocking the hallway. I looked for an alternate route to get to my space, but another guy had blocked the hallway with his crap. I left my crap sitting on the cart and asked Borat-guy if he wouldn't mind moving his cart so I could get mine past. He was annoyed and told me to look in my space first because there was a flood last night, and I might not want to put my crap into a wet storage unit.
I walked over to my storage space, unlocked the padlock and looked inside. At first glance it looked fine. Then I touched the floor. Damp. Damn. I looked at a couple of the boxes and they were soggy near the floor. Luckily Taryn took care of me and got me a new, dry storage unit that was even better because it was near the entrance and the carts. She even gave me some new boxes to replace my soggy ones. Nothing was damaged too badly except the box that the microwave was in.
And the microwave is pretty sog-proof. Now I can cancel that insurance. What are the odds of lightning (or a flood) striking the same place twice?
Thursday, August 02, 2007
Double Vision
Do you ever receive industry schwag? You know, the stuff with whoever's company logo on it, handed to you so you can sell their company logo or whatever it is they sell by wearing the stuff they give out for free? In the industry I'm in, you get schwag everyplace you go. I can wear a different t-shirt from a different production/post/design company every day of the week and not wear the same thing twice.
Do you ever have those days at work where you might be wearing a similar outfit as a co-worker, only to be ridiculed by some other co-worker about not getting the memo that "We were supposed to wear the red polo shirt with the black jeans today. LOL!"?
Well I had the misfortune of wearing some industry t-shirt schwag to work, only to see the guy who sits right next to me walk in an hour later wearing the exact same t-shirt. Too bad that nobody else was there to make the "memo" joke. I couldn't resist, so I said it myself.
Do you ever have those days at work where you might be wearing a similar outfit as a co-worker, only to be ridiculed by some other co-worker about not getting the memo that "We were supposed to wear the red polo shirt with the black jeans today. LOL!"?
Well I had the misfortune of wearing some industry t-shirt schwag to work, only to see the guy who sits right next to me walk in an hour later wearing the exact same t-shirt. Too bad that nobody else was there to make the "memo" joke. I couldn't resist, so I said it myself.
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