Trip Leg #3: Emeryville, CA to Denver, CO. 1,400 miles. 33 hours.
Elaine graciously drove me to Emeryville at the ass crack of dawn so I didn't have to spend a night at a hotel (and leave Monterey a day early). So, after getting stuck in Oakland traffic, taking a wrong turn, and desperately hailing random passersby to locate the station, I miraculously made my 9 a.m. train. Yes, the California Zephyr, easily the most scenic, entertaining, and all-around fun portion of the entire trip, due largely to the fact that everyone on the crew was a complete character.
10:00 a.m. The conductor, a gregarious (and slightly mischievous) man in his 50s, stops by my seat. He's holding the ticket that the car attendant ripped out of my booklet, and he says, "You're going the wrong way." I briefly have a mini heart attack, and then look more closely. The attendant accidentally ripped out my ticket from Denver to Chicago. The conductor laughs and apologizes and I give him the correct ticket. A few minutes later, I realize that I'm also missing my ticket from Chicago to Minneapolis, so I flag him down again. He promises to find it and then find me.
12:00 p.m. I head to the dining car for lunch and get seated with two Australians who whisper mysteriously to each other rather than making small talk. Seated next to me is Steve, who used to be an architect and then worked for American Airlines, and who now travels to Sydney several times a year to visit his best friend, a woman he met on a boat to Santorini, Greece. The Aussies warmed right up to Steve, even though I should have had dibs, since he and I soon discovered that we were actually related. I shit you not.
I should mention that, for the first segment of this trip, there was a guy on board giving a running commentary about local landmarks and historical information over the PA system. When he remarked that a certain river had been important during the gold rush, the Australian woman leaned over to her husband and asked, "Are we in Deadwood?" He replied, "No, that's in South Dakota." Seeing my opportunity, I said, "I'm from South Dakota, and I've been to Deadwood." Shocked, the woman gasped, "You HAVE? What's it like?" I'm not sure if she was expecting me to tell her I knew Seth Bullock and Al Swearengen personally, but she seemed a bit disappointed when I replied that it was mostly gambling and tourists.
1:00 p.m. I grab a seat in the lounge car and journal a bit, until I'm interrupted by the conductor, who has tracked me down again. He slides in next to me and says, "We really should get to know each other if we're going to keep meeting like this. I'm Paul." He hands me my ticket from Chicago to Minneapolis, laughs, grabs my hand, and kisses it gallantly.
2:00 p.m. I'm joined at my table by Marla and Rhonda, two older ladies who (unbeknownst to me) are going to make the next six or seven hours one of the most enjoyable days I could ask for.
To be continued.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Monday, October 17, 2011
Days 5-7: Monterey
When my cousin picked me up at the tiny but adorable train station in Salinas, I issued the standard apology for my appearance: rumpled, greasy, and red-eyed from yet another sleepless night. Somehow, my friends and relatives always managed to hug me upon arrival, bless their hearts.
About 25 minutes from Salinas, Elaine lives right on the beach in Monterey Bay. In addition to the pure joy of falling asleep each night to the sound of gentle waves, here are some highlights of my time in California.
The Monterey Bay Aquarium. I spent a fascinating afternoon wandering around this amazing complex, during which time I touched a manta ray, sea cucumber, starfish, and crab; saw a great white shark; got mesmerized by tank after tank of jellyfish; and toured an exhibit called "The Secret Lives of Seahorses." Turns out an aquarium is a fantastic place to visit all by yourself, since you can linger as you choose.
Fisherman's Wharf. As quickly became our habit, Elaine and I took her dog for a long walk down the beach before dinner. One night we ended up strolling around the wharf, which was touristy but very charming. The sun set on our walk back, leading to some great pictures.
Big Sur. We took an afternoon to drive down Highway 1, during which time I saw breathtaking views but also thought I was going to die repeatedly. If you're not familiar with this particular stretch of road, it's narrow and winding and hugs the cliffs next to sheer drop-offs (with no guardrails) into the pounding surf below. Don't get me wrong, it's gorgeous, and we had absolutely perfect weather, but I was just as happy when we turned around.
Ventana. On our drive back to Monterey, we stopped at this beautiful place perched high on a hillside and had one of the tastiest, most relaxing lunches ever.
Carmel. We also took a leisurely drive through this lovely area. I decided that, in addition to my vacation home in Cannon Beach, I wouldn't mind having a little place here as well.
Sidenote: Elaine told me that, when her brother visited her, they happened to run into Clint Eastwood. When her sister visited her, they ran into him again. However, during my stay, there were no celebrity encounters. Evidently the Eastwood Rule applies only to immediate family.
Again, I was blessed with quite possibly the nicest few days of weather this particular city had to offer. And, as I roamed the beach watching people leisurely toss sticks to their dogs and frolick with their children in the water, it occurred to me that I might be similarly chill if I, too, never had to worry about staying warm.
About 25 minutes from Salinas, Elaine lives right on the beach in Monterey Bay. In addition to the pure joy of falling asleep each night to the sound of gentle waves, here are some highlights of my time in California.
The Monterey Bay Aquarium. I spent a fascinating afternoon wandering around this amazing complex, during which time I touched a manta ray, sea cucumber, starfish, and crab; saw a great white shark; got mesmerized by tank after tank of jellyfish; and toured an exhibit called "The Secret Lives of Seahorses." Turns out an aquarium is a fantastic place to visit all by yourself, since you can linger as you choose.
Fisherman's Wharf. As quickly became our habit, Elaine and I took her dog for a long walk down the beach before dinner. One night we ended up strolling around the wharf, which was touristy but very charming. The sun set on our walk back, leading to some great pictures.
Big Sur. We took an afternoon to drive down Highway 1, during which time I saw breathtaking views but also thought I was going to die repeatedly. If you're not familiar with this particular stretch of road, it's narrow and winding and hugs the cliffs next to sheer drop-offs (with no guardrails) into the pounding surf below. Don't get me wrong, it's gorgeous, and we had absolutely perfect weather, but I was just as happy when we turned around.
Ventana. On our drive back to Monterey, we stopped at this beautiful place perched high on a hillside and had one of the tastiest, most relaxing lunches ever.
Carmel. We also took a leisurely drive through this lovely area. I decided that, in addition to my vacation home in Cannon Beach, I wouldn't mind having a little place here as well.
Sidenote: Elaine told me that, when her brother visited her, they happened to run into Clint Eastwood. When her sister visited her, they ran into him again. However, during my stay, there were no celebrity encounters. Evidently the Eastwood Rule applies only to immediate family.
Again, I was blessed with quite possibly the nicest few days of weather this particular city had to offer. And, as I roamed the beach watching people leisurely toss sticks to their dogs and frolick with their children in the water, it occurred to me that I might be similarly chill if I, too, never had to worry about staying warm.
Friday, October 14, 2011
Day 4: The Coast Starlight
Trip Leg #2: Portland to Salinas, CA. 834 miles. 21 hours.
First, it should be said that Portland has a proper, old-fashioned train depot, unlike the remodeled warehouse in St. Paul. Second, it should be said that you really need to check the inebriation level of the stranger you choose to chat up while waiting in line at said station.
When I got there, they had already called my train for ticket check-in, or at least that's what I assumed. To verify this guess, I asked the guy in front of me, who quickly revealed himself to be sipping grain alcohol from a 20-oz. bottle of Sprite. I won't bore you with all the details of this conversation, but here's a highlight. At one point, he turned and bumped my bag with his. When he apologized, I replied, "Oh, you're fine." He smiled goofily and slurred, "I am? Wow! You sure know how to compliment a guy." Ba-dum ching!
After boarding, I managed to snag a window seat, but I was soon joined by a seatmate. He seemed like a nice enough guy but, as I wrote in my journal, "I think he thinks I'm a dude." He called me "sir" twice, even after we spoke and I told him my name. Not the best way to start off, buddy.
7:30 p.m. Miracle of miracles, the dining car steward on this train was not a myth, and I got a dinner reservation. I trekked down there at the appointed time and was seated with Phyllis, an older woman who took the train eight times a year to see her grandkids in Eugene. Also seated with us were Charlotte and Stefan, who thought they'd been best friends forever since they met when they were 16 and were now the ripe old age of 22. Stefan was an ambiguous bearded dude with a ponytail and the smallest hands I've ever seen on a man. Charlotte was his polar opposite, a very cheerful, very big girl who tucked into her BBQ ribs with an enthusiasm rarely seen outside the wild. In the course of our meal, Stefan told us that he throws a dinner party every month at the full moon and stated that he refuses to learn American Sign Language because it's "fundamentally flawed."
Note to self: When you first head to the dining/lounge cars, make sure to count the cars in between. Otherwise, you might get confused when you try to return to your seat, especially in the dark. Ahem.
9:00 p.m. Found my seat, thankful to be alone. My seatmate happened to sit behind me at dinner and proved to be quite loud and obnoxious. He ranted to his fellow college-age dining companions that "Facebook is changing societal interactions! That's my theory, I just don't have all the evidence to prove it yet." Uh ... newsflash ... that's not a newsflash. But I have one for you ... I'm a chick.
10:00 p.m. I think those bastards in the sleepers got to watch a movie in their exclusive parlor car. Well, la dee frickin' da!
2:00 a.m. Dozed fitfully until I was forced to wake Mr. Facebook so I could slip out to the bathroom. Upon returning, I forgot to duck and cracked my head on the luggage rack. I guess if you don't have Ambien, an actual knockout might do the trick.
Another note to self, regarding bathroom awareness: If you make sure the toilet lid is up before you sit down, you won't have to gasp in horror and then cover your ass in Purell.
11:40 a.m. I arrive in Salinas!
First, it should be said that Portland has a proper, old-fashioned train depot, unlike the remodeled warehouse in St. Paul. Second, it should be said that you really need to check the inebriation level of the stranger you choose to chat up while waiting in line at said station.
When I got there, they had already called my train for ticket check-in, or at least that's what I assumed. To verify this guess, I asked the guy in front of me, who quickly revealed himself to be sipping grain alcohol from a 20-oz. bottle of Sprite. I won't bore you with all the details of this conversation, but here's a highlight. At one point, he turned and bumped my bag with his. When he apologized, I replied, "Oh, you're fine." He smiled goofily and slurred, "I am? Wow! You sure know how to compliment a guy." Ba-dum ching!
After boarding, I managed to snag a window seat, but I was soon joined by a seatmate. He seemed like a nice enough guy but, as I wrote in my journal, "I think he thinks I'm a dude." He called me "sir" twice, even after we spoke and I told him my name. Not the best way to start off, buddy.
7:30 p.m. Miracle of miracles, the dining car steward on this train was not a myth, and I got a dinner reservation. I trekked down there at the appointed time and was seated with Phyllis, an older woman who took the train eight times a year to see her grandkids in Eugene. Also seated with us were Charlotte and Stefan, who thought they'd been best friends forever since they met when they were 16 and were now the ripe old age of 22. Stefan was an ambiguous bearded dude with a ponytail and the smallest hands I've ever seen on a man. Charlotte was his polar opposite, a very cheerful, very big girl who tucked into her BBQ ribs with an enthusiasm rarely seen outside the wild. In the course of our meal, Stefan told us that he throws a dinner party every month at the full moon and stated that he refuses to learn American Sign Language because it's "fundamentally flawed."
Note to self: When you first head to the dining/lounge cars, make sure to count the cars in between. Otherwise, you might get confused when you try to return to your seat, especially in the dark. Ahem.
9:00 p.m. Found my seat, thankful to be alone. My seatmate happened to sit behind me at dinner and proved to be quite loud and obnoxious. He ranted to his fellow college-age dining companions that "Facebook is changing societal interactions! That's my theory, I just don't have all the evidence to prove it yet." Uh ... newsflash ... that's not a newsflash. But I have one for you ... I'm a chick.
10:00 p.m. I think those bastards in the sleepers got to watch a movie in their exclusive parlor car. Well, la dee frickin' da!
2:00 a.m. Dozed fitfully until I was forced to wake Mr. Facebook so I could slip out to the bathroom. Upon returning, I forgot to duck and cracked my head on the luggage rack. I guess if you don't have Ambien, an actual knockout might do the trick.
Another note to self, regarding bathroom awareness: If you make sure the toilet lid is up before you sit down, you won't have to gasp in horror and then cover your ass in Purell.
11:40 a.m. I arrive in Salinas!
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Days 2 and 3: Portland
Ahh, Portland. The current home of my friend Tara, whom I'd first met while we were teaching in Japan and then roomed with for two years in St. Paul. Originally, the plan was for another friend from Japan to come down from Vancouver and have a 10-year reunion (our "Japanniversary," if you will). However, travel bookings didn't quite work out, so it was just the two of us.
Since I was staying with Tara, part of our weekend involved yet another mini-reunion. Namely, I was reunited with her cat, who used to delight in hiding beneath my bed, waiting until I dropped off to sleep, and then exploding in a ball of deranged fur. Although she'd slowed down a bit in the last seven years, she now had a feline friend as a partner in crime. Long story short, one morning I woke at 6 a.m. to see two cats leaping at my face. I mean literally mid-air, flying toward my head. I screamed, they screeched, and I knew I was home.
Portland was probably the most surprising city on my trip, mainly because I'd never associated it with beaches and surfers. I was prepared for the laid-back hippie vibe, even for the fact that everyone who's anyone has a dog. I wasn't prepared for the rugged natural beauty. We checked out Bridal Veil Falls and Multnomah Falls at the Columbia River Gorge on Friday afternoon, then hit the coast all day Saturday, including Oswald West State Park and Ecola State Park. And we topped off our time in the sun and sand with possibly the best chicken tikka masala I've ever had.
Just when I was starting to think I could go granola pretty fast, it started raining. Yes, while gallivanting around the Northwest, I'd been blessed with some of the nicest weather you could ask for. That's when reality set in. It didn't completely dampen our spirits as we stopped by the Saturday Market (on a Sunday), and met a guy selling beautiful photos who was originally from Apple Valley, MN. It also didn't ruin a brief trip to Powell's Books, the largest independent used and new bookstore in the world. When we stepped in the front door, Tara said, "Okay, the first thing we'll need to do is get you a map." And I knew I was home.
But, unfortunately, the sweet siren song of "All aboard!" was calling me onward. (By the way, nobody actually yells that at train stations, although it would be fantastic if they did). So I bid adieu to Oregon, having gained a secret desire to one day buy a vacation home in Cannon Beach, a picturesque little ocean-side town that sells saltwater taffy and has a store devoted entirely to kites. Because, really, what more do you need?
Since I was staying with Tara, part of our weekend involved yet another mini-reunion. Namely, I was reunited with her cat, who used to delight in hiding beneath my bed, waiting until I dropped off to sleep, and then exploding in a ball of deranged fur. Although she'd slowed down a bit in the last seven years, she now had a feline friend as a partner in crime. Long story short, one morning I woke at 6 a.m. to see two cats leaping at my face. I mean literally mid-air, flying toward my head. I screamed, they screeched, and I knew I was home.
Portland was probably the most surprising city on my trip, mainly because I'd never associated it with beaches and surfers. I was prepared for the laid-back hippie vibe, even for the fact that everyone who's anyone has a dog. I wasn't prepared for the rugged natural beauty. We checked out Bridal Veil Falls and Multnomah Falls at the Columbia River Gorge on Friday afternoon, then hit the coast all day Saturday, including Oswald West State Park and Ecola State Park. And we topped off our time in the sun and sand with possibly the best chicken tikka masala I've ever had.
Just when I was starting to think I could go granola pretty fast, it started raining. Yes, while gallivanting around the Northwest, I'd been blessed with some of the nicest weather you could ask for. That's when reality set in. It didn't completely dampen our spirits as we stopped by the Saturday Market (on a Sunday), and met a guy selling beautiful photos who was originally from Apple Valley, MN. It also didn't ruin a brief trip to Powell's Books, the largest independent used and new bookstore in the world. When we stepped in the front door, Tara said, "Okay, the first thing we'll need to do is get you a map." And I knew I was home.
But, unfortunately, the sweet siren song of "All aboard!" was calling me onward. (By the way, nobody actually yells that at train stations, although it would be fantastic if they did). So I bid adieu to Oregon, having gained a secret desire to one day buy a vacation home in Cannon Beach, a picturesque little ocean-side town that sells saltwater taffy and has a store devoted entirely to kites. Because, really, what more do you need?
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Still Day 1: It's Neverending, Remember?
Following my homicide-related discussion with mustachioed (and nervous) Steve in the lounge car, I returned to my seat. This is what followed:
7:45 p.m. The mountains of Glacier Park are visible in the distance. Finally, spectacular scenery!
8:00 p.m. Total darkness. Mountains, you're such a tease.
9:00 p.m. I reluctantly settle in for another attempt at sleep. No such luck. Thus, I am awake for ...
2:00 a.m. We switch locomotives in Spokane. The front part of the train continues to Seattle, including the dining car (and, I'm guessing, the apparition that is Megan) while the rear cars get hitched anew and go south to Portland. Of course, nobody actually tells us this is what's happening, since no general announcements are made after 10 p.m. Suddenly the lights and ventilation system shut down, but the heat stays on, and we sit there for an hour. My car is sweltering and filled with several professional-grade snorers. Sally Chainsaw is across from me. I consider smothering her but don't want to give up my pillow.
3:00 a.m. Moving again. Have discovered that passing other trains in the night is terrifying.
5:00 a.m. As we prepare to make a stop, I hear this rather personal query come over the PA system, "Jeff, do you have three for Bingen and any disabilities?"
5:15 a.m. The lady in front of me says, "It sure feels like we've been on this train longer than 24 hours." Amen.
6:00 a.m. Have I mentioned that snoring champ Sally Chainsaw has her 3-year-old son with her? His name is Tripp (I know this because she scolds him about 500 times). He's cute as a button and has red hair, but I grow to believe this is because he's the devil.
7:30 a.m. We begin winding along a beautiful river at sunrise, featuring high bluffs studded with pines, a huge snow-capped mountain, logging operations, fishermen, and orchards. It's almost enough to distract me from the moment when Tripp whacks his mother really hard in the back, and in response, she smacks him and says, "Hurts, doesn't it." Awesome.
8:00 a.m. I make a final visit to what are now fully disgusting bathrooms. This particular crew does not particularly pride itself on maintenance. (Some trains and staff are better than others). The one I choose actually puts the "pubic" in public restroom. Nothing like damp toilet paper to start your day.
9:00 a.m. I finally start to believe that I may someday get off the 27 Empire Builder. I'd almost forgotten about the rest of my vacation.
10:20 a.m. I arrive in Portland!
7:45 p.m. The mountains of Glacier Park are visible in the distance. Finally, spectacular scenery!
8:00 p.m. Total darkness. Mountains, you're such a tease.
9:00 p.m. I reluctantly settle in for another attempt at sleep. No such luck. Thus, I am awake for ...
2:00 a.m. We switch locomotives in Spokane. The front part of the train continues to Seattle, including the dining car (and, I'm guessing, the apparition that is Megan) while the rear cars get hitched anew and go south to Portland. Of course, nobody actually tells us this is what's happening, since no general announcements are made after 10 p.m. Suddenly the lights and ventilation system shut down, but the heat stays on, and we sit there for an hour. My car is sweltering and filled with several professional-grade snorers. Sally Chainsaw is across from me. I consider smothering her but don't want to give up my pillow.
3:00 a.m. Moving again. Have discovered that passing other trains in the night is terrifying.
5:00 a.m. As we prepare to make a stop, I hear this rather personal query come over the PA system, "Jeff, do you have three for Bingen and any disabilities?"
5:15 a.m. The lady in front of me says, "It sure feels like we've been on this train longer than 24 hours." Amen.
6:00 a.m. Have I mentioned that snoring champ Sally Chainsaw has her 3-year-old son with her? His name is Tripp (I know this because she scolds him about 500 times). He's cute as a button and has red hair, but I grow to believe this is because he's the devil.
7:30 a.m. We begin winding along a beautiful river at sunrise, featuring high bluffs studded with pines, a huge snow-capped mountain, logging operations, fishermen, and orchards. It's almost enough to distract me from the moment when Tripp whacks his mother really hard in the back, and in response, she smacks him and says, "Hurts, doesn't it." Awesome.
8:00 a.m. I make a final visit to what are now fully disgusting bathrooms. This particular crew does not particularly pride itself on maintenance. (Some trains and staff are better than others). The one I choose actually puts the "pubic" in public restroom. Nothing like damp toilet paper to start your day.
9:00 a.m. I finally start to believe that I may someday get off the 27 Empire Builder. I'd almost forgotten about the rest of my vacation.
10:20 a.m. I arrive in Portland!
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Day 1: Neverending North Dakota
Trip Leg #1: Minneapolis to Portland, OR. 1,837 miles. 37 hours.
I left Minneapolis at about 11 p.m. on Wednesday, September 21st. Because I was leaving at night, and evidently because I had no accurate concept of how fast a train actually travels (note: about 50 mph), I hoped I'd wake the next morning to find that I'd missed most of North Dakota.
I was wrong on two counts, the first being that I'd need to "wake up," since I quickly found myself unable to manage more than 40 winks at a crack in my coach class seat. I read a book before leaving that compared sleeping in coach to "falling asleep in your favorite recliner." That, to be perfectly honest, is outright bullshit. Although you do have quite a bit more legroom than in an airplane, it's not enough to stretch out completely (at least if you're 5'10"). You also have the added complications of the train's sometimes jostled movement, and occasionally a large, fidgety, snoring person pressed right against your elbow.
So let's just frame it in a positive light and say that, due to circumstances beyond my bank account's ability to buy me a sleeper, I unintentionally saw more sunrises than I've seen in years.
But back to North Dakota, which was still there, in all its glory, when the sun finally began to filter through the windows the next morning. In fact, it was almost impossible to tell when we crossed from ND to Montana, because it was like driving through one big, endless farm. While I'm sure the scenery was delightful to some, this South Dakota girl was unimpressed. So I tried to amuse myself by keeping a running log of things I saw and heard in the first stretch of this very long haul.
8:30 a.m. Saw a donkey in a field with cows. That's new.
8:45 a.m. Woman up front declares that "Susie takes four ibuprofen at once. At once!" and "That's not right."
11:00 a.m. Lady behind me announces, "If we'd have flown, we'd have been there hours ago."
11:30 a.m. I finally figure out that my seat has a flip-up footrest. That would have been helpful.
12:30 p.m. See both an oil rig and an actual cowboy on a horse. We are definitely West River.
1:30 p.m. The guy up front has a cell phone ring that's a whinnying horse. He gets approximately 50 calls, during which he always drops the bomb that he's "not at work," he's on his way to Oregon. Has he really not told anyone he's going on vacation?
2:00 p.m. Passed through Frazer, MT, whose mascot is the "Bearcubs." Such a cuddly team. Just kick our asses, why don't you.
2:10 p.m. Just had to set my watch back an hour. Make that 1:10. Shit.
2:30 p.m. Everyone got warned that opening outside doors is a federal offense. Found out from the dude behind me that some drunken passengers decided they needed a cigarette and almost got thrown off the train. Then his wife admitted she used ice in her drink that had fallen on the floor. Huh.
2:45 p.m. Saw a junkyard with a sign reading "Beware of Snakes." Used to be dogs were enough to keep people out. They aren't effing around out here.
3:00 p.m. Just learned that the "event" they've been announcing for sleeping car passengers in the dining car is a wine and cheese tasting. Not too jealous. If their "wine" and "cheese" is anything like their "muffins" and "donut holes," I don't think I'm missing much.
3:30 p.m. Passed through Chinook, MT, whose mascot is the "Sugar Beeters." Not a lot of fight in these Western sports teams.
4:00 p.m. We stop in Havre, MT. I stay in my seat, waiting for Megan from the dining car to come through and take reservations for dinner. When she never materializes, a couple other ladies go to investigate. Megan claims she walked through and nobody wanted dinner (a lie), but it doesn't matter because the dining car is now completely booked. I hate Megan.
5:45 p.m. I go to the lower level "cafe" in the lounge car to get a terrible nuked BBQ chicken sandwich, chips, and a pop for dinner, which I eat while listening to Megan's disembodied voice call people with reservations to the dining car. I'm starting to suspect she doesn't actually exist.
6:00 p.m. I'm reading the paper when I'm joined at my table by Joyce and Steve and semi-drunken Chris. Steve thinks Joyce is going to kill him if they miss their connection in Chicago. I laugh, but then he leans in a little too seriously and tells me to watch the papers for the murder.
To be continued.
I left Minneapolis at about 11 p.m. on Wednesday, September 21st. Because I was leaving at night, and evidently because I had no accurate concept of how fast a train actually travels (note: about 50 mph), I hoped I'd wake the next morning to find that I'd missed most of North Dakota.
I was wrong on two counts, the first being that I'd need to "wake up," since I quickly found myself unable to manage more than 40 winks at a crack in my coach class seat. I read a book before leaving that compared sleeping in coach to "falling asleep in your favorite recliner." That, to be perfectly honest, is outright bullshit. Although you do have quite a bit more legroom than in an airplane, it's not enough to stretch out completely (at least if you're 5'10"). You also have the added complications of the train's sometimes jostled movement, and occasionally a large, fidgety, snoring person pressed right against your elbow.
So let's just frame it in a positive light and say that, due to circumstances beyond my bank account's ability to buy me a sleeper, I unintentionally saw more sunrises than I've seen in years.
But back to North Dakota, which was still there, in all its glory, when the sun finally began to filter through the windows the next morning. In fact, it was almost impossible to tell when we crossed from ND to Montana, because it was like driving through one big, endless farm. While I'm sure the scenery was delightful to some, this South Dakota girl was unimpressed. So I tried to amuse myself by keeping a running log of things I saw and heard in the first stretch of this very long haul.
8:30 a.m. Saw a donkey in a field with cows. That's new.
8:45 a.m. Woman up front declares that "Susie takes four ibuprofen at once. At once!" and "That's not right."
11:00 a.m. Lady behind me announces, "If we'd have flown, we'd have been there hours ago."
11:30 a.m. I finally figure out that my seat has a flip-up footrest. That would have been helpful.
12:30 p.m. See both an oil rig and an actual cowboy on a horse. We are definitely West River.
1:30 p.m. The guy up front has a cell phone ring that's a whinnying horse. He gets approximately 50 calls, during which he always drops the bomb that he's "not at work," he's on his way to Oregon. Has he really not told anyone he's going on vacation?
2:00 p.m. Passed through Frazer, MT, whose mascot is the "Bearcubs." Such a cuddly team. Just kick our asses, why don't you.
2:10 p.m. Just had to set my watch back an hour. Make that 1:10. Shit.
2:30 p.m. Everyone got warned that opening outside doors is a federal offense. Found out from the dude behind me that some drunken passengers decided they needed a cigarette and almost got thrown off the train. Then his wife admitted she used ice in her drink that had fallen on the floor. Huh.
2:45 p.m. Saw a junkyard with a sign reading "Beware of Snakes." Used to be dogs were enough to keep people out. They aren't effing around out here.
3:00 p.m. Just learned that the "event" they've been announcing for sleeping car passengers in the dining car is a wine and cheese tasting. Not too jealous. If their "wine" and "cheese" is anything like their "muffins" and "donut holes," I don't think I'm missing much.
3:30 p.m. Passed through Chinook, MT, whose mascot is the "Sugar Beeters." Not a lot of fight in these Western sports teams.
4:00 p.m. We stop in Havre, MT. I stay in my seat, waiting for Megan from the dining car to come through and take reservations for dinner. When she never materializes, a couple other ladies go to investigate. Megan claims she walked through and nobody wanted dinner (a lie), but it doesn't matter because the dining car is now completely booked. I hate Megan.
5:45 p.m. I go to the lower level "cafe" in the lounge car to get a terrible nuked BBQ chicken sandwich, chips, and a pop for dinner, which I eat while listening to Megan's disembodied voice call people with reservations to the dining car. I'm starting to suspect she doesn't actually exist.
6:00 p.m. I'm reading the paper when I'm joined at my table by Joyce and Steve and semi-drunken Chris. Steve thinks Joyce is going to kill him if they miss their connection in Chicago. I laugh, but then he leans in a little too seriously and tells me to watch the papers for the murder.
To be continued.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Tales from the Rails: An Introduction
Sometime during the spring of this year, I decided to take a cross-country train trip. Why, you ask?
1. I work too much and had vacation to burn.
2. I hate to fly.
3. I hadn't seen much of America (I'd never been west of the Black Hills, actually).
4. A friend of mine took a successful 30-day trip a few years ago and recommended it.
5. It was only $389 for a 15-day rail pass (coach class).
But mainly, it had been ten years since I taught in Japan, and it was simply time for another adventure. So I checked the Amtrak routes and then reached out to people in cities along the way: a former roommate in Portland, a cousin in Monterey, a former coworker in Denver, and a college buddy in Chicago. One big loop.
I also decided to take the trip solo, primarily because it was a large chunk of time to take off work, but also because there was the remote possibility that my chosen mode of transportation would completely suck, and I didn't want to spend my vacation worrying whether my traveling companion was comfortable or having a good time. Plus, I knew being alone would force me to be more social.
I'd never been to any of the places I was going, and I hadn't seen any of the people I was visiting in several years. I had absolutely no agenda for anything beyond experiencing the train, seeing some country, and spending some quality down-time with cool people.
There were a great many unknowns going into the trip, but one thing was for sure: I was going to cover 5,527 miles in 14 days. Little did I know that, along the way, I would get kissed by a conductor, survive a passenger revolt, Purell my own ass, and nearly be force-fed a hot dog by a Nigerian.
For these stories and many more, please keep tuning in!
1. I work too much and had vacation to burn.
2. I hate to fly.
3. I hadn't seen much of America (I'd never been west of the Black Hills, actually).
4. A friend of mine took a successful 30-day trip a few years ago and recommended it.
5. It was only $389 for a 15-day rail pass (coach class).
But mainly, it had been ten years since I taught in Japan, and it was simply time for another adventure. So I checked the Amtrak routes and then reached out to people in cities along the way: a former roommate in Portland, a cousin in Monterey, a former coworker in Denver, and a college buddy in Chicago. One big loop.
I also decided to take the trip solo, primarily because it was a large chunk of time to take off work, but also because there was the remote possibility that my chosen mode of transportation would completely suck, and I didn't want to spend my vacation worrying whether my traveling companion was comfortable or having a good time. Plus, I knew being alone would force me to be more social.
I'd never been to any of the places I was going, and I hadn't seen any of the people I was visiting in several years. I had absolutely no agenda for anything beyond experiencing the train, seeing some country, and spending some quality down-time with cool people.
There were a great many unknowns going into the trip, but one thing was for sure: I was going to cover 5,527 miles in 14 days. Little did I know that, along the way, I would get kissed by a conductor, survive a passenger revolt, Purell my own ass, and nearly be force-fed a hot dog by a Nigerian.
For these stories and many more, please keep tuning in!
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Two Conversations
Understatement of the Year
Woman #1: You know how you're listening to something in French, and you don't know what they're saying, but it still sounds good?
Woman #2: There's some countries that you can't even sell their music here in America. And there's some countries where they've banned American music, too.
Woman #1: You know who's really nit-picky about that stuff? China.
Two and a Half Men's Ultimate Demographic
Woman #1: I saw that Jon Cryer on TV. You know, why don't they ever interview the kid?
Woman #2: Jake.
Woman #1: Yeah. He's supposed to be the half man, but he's bigger than both of 'em.
Woman #2: You see that ad where they're holding the sign that says "All Will Be Revealed" and they're naked? That's funny.
Woman #1: But they have little shorts on underneath. They're not really naked.
Woman #2: I don't know . . .
Woman #1: You know how you're listening to something in French, and you don't know what they're saying, but it still sounds good?
Woman #2: There's some countries that you can't even sell their music here in America. And there's some countries where they've banned American music, too.
Woman #1: You know who's really nit-picky about that stuff? China.
Two and a Half Men's Ultimate Demographic
Woman #1: I saw that Jon Cryer on TV. You know, why don't they ever interview the kid?
Woman #2: Jake.
Woman #1: Yeah. He's supposed to be the half man, but he's bigger than both of 'em.
Woman #2: You see that ad where they're holding the sign that says "All Will Be Revealed" and they're naked? That's funny.
Woman #1: But they have little shorts on underneath. They're not really naked.
Woman #2: I don't know . . .
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Speak Into My Good Ear
Sometimes, an eavesdropping opportunity comes along that you couldn't have designed better if you'd tried. When I went to catch my bus today, it was drizzling, so I ducked into the bus stop shelter. Just outside, on a bench, was an arguing couple. Not so shockingly, they had some serious issues. But miracle of miracles, they weren't shy about expressing their opinions. What I overheard was this . . .
Woman: "I'm in school, I got my own shit. I'm doin' just fine. I take care of myself, I pay my own motherfucking bills!"
Man: "But I still want you."
Woman: "Why?!"
Man: "Cuz I LOVE you!"
Woman: "At least you ain't gotta deal with my mama no more. All that fussin'."
Man: "Can't you just listen to me? Just listen. I seen you out on Nicollet with a nigga who looked like he wanted to find another nigga to pay you! You puttin' it all out there, and you 53 years old!"
Woman: "An you LOUD! You ain't think everybody just heard that?!"
Cut to me, trying so hard to look disinterested and itching for a notebook so badly that my hands were shaking. Because yes, you ARE loud, and everybody DID hear that, and now even more people can enjoy it.
Woman: "I'm in school, I got my own shit. I'm doin' just fine. I take care of myself, I pay my own motherfucking bills!"
Man: "But I still want you."
Woman: "Why?!"
Man: "Cuz I LOVE you!"
Woman: "At least you ain't gotta deal with my mama no more. All that fussin'."
Man: "Can't you just listen to me? Just listen. I seen you out on Nicollet with a nigga who looked like he wanted to find another nigga to pay you! You puttin' it all out there, and you 53 years old!"
Woman: "An you LOUD! You ain't think everybody just heard that?!"
Cut to me, trying so hard to look disinterested and itching for a notebook so badly that my hands were shaking. Because yes, you ARE loud, and everybody DID hear that, and now even more people can enjoy it.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Dear Diary: Love Hurts
What a day! Not sure if the grounding was related to the piano. Also not sure why I was allowed to see a movie when I was grounded. Pretty sure Evan getting maimed had nothing to do with me.
Again, don't think the two are related. Evidently my relationship with Evan changed drastically the day after the head injury. And now a tooth! This boy seems to be falling apart.
We're together now, just in case you forgot. Perhaps I needed to remind myself that I was taken ...
... because five days later I'm cheating on him like crazy. What a slut!
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Outfoxed
This spring, I had the great misfortune to see a mother duck lead her ten chicks across a parking lot and into a picturesque little pond not far from my apartment.
I say misfortune because, as I watched their tiny, fuzzy bodies plunk one by one into the water, I knew I would have to closely monitor this family all summer long. They had adopted me, and they didn't even realize it.
So every week I would pause briefly on a bench after work and watch them paddle around, cheep-cheeping and sticking their little butts in the air as they dove and splashed. And I would conduct a head count, just to make sure there were still ten, none of them having been nabbed by a predator or squashed by a passing car.
When I mentioned this compulsion to keep tabs on the ducks to one of my coworkers, he demanded to know why these animals were so irresistible. But you can't really explain that level of cuteness. So he posed a Sophie's choice question purely out of deviousness. "Okay then, would you rather lose one of the ducklings, or have a baby fox starve to death?"
After some horrified thought, I finally had to admit, "Well, I guess ten is kind of an embarrassment of riches."
I felt a bit guilty about that answer. Until a few nights later when, driving home from this same coworker's house, I almost hit a fox that darted across the road. But I didn't. I spared him. So I believe I earned the right to keep my fine-feathered family intact.
They're so grown up now that I can't tell which are my original ducklings and which are just your run-of-the-mill Mallards. But sometimes I wonder if they recognize me, ever watchful. #11.
I say misfortune because, as I watched their tiny, fuzzy bodies plunk one by one into the water, I knew I would have to closely monitor this family all summer long. They had adopted me, and they didn't even realize it.
So every week I would pause briefly on a bench after work and watch them paddle around, cheep-cheeping and sticking their little butts in the air as they dove and splashed. And I would conduct a head count, just to make sure there were still ten, none of them having been nabbed by a predator or squashed by a passing car.
When I mentioned this compulsion to keep tabs on the ducks to one of my coworkers, he demanded to know why these animals were so irresistible. But you can't really explain that level of cuteness. So he posed a Sophie's choice question purely out of deviousness. "Okay then, would you rather lose one of the ducklings, or have a baby fox starve to death?"
After some horrified thought, I finally had to admit, "Well, I guess ten is kind of an embarrassment of riches."
I felt a bit guilty about that answer. Until a few nights later when, driving home from this same coworker's house, I almost hit a fox that darted across the road. But I didn't. I spared him. So I believe I earned the right to keep my fine-feathered family intact.
They're so grown up now that I can't tell which are my original ducklings and which are just your run-of-the-mill Mallards. But sometimes I wonder if they recognize me, ever watchful. #11.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Dear Diary: Checkers
Item one: I referred to markers as "neat" and went ga-ga over high-tops. Nerd alert!
Item two: Where the hell did we find a Chinese restaurant in 1985 South Dakota?
Item three: I referred to movies as "movie films" for no discernible reason.
Item four: Jesus, Dad! Give me a break. I've only been playing checkers for two days!
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Unintentionally Bootylicious
So this random dude walked by and complimented my ass while I waited at the bus stop yesterday.
"How you doin', you fine, booty (untelligible) thang?"
I'm not quite sure what the specifics were, but it was definitely something booty-related. As I've mentioned before, I'll never understand why my attractiveness demographic is:
A. Middle-aged
B. African-American
C. Typically crazy passersby/panhandlers
But that's the trend. And I'll take it where I can get it, I guess.
When I finally turned around and realized he was talking to me, I immediately started laughing.
"I'm fine," replied.
"Yeah, that's right, you sexy young woman."
And then, as I stepped on the bus, he shouted, "You just made my day!"
Ditto, sir. Ditto.
"How you doin', you fine, booty (untelligible) thang?"
I'm not quite sure what the specifics were, but it was definitely something booty-related. As I've mentioned before, I'll never understand why my attractiveness demographic is:
A. Middle-aged
B. African-American
C. Typically crazy passersby/panhandlers
But that's the trend. And I'll take it where I can get it, I guess.
When I finally turned around and realized he was talking to me, I immediately started laughing.
"I'm fine," replied.
"Yeah, that's right, you sexy young woman."
And then, as I stepped on the bus, he shouted, "You just made my day!"
Ditto, sir. Ditto.
Monday, August 15, 2011
Two-Bit Problem
I feel the need to share this, because I'm pretty sure very few people have actually seen what I saw last week on the bus. Toward the end of my ride, a 47-year-old man got on. How do I know his age? Why, because he announced it, of course.
He stood in the aisle, not taking a seat (something that drives me absolutely crazy, when seats are readily available) and instead simply brushing his close-cropped head of hair over and over and over and over. I tend to be unconcerned with people attending to their personal hygiene in transit. Typically, I'm just glad they're attending to it at all. Except for the lady who applied her deodorant en route and then sprayed her perfume, which then drifted directly into my face.
But I digress.
What amazed me about this man was that, when he turned his head, I noticed that he had a quarter in his ear.
Let me just repeat that, to make sure it's clear. In the dude's ear, where you would normally see a hearing aid, let's say, was instead a 25 cent piece, jammed flat across his ear-hole and wedged between the outer edges of said ear.
I didn't know what to make of this, and I still don't. Was it an ingenious way to store his change for the bus? Is it an anti-American statement if you cover George Washington with wax? Or does it simply keep the voices at bay? I was mystified. But kind of intrigued. Because I wasn't sure that just anyone could even pull off such a feat.
For the record, I can. In case you're wondering. Naturally, I had to give it a shot in honor of my new spare change hero. But again, I'm not sure how special this makes me, because I haven't yet inspired anyone else to try it.
Perhaps you'll experiment and let me know?
He stood in the aisle, not taking a seat (something that drives me absolutely crazy, when seats are readily available) and instead simply brushing his close-cropped head of hair over and over and over and over. I tend to be unconcerned with people attending to their personal hygiene in transit. Typically, I'm just glad they're attending to it at all. Except for the lady who applied her deodorant en route and then sprayed her perfume, which then drifted directly into my face.
But I digress.
What amazed me about this man was that, when he turned his head, I noticed that he had a quarter in his ear.
Let me just repeat that, to make sure it's clear. In the dude's ear, where you would normally see a hearing aid, let's say, was instead a 25 cent piece, jammed flat across his ear-hole and wedged between the outer edges of said ear.
I didn't know what to make of this, and I still don't. Was it an ingenious way to store his change for the bus? Is it an anti-American statement if you cover George Washington with wax? Or does it simply keep the voices at bay? I was mystified. But kind of intrigued. Because I wasn't sure that just anyone could even pull off such a feat.
For the record, I can. In case you're wondering. Naturally, I had to give it a shot in honor of my new spare change hero. But again, I'm not sure how special this makes me, because I haven't yet inspired anyone else to try it.
Perhaps you'll experiment and let me know?
Saturday, August 13, 2011
My Monster
As some of you may know, about 10 years ago I spent some time teaching English in Japan. It was without a doubt the weirdest, most hilarious year of my life.
Naturally, I tried to be as creative as possible with my lessons in order to engage the kids. Below is an example that I just unearthed. As I recall, I had each kid draw a monster and then pass the paper to the student behind them, who wrote details about the picture. This is one of my favorites:
Naturally, I tried to be as creative as possible with my lessons in order to engage the kids. Below is an example that I just unearthed. As I recall, I had each kid draw a monster and then pass the paper to the student behind them, who wrote details about the picture. This is one of my favorites:
Friday, August 12, 2011
Friday Horoscope
You will attempt to read a book tonight, but the words will refuse to come into focus. Then you will reach up and remove the blindfold you forgot to untie after your latest game of Erotic Marco Polo.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Jacque Jose Pepkeer
The assignment may have been to write a tall tale, and it may have been around third grade. Whatever my age, I think it's pretty clear that I was on crack at the time.
I'm not sure what I like more: that a spiteful international terrorist murdered a sweet little librarian, or that her ex-NFL player son vengefully hunted down the killer on the back of a white tiger. Take your pick. It's all comedy gold.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Friday Horoscope
Go out and take on the world! There is nothing holding you back! Except for the restraining straps, which are still attached from the last time you went out, mistakenly trying to take OVER the world.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Open to Suggestions
Any ideas about what's going on in this picture? Anyone? All interpretations welcome.
I've stared at it now for about ten minutes, and I still don't know what's in that dude's hand. Or why his neck is yellow. Or exactly what kind of exchange is taking place.
Whatever it is, they both seem happy about it.
Seriously. Your thoughts?
Monday, July 25, 2011
Friday, July 22, 2011
Friday Horoscope
You will have a very good night or a very bad night.
Either way, it will involve handcuffs.
Either way, it will involve handcuffs.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Small Humiliations: Part XIV
Several years ago, when I worked at Marshall Field's HQ (before it began its sad, deranged, Hulk-like morph into Macy's), my coworkers and I often traveled the 12 floors down to the lower-level food court to partake in the frosted delight that is Fruigurt. What's Fruigurt, you ask? Why, only frozen yogurt that comes with multiple fruit and nut toppings of your choosing and is the perfect afternoon snack, especially with an employee discount.
One day, we all piled into line and placed our various orders. I got what I always do, a chocolate and vanilla twist cone, while another coworker finally emerged holding a tall smoothie cup with a straw.
"What did you get?" I asked him.
"A Triple Berry Threat," he said.
I scanned the menu board. "A what?"
"Triple Berry Threat."
I checked the menu again. Finally I found the item description and began giggling so hard I could barely get the next sentence out.
"Treat . . . not threat. . . it's Triple Berry Treat."
By that time he was laughing, too. But I liked the new name so much that I decided to pay tribute to his hasty (or slightly myopic) reading of the Fruigurt choices by using my extremely limited photo-shopping skills to create the following poster, which I sent to him via email later that day:
It still makes me laugh.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Dear Diary: Modest AND Good at Math
I'd only like to point out that Ortonville is a whole 12 miles from my hometown. Oh, and I just happened across my old sticker books the other day. I noted that, in addition to the standard sticker fare, I had also slapped in some thin sheets featuring the days of the week in a line: Sat Sun Mon Tue Wed Thu Fri. In my current adult state, these were instantly recognizable as belonging to birth control pills. So that's how much of a sticker freak I was. I lifted the daily reminder strip off my mom's oral contraceptives. No wonder I have a sister.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Nice Ride II
Last weekend, I went to Perkins for lunch with my parents. It's one of my very favorite places, largely because it produces the "chicken crisp melt," formerly the "chicken tender melt," otherwise known as the CTM. If you haven't tried it, you must. But I digress.
My dad parked his car (in the shade of course) right next to a bright yellow Mazda Miata convertible. He immediately leaned over to check it out and starting waxing poetic about how nice it would be to have such a sporty vehicle to zip around in during the summer months. Just as we were heading into the restaurant, a couple in their mid-80s emerged and happened to overhear his comments.
"It's not for sale," the man said, adjusting his Navy veteran cap and smiling broadly.
"That's yours?" asked my dad.
"Yep. Bought it last year. Only 19,000 miles on it."
"Well, good for you for getting a snappy little car like that!" said my mom.
I looked back at the Miata, a vehicular manifestation of well-earned discretionary income. These oldsters had the moxie to pump as many RPMs as would fit into their remaining years, and I had to admire that. I hope when I'm 80 I'm moving under my own power, much less driving, much less driving something awesome.
Maybe I better back off those CTMs.
My dad parked his car (in the shade of course) right next to a bright yellow Mazda Miata convertible. He immediately leaned over to check it out and starting waxing poetic about how nice it would be to have such a sporty vehicle to zip around in during the summer months. Just as we were heading into the restaurant, a couple in their mid-80s emerged and happened to overhear his comments.
"It's not for sale," the man said, adjusting his Navy veteran cap and smiling broadly.
"That's yours?" asked my dad.
"Yep. Bought it last year. Only 19,000 miles on it."
"Well, good for you for getting a snappy little car like that!" said my mom.
I looked back at the Miata, a vehicular manifestation of well-earned discretionary income. These oldsters had the moxie to pump as many RPMs as would fit into their remaining years, and I had to admire that. I hope when I'm 80 I'm moving under my own power, much less driving, much less driving something awesome.
Maybe I better back off those CTMs.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Nice Ride
When I was in Atlanta recently, I was sitting in traffic in the backseat of a friend's car. I happened to look over and see an older guy patiently idling a super sweet, well-maintained, tricked-out motorcycle. I recognized the make on the shiny beast simply because another friend's husband drooled over that particular kind for years before he finally bought one.
So I said, "Hey! That's a Harley Davidson Heritage Softtail!"
I said this aloud for the benefit of my carmates, but I didn't turn my head away from the window, not realizing that I was blatantly staring directly at the guy on the bike, and he was staring back.
Evidently he could read lips, because he flashed me a huge smile and a thumbs up.
And evidently I could read lips, too, because I saw him mouth, "That's right!"
So I said, "Hey! That's a Harley Davidson Heritage Softtail!"
I said this aloud for the benefit of my carmates, but I didn't turn my head away from the window, not realizing that I was blatantly staring directly at the guy on the bike, and he was staring back.
Evidently he could read lips, because he flashed me a huge smile and a thumbs up.
And evidently I could read lips, too, because I saw him mouth, "That's right!"
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Drumsticks Be Damned
This morning I saw two wild turkeys standing on the front step of a local beauty salon, as if waiting patiently for it to open.
It wasn't quite as worrisome as when I saw them standing in the parking lot of "Ready Meats."
Perhaps they realized their narrow escape from death and are now seeking self-improvement. They want to live, dammit! LIVE!!
And that starts with some highlights.
It wasn't quite as worrisome as when I saw them standing in the parking lot of "Ready Meats."
Perhaps they realized their narrow escape from death and are now seeking self-improvement. They want to live, dammit! LIVE!!
And that starts with some highlights.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Courtney and the Bandit
I don't really have an explanation for this one. I guess in second grade I already had a thing for swarthy men? Although, since the story is about Jack, I suppose it's a bit homoerotic. I'd also like to note that, in the intervening years, I have learned how to spell "surprised" and how to use a semicolon properly. Thank you.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Dear Diary: Tales from the First Grade
I recently discovered the diary that I kept when I was seven years old. It sounds like I'm making that up, because what first grader keeps a daily journal? This one, that's who. It's been an interesting peek into the psyche (and varying stages of penmanship) of my young self. For example:
January 14, 1985 was a pretty jam-packed day, and not a great one for Mindy. I'm glad I felt the need to specify that the wall involved in the tooth-cracking incident was "hard." I'm also glad I confessed to my greatest fear in elementary school (other than E.T.), which was somersaults. And apparently I still don't know how to spell that correctly, because I had to defer to spell check about three seconds ago. Live and learn. Well, sometimes.
January 14, 1985 was a pretty jam-packed day, and not a great one for Mindy. I'm glad I felt the need to specify that the wall involved in the tooth-cracking incident was "hard." I'm also glad I confessed to my greatest fear in elementary school (other than E.T.), which was somersaults. And apparently I still don't know how to spell that correctly, because I had to defer to spell check about three seconds ago. Live and learn. Well, sometimes.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Move Over, California Raisins
Text from my sister the other day: If you had a band of Mr. Potato Heads, what would you call it?
My text back: It would either be a religious revival group called the Idaholy Rollers whose hit single is "Out of the Dirt," or a reggae band called Baked and Fried.
I then asked my mom the same question. Evidently her secret love of hip-hop also applies to imaginary food-based music, because she went with Spuds N' Thugs.
Either way, I think we'd sell out the garden.
My text back: It would either be a religious revival group called the Idaholy Rollers whose hit single is "Out of the Dirt," or a reggae band called Baked and Fried.
I then asked my mom the same question. Evidently her secret love of hip-hop also applies to imaginary food-based music, because she went with Spuds N' Thugs.
Either way, I think we'd sell out the garden.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Quotes of the Week
#1. Wailed by a gangsta on his cell phone in City Center: "I ain't
gonna get all gooey an' fuckin' sentimental . . . nah . . . nah . . .
Mom! . . . She just talks too much shit!"
(He's got 99 problems but his moms ain't one.)
#2. Wailed by a crusty old man on Hennepin who was ogling young girls: "Where were all you beautiful ladies when I had hair?!"
(Sir, I'm no mathematician, but I'm going to go with: in utero.)
(He's got 99 problems but his moms ain't one.)
#2. Wailed by a crusty old man on Hennepin who was ogling young girls: "Where were all you beautiful ladies when I had hair?!"
(Sir, I'm no mathematician, but I'm going to go with: in utero.)
Monday, June 27, 2011
A Passage from India
A few years ago, my friend Linnea traveled in India and treated us all to a hilarious blog. What follows is one of her posts that I specifically saved for future enjoyment. And now, because she is brilliant and because I think this account deserves the widest audience possible, I pass it along to you.
I went to a movie in McLoud Ganj Friday night. I saw the DaVinci Code. Perhaps you are imagining your own experience at your local cinema? Perhaps you also saw the DaVinci Code? Though we may have seen the same movie, it is unlikely that there are any additional similarities in our experience. First, the theater had the look and feel of the inside of a bus - most likely because the theater’s seats came from a bus. I believe there were still seat belts attached to some. There were only about 30 seats in the theater and no screen. The movie was shown on a large television. Barb – not exaggerating – it was half the size of yours. If you could haul that thing to India, you could set up shop. It might not be the most lucrative endeavor however as I only paid 30 rupees for my ticket (less than a dollar). You may be shocked to learn that the version of the film I saw was a bootleg – it was grainy, a bit off center and the opening credits were in Russian. Though the film is in English it was shown with English subtitles displayed. It was clear that the subtitles were written by someone for whom English was a second or possibly fifth language. I don’t think a single line of dialog was correctly represented in the subtitles. When Tom Hanks exclaims “it can’t be, a fleur de lis” the subtitles read, “it can’t be, flute is bleeding!” I found myself wishing I couldn’t hear the dialog because it would have been fascinating trying to decode the plot from the subtitles. Knowing the magical “holding grill” people kept talking about was actually the holy grail would have been key. At least, perhaps sensing its importance, they actually attempted to translate that. Unusual words and those with more than two syllables were frequently spelled “….”
I have heard the movie is not good. I can’t really say whether it was good or bad but I can say the version I saw was the funniest movie I have seen in a while.
Saturday evening ended with an encounter with the largest spider I have ever seen. The spider was perched on Sherry’s ceiling. The spider had fangs. The spider had biceps. The spider was flashing gang signs and waving a stick at us. We had encountered the spider earlier that morning and had attempted to capture it but, when poked with a broom, it spewed a bunch of tiny spiders and ran for cover. Oh, the humanity.
There was a fair amount of high pitched squealing and some scurrying in and out of the room (people scurrying, not the spider – the spider was frozen in place on the ceiling) as we discussed a plan to rid our flat of the menace. A vote was taken as to whether this would be a catch and release operation or if the solution to our spider problem would be final. It’s a do-gooder lot, the volunteers, and we’re surrounded by Buddhists monks everywhere we go. Given this it was surprising how narrow the victory was for catch and release. The plan involved a bucket, Elliot, a fellow flatmate, on a chair with aforementioned bucket pressed against the ceiling over the spider and me sliding the cardboard from a board game along the ceiling. Thankfully the plan worked. The spider plopped into the bucket and was rushed outside. It was deposited a safe distance from the house and order was restored.
I went to a movie in McLoud Ganj Friday night. I saw the DaVinci Code. Perhaps you are imagining your own experience at your local cinema? Perhaps you also saw the DaVinci Code? Though we may have seen the same movie, it is unlikely that there are any additional similarities in our experience. First, the theater had the look and feel of the inside of a bus - most likely because the theater’s seats came from a bus. I believe there were still seat belts attached to some. There were only about 30 seats in the theater and no screen. The movie was shown on a large television. Barb – not exaggerating – it was half the size of yours. If you could haul that thing to India, you could set up shop. It might not be the most lucrative endeavor however as I only paid 30 rupees for my ticket (less than a dollar). You may be shocked to learn that the version of the film I saw was a bootleg – it was grainy, a bit off center and the opening credits were in Russian. Though the film is in English it was shown with English subtitles displayed. It was clear that the subtitles were written by someone for whom English was a second or possibly fifth language. I don’t think a single line of dialog was correctly represented in the subtitles. When Tom Hanks exclaims “it can’t be, a fleur de lis” the subtitles read, “it can’t be, flute is bleeding!” I found myself wishing I couldn’t hear the dialog because it would have been fascinating trying to decode the plot from the subtitles. Knowing the magical “holding grill” people kept talking about was actually the holy grail would have been key. At least, perhaps sensing its importance, they actually attempted to translate that. Unusual words and those with more than two syllables were frequently spelled “….”
I have heard the movie is not good. I can’t really say whether it was good or bad but I can say the version I saw was the funniest movie I have seen in a while.
Saturday evening ended with an encounter with the largest spider I have ever seen. The spider was perched on Sherry’s ceiling. The spider had fangs. The spider had biceps. The spider was flashing gang signs and waving a stick at us. We had encountered the spider earlier that morning and had attempted to capture it but, when poked with a broom, it spewed a bunch of tiny spiders and ran for cover. Oh, the humanity.
There was a fair amount of high pitched squealing and some scurrying in and out of the room (people scurrying, not the spider – the spider was frozen in place on the ceiling) as we discussed a plan to rid our flat of the menace. A vote was taken as to whether this would be a catch and release operation or if the solution to our spider problem would be final. It’s a do-gooder lot, the volunteers, and we’re surrounded by Buddhists monks everywhere we go. Given this it was surprising how narrow the victory was for catch and release. The plan involved a bucket, Elliot, a fellow flatmate, on a chair with aforementioned bucket pressed against the ceiling over the spider and me sliding the cardboard from a board game along the ceiling. Thankfully the plan worked. The spider plopped into the bucket and was rushed outside. It was deposited a safe distance from the house and order was restored.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Small Humiliations: Part XIII
One morning, a friend of mine took her two boys (let's call them Frick and Frack ... names have been changed to protect the innocent) to the coffee shop with her. It so happened that Frick was potty training at the time.
Shortly after arriving, he approached his mom and told her that he had had an accident. More specifically, that he had dropped a deuce. He didn't exactly put it that way, but it works well for the purpose of this story. She quickly hustled the kids to the bathroom, pulled off her son's pants, and was immediately puzzled. There was nothing there.
It should also be mentioned that, because of the heavy toll on underwear taken by the potty training, my friend had thrown pants on the kid that morning without anything underneath. Was this a bit cavalier, desperate, or just outrageously hopeful? These are the kinds of decisions you make more effectively after coffee.
Anyway, circumstances had combined to beg the question that she then whispered in horror:
"Frick, where's the poop?"
Did she dare to dream that, from this point onward, it would simply evaporate? His reply snapped her back to reality.
"It fell out in the coffee shop."
So she did what any good mother would do, and went looking for it. Midway into her surreptitious investigation, she spied a lonely turd on the floor. And to make matters worse, it already had a footprint in it.
Now, at this point, you're probably thinking, how can this situation take yet another embarrassing turn? I'll leave you with one last sentence: The footprint belonged to Frack.
Shortly after arriving, he approached his mom and told her that he had had an accident. More specifically, that he had dropped a deuce. He didn't exactly put it that way, but it works well for the purpose of this story. She quickly hustled the kids to the bathroom, pulled off her son's pants, and was immediately puzzled. There was nothing there.
It should also be mentioned that, because of the heavy toll on underwear taken by the potty training, my friend had thrown pants on the kid that morning without anything underneath. Was this a bit cavalier, desperate, or just outrageously hopeful? These are the kinds of decisions you make more effectively after coffee.
Anyway, circumstances had combined to beg the question that she then whispered in horror:
"Frick, where's the poop?"
Did she dare to dream that, from this point onward, it would simply evaporate? His reply snapped her back to reality.
"It fell out in the coffee shop."
So she did what any good mother would do, and went looking for it. Midway into her surreptitious investigation, she spied a lonely turd on the floor. And to make matters worse, it already had a footprint in it.
Now, at this point, you're probably thinking, how can this situation take yet another embarrassing turn? I'll leave you with one last sentence: The footprint belonged to Frack.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
The Case of the Missing Prisoner
On your right, in a bizarre twist, Alex and his "helper" Jon (who has not been introduced until just now) disguise themselves as clowns before arresting the criminal (whom I now refer to as "the stupid guy"), and a previously unknown plot point involving peanut shells turns out to be the key to the entire case. When pressed for an explanation of this tidy wrap-up, and asked why I chose not to draw any of these colorful shenanigans, I can only speculate that I simply ran out of room.
But sometimes our visions just have to be crammed into 12 pages, no matter how grand they are. You work with what you got, man. You work with what you got.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Crack-Up Crackup
I recently stumbled across this recording again and remembered how hard it makes me laugh.
Gotta love voicemail. Enjoy!
Gotta love voicemail. Enjoy!
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Party in Aisle 18
This pic comes courtesy of my friend Amanda and her friendly neighborhood Cub store.
I'm not sure if I should view the labels as a progression in an interesting night, or as an amendment to the five stages of grief. I know only one thing for sure: Aisle 18 is where it's at!
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Is This Thing On?
Occasionally, I say something funny. Out loud, I mean, not here in the blog. Sometimes, those comments are well-received ... and sometimes they aren't. Two examples of the latter:
Once, I was in the elevator at the end of the day with my coworker John and another woman. John looked over at the number pad, pointed to the button that read "DH" and asked if I knew where it went. I said no. Then he said, "What do you think DH stands for?" And I said, "Direct to Hell."
In response, I got crickets. Then a tumbleweed blew across the elevator floor.
Once, I was in the elevator at the end of the day with my coworker John and another woman. John looked over at the number pad, pointed to the button that read "DH" and asked if I knew where it went. I said no. Then he said, "What do you think DH stands for?" And I said, "Direct to Hell."
In response, I got crickets. Then a tumbleweed blew across the elevator floor.
Another time, a coworker was telling me that the people in her neighborhood have a progressive dinner every fall. The previous year, the theme was Italy, so they had Italian food and wine. For the next event, my coworker suggested they do a Southern theme, or a Loveboat theme, or (my favorite) a 1930's Prohibition theme. So I said, "What are you gonna do for that, get hammered and run from the cops?"
Nothing. Nada.
Ah, well. I amuse myself, and I guess that's what counts.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Hop To
Dining Date: June 2011
On My Plate: The battered fish n' chips. Two of the biggest, juciest, flakiest pieces of fish, served with wonton chips and sauce. Also delighted to find Sapporo beer on tap. Delicious!
Servers Rate: Friendly, attentive.
Fun Fact: There's a decent selection of gluten-free items on the menu. There's also a veggie burger named after Steven Segal.
The Damage: Reasonably priced. About $20, including tip, though we didn't have any apps.
The Verdict: Cool place. It's an odd little fusion of your favorite Asian dishes with pub fare, and the restaurant itself would be suitable for after-work happy hour or a nice dinner out. It doesn't hurt that I'm a fan of the overall graphic design, either. Bottom line -- my food was great, and it was just fun.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Explicit Eavesdroppin'
The best snippets of bus conversations (from people on their phones) in the last few weeks:
"You need to call up them peoples and they'll find you a dif-ernt day at a dif-ernt time. I don't know what to tell you, homegirl. It's a fuckin' dentist office."
"No, you got problems cuz that money be burnin' a hole in your pocket. You ain't gotta spend it all right away. Lakisha. Lakisha. Laki . . . listen, bitch! . . . What forms did you have to fill out? You shoulda talked to me, I might coulda helped you with that."
"I was like, fuck yo birthday! You gon' have lots more of 'em."
"What was it called? Twat? . . . oh, Twilight. I saw the first one, but I ain't never got into it. Cuz that bitch almost died an' shit. I cain't have that. If you gon' die, just die, don't do it halfway. It's a motherfuckin' movie, ain't no one gonna care."
"You need to call up them peoples and they'll find you a dif-ernt day at a dif-ernt time. I don't know what to tell you, homegirl. It's a fuckin' dentist office."
"No, you got problems cuz that money be burnin' a hole in your pocket. You ain't gotta spend it all right away. Lakisha. Lakisha. Laki . . . listen, bitch! . . . What forms did you have to fill out? You shoulda talked to me, I might coulda helped you with that."
"I was like, fuck yo birthday! You gon' have lots more of 'em."
"What was it called? Twat? . . . oh, Twilight. I saw the first one, but I ain't never got into it. Cuz that bitch almost died an' shit. I cain't have that. If you gon' die, just die, don't do it halfway. It's a motherfuckin' movie, ain't no one gonna care."
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Small Humiliations: Part XII
A friend of mine once told me that she knew someone who worked at a company that rented moving equipment. One day, a guy came in wanting to rent a trailer. The guy behind the counter ran down some specs for him, and then asked what kind of vehicle he drove, since it would determine the maximum trailer size.
"Oh, I've got a Goolie," the customer said.
"A what?"
"A Goolie," he repeated, nonchalantly.
"I'm . . . not exactly sure what that is."
"Well, it's right outside. Take a look if you want."
Confused, the clerk headed out to the parking lot and found a beat-up old car with part of the name worn off. The man drove a Pontiac 6000 LE.
"Oh, I've got a Goolie," the customer said.
"A what?"
"A Goolie," he repeated, nonchalantly.
"I'm . . . not exactly sure what that is."
"Well, it's right outside. Take a look if you want."
Confused, the clerk headed out to the parking lot and found a beat-up old car with part of the name worn off. The man drove a Pontiac 6000 LE.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Say What?
Three of the weirdest quotes I've ever heard on the bus. Don't expect context for these, because in many cases, there wasn't any:
"That's the last time I buy a Chinese padlock."
"Fingernails are stupid. But they're useful in self defense."
"Toys for Tots, n----! Toys for Tots!"
As a side note, a homeless guy once approached me at the bus stop and told me I look like Amy Klobuchar. After I gave him 95 cents, he yelled, "Cowabunga, dude!" and ran off. I used to laugh about this occasionally until last week, when I was flipping through Minnesota Monthly and realized that, dammit, I do look like Amy Klobuchar.
"That's the last time I buy a Chinese padlock."
"Fingernails are stupid. But they're useful in self defense."
"Toys for Tots, n----! Toys for Tots!"
As a side note, a homeless guy once approached me at the bus stop and told me I look like Amy Klobuchar. After I gave him 95 cents, he yelled, "Cowabunga, dude!" and ran off. I used to laugh about this occasionally until last week, when I was flipping through Minnesota Monthly and realized that, dammit, I do look like Amy Klobuchar.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Hugs Not Drugs
Ladies and gentlemen, I submit for your review the poster I designed in second grade for an anti-drug campaign. You can tell this was an important artistic work, because it's laminated.
Let's break this down, shall we?
So it looks like we have a little kid clinging to his father in the upper left-hand corner, and he's recounting a crazy-ass dream he had. Or maybe he just doesn't want to get back into that nightmare of a bed with what appears to be giant claws on either end.
What's happening in the dream?
In the center we have Mr. Milk lassoing Mr. Cigarette in a bizarre cowboy vs. Indian tableau. They actually don't look terribly unhappy. However, things get more serious on the outskirts. On the left we have Mr. Apple stabbing Mr. Asprin (who evidently is already wounded, since he's missing an I) in the mouth. I'm not sure why aspirin makes the cut of dangerous illegal substances, but there you have it.
On the right, we have the young fruits and vegetables engaged in a Lord of the Flies situation, armed to the teeth and out for blood. At the top, Baby Orange is poking Baby Drug (must be a generic) in the ass with a dagger. Below that, Baby Carrot is dueling with Baby Wine (though shouldn't he really be just a grape?)
But the best part is that, above all this violence and chaos, is the overarching message of "Hugs Not Drugs." Because clearly Mr. Milk and his associates are winning the day with love. Did anyone, at any point during the creation of this elementary school propaganda masterpiece, think to point out that perhaps I shouldn't illustrate my thesis with a crying child and a group of slightly racist characters locked in mortal combat? No. No, they did not.
Or maybe they did, and I ignored them. What matters is that I won second place, as evidenced by the red ribbon on the top left. So suck it, logic and good taste. You've never been key players in the war on drugs, anyway.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Monumental Issues
I recently watched a commercial for Cialis that featured men and their ladies having various little encounters that triggered spontaneous romantic moments. In one scenario, they accidentally brushed hands while setting up a campsite, and from what I could gather, the dude was super happy he could pitch a whole different kind of tent on the spur of the moment.
What confuses me is that, at the end of the commercial, all the couples are lounging naked in his-and-her claw-foot bathtubs, sometimes in the middle of nowhere, staring out at the horizon. WHY, Cialis, WHY? Why have they dragged bathroom fixtures into a field where there is no plumbing? Why aren't they in the tub together? Is this before or after a bit of hanky panky? Was it that dirty? Or do men with ED really just want a good long soak?
It makes even less sense than the Hoveround commercial that features elderly people riding motorized scooters at the Grand Canyon. That I can actually believe. Not that they rode the scooter all the way there, but that a person could, indeed, putter around in one to sight-see.
And while I'm on the topic, remember that Lunesta ad where the animated butterfly flew around, and everything it flew past fell asleep? Did anyone else think it was odd that the butterfly flitted past Mount Rushmore and all the presidents nodded off? Why did they feel the need to feature a historic landmark? Did they really believe someone out there was thinking, "Wow, if that stuff can knock out Washington, Jefferson, Roosevelt AND Lincoln, think what it can do for me!" Tune in next week when Crazy Horse has psoriasis and the Statue of Liberty has a yeast infection.
What confuses me is that, at the end of the commercial, all the couples are lounging naked in his-and-her claw-foot bathtubs, sometimes in the middle of nowhere, staring out at the horizon. WHY, Cialis, WHY? Why have they dragged bathroom fixtures into a field where there is no plumbing? Why aren't they in the tub together? Is this before or after a bit of hanky panky? Was it that dirty? Or do men with ED really just want a good long soak?
It makes even less sense than the Hoveround commercial that features elderly people riding motorized scooters at the Grand Canyon. That I can actually believe. Not that they rode the scooter all the way there, but that a person could, indeed, putter around in one to sight-see.
And while I'm on the topic, remember that Lunesta ad where the animated butterfly flew around, and everything it flew past fell asleep? Did anyone else think it was odd that the butterfly flitted past Mount Rushmore and all the presidents nodded off? Why did they feel the need to feature a historic landmark? Did they really believe someone out there was thinking, "Wow, if that stuff can knock out Washington, Jefferson, Roosevelt AND Lincoln, think what it can do for me!" Tune in next week when Crazy Horse has psoriasis and the Statue of Liberty has a yeast infection.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
A Mo-Rockin' Meal
Marrakech Moroccan Cafe and Grill
1839 Central Avenue NE, Minneapolis
Dining Date: May 2011
On My Plate: Bistella, a dish described by the waitress as "dinner and dessert in one," and which I have been unable to convey adequately to anyone since tasting it. It's layers of phyllo dough with chicken and all manner of spices (cinnamon, ginger, cilantro, saffron) plus almonds, topped with powdered sugar. So it's a mishmash of savory and spicy and sweet and nutty . . . kind of mysterious and overwhelming all at once. My dining companion had the kefta, which was a tasty concoction of meatballs and eggs in a tomato sauce.
Servers Rate: Friendly and willing to help out the novice. Knowing nothing about Moroccan cuisine, we went with recommendations from our waitress and got a good overall sampling.
Fun Fact: This place is old school but clean and inviting. There's a charming, brightly painted patio out front where you could sit and sip your tea. A quick two-block walk from the new Nimbus theater, it makes a perfect hangout after a show.
The Damage: Minimal, especially considering the large portions. Under $15.
The Verdict: Definitely an adventure! Would like to go back and give their couscous a try.
Friday, June 3, 2011
21 More (Old) Questions
Do you have a webcam?
Yes, tune in at midnite CST for a hell of a show.
Yes, tune in at midnite CST for a hell of a show.
Have you ever been forced to
take a bath with one of your siblings?
Of course! But I drew the line
last year.
When showering, do you start
the water and get in or get in and start the water?
I have to start the
water before I brush my teeth, b/c it takes 4 minutes to get it hot.
(Just like me.)
Do you have more enemies or
more friends?
All my enemies have been eliminated, or so my sources tell
me.
Have you ever sent an anonymous
letter?
Letter, no. Envelope filled with naked pictures of me, yes.
Do
you follow your horoscope?
No, but I do read fortune cookies. My last fortune
said, "Plan your graduation party with Leeann Chin Catering and
Delivery." Profound.
Have you ever stolen anything
from your friends?
Their souls. Perhaps I've said too much.
Would you kill a dog for
$1000?
Depends. Is the dog an asshole?
Are you impatient?
Next question.
Do you consider yourself nice?
Do you consider yourself nice?
Go to hell.
Have you ever smoked heroin?
You're
supposed to SMOKE it?! I put it under my pillow and got a grand from the heroin
fairy.
What is your secret weapon to lure in the
opposite sex?
I suppose I could work the dimples, but my milkshake is what
brings all the boys to the yard.
Are you crazy?
Stop looking at me, swan!
Is conversate a word?
Absaloofaliciously.
Do you like Paris Hilton?
I'd shove
her sparkly sunglasses up her ass but I'm afraid she'd like it.
Do you have A.D.D.?
No, unless that
stands for A Delicious Derriere.
Do you love chocolate?
If you don't like chocolate, you might as well go join
Al-Qaeda.
Are you a superstar?
Don't you remember you
told me you loved me, baby . . . said you'd be coming back this way again
baby . . . baby baby baby baby oh baby . . .
What do you smell like right now?
Polo Ralph Lauren Blue. And success.
Polo Ralph Lauren Blue. And success.
Do you have a hickey on your neck right
now?
Why do you ask that, just because I'm wearing a turtleneck in May?
Can
you name the seven dwarfs?
Pride,
Greed, Sloth, Gluttony, Envy, Lust, and Wrath.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
21 (Old) Questions
Remember when, back in the early days of MySpace, you could kill the better part of an afternoon just filling out random, ridiculous surveys that people forwarded to you? Before finally deleting my old account, I decided to copy some of my more bizarre and/or hilarious responses. Naturally, I've posted them for your enjoyment.
Name?
That's a very short list. If you're on it, you probably know it. If you're not on it but would like to be, press 1. If you're not sure you're on it, press 2. If you're on it but would like to be removed, go to hell.
Easiest person to talk to?
Name?
You should know, you were screaming it all last night.
Who do you trust with your life?That's a very short list. If you're on it, you probably know it. If you're not on it but would like to be, press 1. If you're not sure you're on it, press 2. If you're on it but would like to be removed, go to hell.
If you could change your name to anything, what would it be?
Maybe Candy, because then I wouldn't have to lie when I dance.
Maybe Candy, because then I wouldn't have to lie when I dance.
What would you do if someone told you that you were the most beautiful person in the world and they would do anything to wake up to your face each and every morning?
I would say, "Thanks, but I'm still not giving you change for the bus."
I would say, "Thanks, but I'm still not giving you change for the bus."
Who is the nicest person you know?
Whoever doesn't try to monopolize my corner.
Whoever doesn't try to monopolize my corner.
Have you ever snuck out of your house/someone in your house?
Have I ever snuck out of someone in my house? That's so dirty! And difficult to do without waking them.
Have I ever snuck out of someone in my house? That's so dirty! And difficult to do without waking them.
How did you get the idea for your MySpace name?
It was a very long, drawn-out process that involved a peg-legged gypsy woman and my star chart.
It was a very long, drawn-out process that involved a peg-legged gypsy woman and my star chart.
What does your dad do for a living?
He says he's in auto insurance, but I don't think that explains the multiple passports and semiautomatic in his bottom desk drawer.
He says he's in auto insurance, but I don't think that explains the multiple passports and semiautomatic in his bottom desk drawer.
What did you dream last night?
I can't remember, but last Friday night I dreamed I was in a gun battle in a Korean parking garage. Figure that out, Freud!
I can't remember, but last Friday night I dreamed I was in a gun battle in a Korean parking garage. Figure that out, Freud!
Have you ever done something to make trouble?
Some called it an "international incident" . . . I just called it a brief but torrid affair with a certain young man third in line from the throne of England. Big whoop.
Some called it an "international incident" . . . I just called it a brief but torrid affair with a certain young man third in line from the throne of England. Big whoop.
Are you mad at anyone at the moment?
Mitt Romney. Because what kind of a name is Mitt, anyway?
Mitt Romney. Because what kind of a name is Mitt, anyway?
If you had to be reincarnated as a sea dwelling creature, what would you be?
A giant squid, because I would be universally feared and admired for my powers of suction. Wait . . .
A giant squid, because I would be universally feared and admired for my powers of suction. Wait . . .
Of all people, with whom would you want to be stuck in a well?
Anybody with a flotation device and survival skills.
Anybody with a flotation device and survival skills.
Do you like to spoon?
I like to fork.
What do you wanna name your kids?
Oh come on. Women don't share that. What if some bitch steals your idea?
How many houses have you lived in?
Two with my family, one in Japan, and one while those people were on vacation. Shhhh!
Two with my family, one in Japan, and one while those people were on vacation. Shhhh!
How many watches do you own?
One. And it's always peanut butter jelly time.
One. And it's always peanut butter jelly time.
Have you ever been to Kentucky?
I don't think so, but I notice my cousin's name is on this marriage certificate, so you do the math.
I don't think so, but I notice my cousin's name is on this marriage certificate, so you do the math.
How many lamps are in your bedroom?
Only one. Any more and there's too much glare off the mirror on the ceiling.
Only one. Any more and there's too much glare off the mirror on the ceiling.
Easiest person to talk to?
Rob Lowe. He hasn't done anything worthwhile since The West Wing, and he's not doing anything right now. Go ahead. Call him. He'll be there.
Have you ever stripped?
For money, no. For the sheer joy of the pasties, yes.
For money, no. For the sheer joy of the pasties, yes.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)