Monday, February 28, 2011
Amateur (3) Hour(s)
I love the Oscars. Maybe this is pathetic, but I really get into the fashion, I get excited to see who wins what, and I've always thought it'd be amazing to be an actor and win an Academy Award. Perhaps I've even practiced my acceptance speech several times. Or hundreds of times.
This adoration of that life carries over to magazines like Us Weekly and People. I will say I never buy that stuff ... but when Jennie brings home old copies from her mom's house, I read them all voraciously. This might be one of my most embarrassing attributes, which is saying something if you know any of my attributes.
But it's a love/hate thing with the Oscars, because I also despise the self-serving atmosphere of that night and the painful acceptance speeches. Last night's winners were especially dreadful with their rambling, the thanking of their agents/attorneys/handlers, the feigned surprise at winning (Chris Rock, in his opening monologue several years ago, said some actors should win an Emmy at the Oscars for their astonished looks when they win).
Can these people, when they accept their awards, not come up with something clever/entertaining/poignant? Every now and again, some of them do (Colin Firth's speech last night was pretty good, while Hugh Laurie has provided two very funny speeches at recent awards shows. These are must-sees (Rayo, you'll giggle profusely) and I've posted both of them.
Laurie even gives, in his second speech, an idea for us, Rayo: we should write acceptance speeches for every nominee. Perhaps my next blog entry will be an acceptance speech that a recent winner should have given.
More than those usual annoyances, though, were the hosts, James Franco and Anne Hathaway. Look, I teach English, and yet I'm not sure I can think of the best word to describe their performance. If I listed everything that annoyed me about them, this blog would take you longer to read than the actual Oscars, so I'll whittle it down to a few observations:
1. The opening monologue (after the taped portion) was filled with jokes that didn't even approach funny. How does this happen? Who is responsible for writing jokes that will be seen by hundreds of millions of people?
2. If Anne Hathaway went to high school, my guess is everyone hated her. She was so over-the-top dramatic about everything, especially when she would introduce various presenters. She acted like some starstruck 14-year-old, which would have been okay, but she by no means appeared genuine in her infatuation with her fellow actors.
3. Every time James Franco introduced someone, as he would finish talking, he'd close his eyes and slowly move his head toward the location of the person he was introducing. Every. Single. Time. Reminded me of Reds announcer Jeff Brantley, who also, when he is talking to a fellow announcer and finishes making a point, closes his eyes and slowly turns to the camera.
4. After Franco and Hathaway would introduce a presenter, they would immediately start clapping, as would the audience. The problem: whoever was in charge of turning off their microphone never turned it off, so you'd hear the audience clapping, but also the singular clapping of Franco and Hathaway over the audience, as if there were only two people clapping. If you can't picture what it sounded like, imagine being at a Cleveland Indians home game in the 1970s/'80s (or for that matter, recently).
Rayo, I know how you feel about the Oscars. You have nary a care in the world for them. I'm even betting you have no idea who James Franco and Anne Hathaway are. But hey, that's all right. It's cool that you don't really care about all of this. At least, since I know you don't watch the Oscars, you won't ever be disappointed when I don't mention you in my acceptance speech some day.
This adoration of that life carries over to magazines like Us Weekly and People. I will say I never buy that stuff ... but when Jennie brings home old copies from her mom's house, I read them all voraciously. This might be one of my most embarrassing attributes, which is saying something if you know any of my attributes.
But it's a love/hate thing with the Oscars, because I also despise the self-serving atmosphere of that night and the painful acceptance speeches. Last night's winners were especially dreadful with their rambling, the thanking of their agents/attorneys/handlers, the feigned surprise at winning (Chris Rock, in his opening monologue several years ago, said some actors should win an Emmy at the Oscars for their astonished looks when they win).
Can these people, when they accept their awards, not come up with something clever/entertaining/poignant? Every now and again, some of them do (Colin Firth's speech last night was pretty good, while Hugh Laurie has provided two very funny speeches at recent awards shows. These are must-sees (Rayo, you'll giggle profusely) and I've posted both of them.
Laurie even gives, in his second speech, an idea for us, Rayo: we should write acceptance speeches for every nominee. Perhaps my next blog entry will be an acceptance speech that a recent winner should have given.
More than those usual annoyances, though, were the hosts, James Franco and Anne Hathaway. Look, I teach English, and yet I'm not sure I can think of the best word to describe their performance. If I listed everything that annoyed me about them, this blog would take you longer to read than the actual Oscars, so I'll whittle it down to a few observations:
1. The opening monologue (after the taped portion) was filled with jokes that didn't even approach funny. How does this happen? Who is responsible for writing jokes that will be seen by hundreds of millions of people?
2. If Anne Hathaway went to high school, my guess is everyone hated her. She was so over-the-top dramatic about everything, especially when she would introduce various presenters. She acted like some starstruck 14-year-old, which would have been okay, but she by no means appeared genuine in her infatuation with her fellow actors.
3. Every time James Franco introduced someone, as he would finish talking, he'd close his eyes and slowly move his head toward the location of the person he was introducing. Every. Single. Time. Reminded me of Reds announcer Jeff Brantley, who also, when he is talking to a fellow announcer and finishes making a point, closes his eyes and slowly turns to the camera.
4. After Franco and Hathaway would introduce a presenter, they would immediately start clapping, as would the audience. The problem: whoever was in charge of turning off their microphone never turned it off, so you'd hear the audience clapping, but also the singular clapping of Franco and Hathaway over the audience, as if there were only two people clapping. If you can't picture what it sounded like, imagine being at a Cleveland Indians home game in the 1970s/'80s (or for that matter, recently).
Rayo, I know how you feel about the Oscars. You have nary a care in the world for them. I'm even betting you have no idea who James Franco and Anne Hathaway are. But hey, that's all right. It's cool that you don't really care about all of this. At least, since I know you don't watch the Oscars, you won't ever be disappointed when I don't mention you in my acceptance speech some day.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Housekeeping
That's so weird about your misinterpretation of the Verdana font, Rayo. I had the same issue: I always thought the Georgia font was Arkansas.
I've decided I hate hotels, for one main reason, really - which I'll get to in a sec.
I used to love 'em. Big fan of a room that houses a big bed and big TV and me making a mess without having to clean up much. Almost feels like college. Plus, it meant that I was on some sort of adventure - that I was traveling somewhere, and I love to travel.
But then, I saw a show dealing with what's in hotel rooms that we don't see. Well - not without turning off the lights and shining one of those blue-light thingys around. It's then you see the stains. Many, many stains.
One of the first things I do when I get to a hotel room now is pull off the bedspread.
I also like to wipe down the one item that this show said has the most bacteria. This item, more than any other in a hotel room, contains every known gross thing humans can produce.
It's not the toilet seat.
Not the door handle.
Not even Rayo's bum.
It's the TV remote, which, according to this show, never gets cleaned.
I'm getting worse and worse with my issues with germs. Thing is, I don't mind my germs at all. Quite fond of 'em, actually. But any public anything gives me the heebie-jeebies.
Anyway, sorry I've been gone so long, two people who are following us. I appreciate your calls and letters (and by that I mean your extreme indifference).
I've decided I hate hotels, for one main reason, really - which I'll get to in a sec.
I used to love 'em. Big fan of a room that houses a big bed and big TV and me making a mess without having to clean up much. Almost feels like college. Plus, it meant that I was on some sort of adventure - that I was traveling somewhere, and I love to travel.
But then, I saw a show dealing with what's in hotel rooms that we don't see. Well - not without turning off the lights and shining one of those blue-light thingys around. It's then you see the stains. Many, many stains.
One of the first things I do when I get to a hotel room now is pull off the bedspread.
I also like to wipe down the one item that this show said has the most bacteria. This item, more than any other in a hotel room, contains every known gross thing humans can produce.
It's not the toilet seat.
Not the door handle.
Not even Rayo's bum.
It's the TV remote, which, according to this show, never gets cleaned.
I'm getting worse and worse with my issues with germs. Thing is, I don't mind my germs at all. Quite fond of 'em, actually. But any public anything gives me the heebie-jeebies.
Anyway, sorry I've been gone so long, two people who are following us. I appreciate your calls and letters (and by that I mean your extreme indifference).
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Extra! Extra! Read all about it!
Since I have an hour to kill before my meetings start this morning, I figured why not continue this monopoly of the Frayo blog? This will be a quick one.
There are two floor-number indicators in the elevators at Sunset Station. Each time you pass a floor, the number changes and the indicator beeps. Loudly. You can't miss it.
If you are heading down to the ground floor, you can't possibly be unaware when you land there. The elevator comes to an abrupt halt and both indicators have been counting down to "G" since you got on.
So, I'm on the ground level, waiting on an elevator to take me up to the 8th floor. One of the four elevators descends to the lobby and the doors open. There were two people on board so I was politely waiting for them to step out so I could step in.
Except they were confused. They hesitated. Looked up to the floor-level indicator, and then proceeded to pick up there belongings and begin walking off. They obviously didn't realize they had reached the ground floor.
HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE??!!
I guess the better question is why does that bother me enough to write about it? They took so long to get off that by the time I was able to get in, the doors began to close.
One last thing: Every single occupied room gets a free copy of the Las Vegas Review-Journal each morning. Of course, when I went down for breakfast, I left my copy in my room. Rather than go back up to get it, I just figured I'd stop by the front desk and snag another one.
When I asked the Bellman for a paper, he looked at me like I was speaking Sputnik. The registration desk also had no newspapers.
So there are about 500 newspapers spread across a 21-story tower, but not a single one can be located in the lobby. Can opener.
There are two floor-number indicators in the elevators at Sunset Station. Each time you pass a floor, the number changes and the indicator beeps. Loudly. You can't miss it.
If you are heading down to the ground floor, you can't possibly be unaware when you land there. The elevator comes to an abrupt halt and both indicators have been counting down to "G" since you got on.
So, I'm on the ground level, waiting on an elevator to take me up to the 8th floor. One of the four elevators descends to the lobby and the doors open. There were two people on board so I was politely waiting for them to step out so I could step in.
Except they were confused. They hesitated. Looked up to the floor-level indicator, and then proceeded to pick up there belongings and begin walking off. They obviously didn't realize they had reached the ground floor.
HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE??!!
I guess the better question is why does that bother me enough to write about it? They took so long to get off that by the time I was able to get in, the doors began to close.
One last thing: Every single occupied room gets a free copy of the Las Vegas Review-Journal each morning. Of course, when I went down for breakfast, I left my copy in my room. Rather than go back up to get it, I just figured I'd stop by the front desk and snag another one.
When I asked the Bellman for a paper, he looked at me like I was speaking Sputnik. The registration desk also had no newspapers.
So there are about 500 newspapers spread across a 21-story tower, but not a single one can be located in the lobby. Can opener.
Trifecta
I'm just going to keep on writing.
Anyone who has ever flown commercially has experienced the many types of passengers aboard your flight.
The Loud Talker.
The Snorer.
The Mad Farter. (every flight has at least one of these.)
The Oversized Guy Right Next to You.
The Ethnic Food Eater (sometimes smells as bad as the Mad Farter.)
The Del Griffith.
There are other common ones, but Tuesday afternoon, I encountered a new personality. I will call him The Cat.
The Cat sat in the aisle seat in my row. I had the window seat and a guy about my age sat in the middle. The cat was in his late 20s, quite tall, and sported red hair punctuated by a matching 'stache and goatee. He also wore glasses.
The Cat liked to talk about his work in the Aviation Technology industry, however, he was not a frequent flyer and didn't know shit about planes. In fact, this was his first flight in about 12 years. He is fascinated by the mechanics of flight but knew very little about the plane itself. (He wasn't really sure if we were aboard a 737 or a 757, a rather substantial difference, and had to check the safety card in the seat pocket in front of him to confirm.) He then shared the news with Middle Seat Guy...
"Yeah, it's a 757-200. So the maximum altitude is probably 32,000 feet."
Um....no.
When we landed, he proclaimed his amazement that a plane this size could go from 500 MPH to nothing in about one mile of runway. Sure, the 757 cruises at about 540 MPH but airliners do not land at full speed. (approach speed is right around 150 MPH.)
"Yeah, it's a 757-200. So the maximum altitude is probably 32,000 feet."
Um....no.
When we landed, he proclaimed his amazement that a plane this size could go from 500 MPH to nothing in about one mile of runway. Sure, the 757 cruises at about 540 MPH but airliners do not land at full speed. (approach speed is right around 150 MPH.)
His inexperience and propensity to speak wasn't really all that intolerable. It was almost endearing, and neither of those tendencies earned him his moniker.
The Cat REALLY liked to look out the window. And he made no subtle gesture about it - when he wanted to look out the window, he put himself in position to do it right.
I've been an aisle-seat passenger many times, and I too enjoy glancing out the window on occasion. But when I do it, I merely turn my head and take a peek, then turn back, so as to not appear to be staring at the guy sitting in the window seat. I don't really lean forward or make any unusual movement to get a better view, I just take a look and go back to my crossword.
The Cat was so intent on seeing out the window, that at times, his entire face was in the space of the guy in the middle seat (who either didn't mind, or was just a good sport about it.) He would lean forward, then backward, then toward the window, and the whole time the angle of his head never changed. It was always straight up and down even if his body was turning or leaning in several different directions in order to gain a better view around me. Apparently, I was just in the way.
It became downright uncomfortable, and there were times when he'd do this for an entire minute (which seems like an eternity) and then do it again two minutes later. I didn't know where to look, so I just kept watching the TV screen embedded on the seat in front of me. By the time we were over the Rockies, I wanted to punch him in the nose.
If he were Plastic Man, I guarantee his neck would have stretched clear across the row and flat against the window.
The reason I call him The Cat is because his behavior and the way his head never tilted reminded me of how a cat might look when trying to peer out a window. His neck would lean one way or the other, but his head remained still. It was so odd. Plus, the sunlight created a slight glare off his glasses which looked very much like looking into the eyes of a cat.
By the time we touched down at 1000 miles per hour, I never did punch him in the nose. After all, he was actually a friendly, well-intending guy. He just annoyed the bejesus out of me and I didn't have a box of Meow Mix to keep him occupied.
I wonder who I'll get on the flight home tomorrow...
Toodles!
Pay that man his money
Five hours ago, I had about $200 in chips stacked in front of me. 60 minutes later, I cashed out with $82 and went to bed. After about four hours of shuteye, I'm here to talk about it.
It was a friendly table in the Sunset Station Casino Poker Room. For awhile, I was the only one in the group of eight who didn't know everyone on a first name basis. That's usually not a good sign at a poker table, but there were no shenanigans going on. For a couple of hours, I hovered right around the break-even point. After a cold start, I hit a few pots to bring me back to my original $140, and then up to around that $200 mark for a quite awhile. A full house and a couple of flushes spiked my chip count to probably $250 or better at one point.
Then Bob joined the table. Bob is a lovable old man with an unassuming smile and no unfriendly bone in his body. Until you put a couple of cards face down in front of him.
The very first pocket dealt to me after he sat down was a pair of kings. We were playing at a *limit* table so the betting and raising is pretty much set. I raised appropriately and he was one of two other players to stay in the hand.
The flop came out 5-Q-8 rainbow. I bet the max, he called, everyone else dropped out. Fourth card up was a 2. No help for anyone. I bet the max, he called. I'm figuring he has a Q in his pocket. River card is a 10. I bet the max, he called. I turned over my fancy pair of kings which were dominated by his pocket pair of queens. Bob hit the set on the flop and I just continued betting into the teeth.
That hand cost me $28.
A few hands later, Bob called my bets all the way to the river again. I had top pair and had the leading hand after the turn card. The river handed him two pair, so he took another $24 from me.
About five hours ago, I was dealt Q-J. I didn't raise, and four players stayed in the hand. The flop came 3-5-6. One guy bet the $4 minimum and everyone called. Then a Queen hit on the turn. The players checked around, so I bet the standard $8. Two guys dropped, Bob stayed in the hand. Final card: 10. I had the top pair again. I bet $8. Bob called. I showed my pair of queens, then Bob quietly turned over a 10-6. Yeah, Bob called $12 worth of bets with a pair of 6s and then hit his two pair on the river card. Again.
That hand cost me $24. Bob made $76 off me in about an hour. I hate that Bob.
So now, even though I played poker until 2 AM, it's 6:30 and I'm wide awake. Only two days removed from Michigan, my body clock hasn't quite adjusted. Tomorrow morning, I will be out the door by 4:15 AM to catch a 6:00 flight. I'm sure my body clock is going to catch up by then. If you happen to hear an unusually loud 757 flying overhead Friday morning, that's just two big engines and someone snoring like a howler monkey in seat 30A.
Toodles.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Where's Waldo?
Fred? Reeder? Bueller...?
I'm changing to Verdana. Until about a month ago, I always thought this font was called *Veranda.* That's all I have to say about that.
I had a can opener kind of weekend, punctuated by an annoying flight to Las Vegas Tuesday. I actually wrote a pretty long blog about the weekend, but it was boring as hell so I deleted most of it.
Saturday night was the night of our monthly poker league. Since I was out of town, one of my neighbors found a sub to take my spot for the night. The only other time I've missed poker league night, my sub finished in 22nd place (out of 24.) For comparative purposes, when I play my own cards, I have placed 3rd, 8th, 1st, and 6th. So I wasn't too thrilled about having someone sub for me this month, but better that than a zero.
Well, not much better. He finished 20th out of 22. Can opener.
I'm changing to Verdana. Until about a month ago, I always thought this font was called *Veranda.* That's all I have to say about that.
I had a can opener kind of weekend, punctuated by an annoying flight to Las Vegas Tuesday. I actually wrote a pretty long blog about the weekend, but it was boring as hell so I deleted most of it.
Saturday night was the night of our monthly poker league. Since I was out of town, one of my neighbors found a sub to take my spot for the night. The only other time I've missed poker league night, my sub finished in 22nd place (out of 24.) For comparative purposes, when I play my own cards, I have placed 3rd, 8th, 1st, and 6th. So I wasn't too thrilled about having someone sub for me this month, but better that than a zero.
Well, not much better. He finished 20th out of 22. Can opener.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
$hit Happens
I'm no Forrest Gump.
I ran just short of two miles yesterday. At one time, that was considered a warm-up run. Yesterday, I was calling for the Oxygen tank.
Determined to not allow that feeling of death deter my plan to recommit to regular exercise, I laced up the runners and set out for another jog today.
The full 2 miles. Oxygen tank.
Maybe tomorrow I'll make it 2.1 miles and be able to breathe without machines afterward. Or maybe I'll eat Pad Thai for lunch and sit on my ass all afternoon.
I'm going to be forty years old in 35 days, and despite all my efforts, I haven't been able to stop time. Since there's nothing I can do about aging, I really feel I should work on the preservation piece. It's just so much more fun to not do that.
I'd like to write more, but the bedtime routine is beckoning, and I promised a piggyback ride upstairs to a four-year-old sweetheart with a flawless face and an evil arse.
Toodles.
I ran just short of two miles yesterday. At one time, that was considered a warm-up run. Yesterday, I was calling for the Oxygen tank.
Determined to not allow that feeling of death deter my plan to recommit to regular exercise, I laced up the runners and set out for another jog today.
The full 2 miles. Oxygen tank.
Maybe tomorrow I'll make it 2.1 miles and be able to breathe without machines afterward. Or maybe I'll eat Pad Thai for lunch and sit on my ass all afternoon.
I'm going to be forty years old in 35 days, and despite all my efforts, I haven't been able to stop time. Since there's nothing I can do about aging, I really feel I should work on the preservation piece. It's just so much more fun to not do that.
I'd like to write more, but the bedtime routine is beckoning, and I promised a piggyback ride upstairs to a four-year-old sweetheart with a flawless face and an evil arse.
Toodles.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Making the grade
I have 13 more personal narratives to grade today.
Let me be clear: I detest grading papers. It's probably the thing I hate most about teaching.
The big assignment this trimester is a personal narrative. Students spend about four weeks reading examples of narratives, along with To Kill a Mockingbird. We discuss the elements that make for quality writing (strong verbs; plot structure; varying sentence structure; grammar/punctuation; etc.) ... and then the students try to apply all of these items.
Now, I firmly believe that you either have the writing gift or you don't. It's like anything else (sports, music): you can get better, but to be really good, you not only have to work at it, you have to have natural skill. For instance, when I was younger, I could have practiced basketball for hours every day. Even if I had, ain't no DI school gonna be callin' my name, youknowwhatI'msayin'?
So, right now, I'm slogging through 80 personal narratives. They average 6 pages each. It takes me about 20 minutes to grade each one. This means 3 an hour, which means 25-30 hours of grading.
I just graded my 7th one of the day. I told myself at the beginning of the day that I'd grade 20. It's now 5:15 p.m.
Some of the narratives are very good - extremely enjoyable to read, in fact. Others? Not so much. Perhaps if I find some particularly egregious writing, I'll share it with you.
And, in the time it took me to post this, I could've had another one graded.
Can opener.
Let me be clear: I detest grading papers. It's probably the thing I hate most about teaching.
The big assignment this trimester is a personal narrative. Students spend about four weeks reading examples of narratives, along with To Kill a Mockingbird. We discuss the elements that make for quality writing (strong verbs; plot structure; varying sentence structure; grammar/punctuation; etc.) ... and then the students try to apply all of these items.
Now, I firmly believe that you either have the writing gift or you don't. It's like anything else (sports, music): you can get better, but to be really good, you not only have to work at it, you have to have natural skill. For instance, when I was younger, I could have practiced basketball for hours every day. Even if I had, ain't no DI school gonna be callin' my name, youknowwhatI'msayin'?
So, right now, I'm slogging through 80 personal narratives. They average 6 pages each. It takes me about 20 minutes to grade each one. This means 3 an hour, which means 25-30 hours of grading.
I just graded my 7th one of the day. I told myself at the beginning of the day that I'd grade 20. It's now 5:15 p.m.
Some of the narratives are very good - extremely enjoyable to read, in fact. Others? Not so much. Perhaps if I find some particularly egregious writing, I'll share it with you.
And, in the time it took me to post this, I could've had another one graded.
Can opener.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
The Park, Bitterman.
Lately, when I drink a glass of wine, it gives me heartburn. When I was in college, drinking wine products used to make my shoulders hurt, which I'll never understand. And yes, I'm talking about wine coolers, you bastage. I didn't start drinking beer until I was corrupted by my sister's housemates, the senior class ladies of The Limelight.
Two memories stand out from that night:
First, it was a Saturday night during our Fall Glee Club concert weekend, and my high-school girlfriend Beth had traveled up to Oxford with my parents. Beth is a member of the Mormon religion which frowns on the consumption of alcohol, for as I understand it, they are taught that alcohol is not good for the belly, but rather for washing bodies. Being a model child in high school, this axiom really didn't affect my drink selection, but I didn't opt for the Everclear sponge bath, either. Knowing that Beth would not applaud my decision to experiment with alcohol in college, I was honestly more nervous about her finding out than my parents knowing about it. The topic didn't come up until right before my parents were about to leave Oxford. Just as we were saying our goodbyes, Beth asked me if I was going to drink that night. I told her that it might happen and to my surprise, she took it quite well as if she knew it was just a matter of time.
In the spirit of feeling so liberated by her understanding, I proceeded to drink nine Natty Lights and proclaim it was the best beer ever.
Second, Shawn Chaney, who was my next-door neighbor in Stanton Hall our freshman year, came with me to my sister's party at The Limelight and made some obscene gesture involving his tongue and his lips to either Christy or another Limelight Lady. It didn't take. He didn't care.
To recap, as a freshman at Miami, I joined the Glee Club, drank wine coolers, and dated a Mormon who was still in high school. How in the hell was I not hooking up every single night?
Toodles. (again...still puzzled.)
Two memories stand out from that night:
First, it was a Saturday night during our Fall Glee Club concert weekend, and my high-school girlfriend Beth had traveled up to Oxford with my parents. Beth is a member of the Mormon religion which frowns on the consumption of alcohol, for as I understand it, they are taught that alcohol is not good for the belly, but rather for washing bodies. Being a model child in high school, this axiom really didn't affect my drink selection, but I didn't opt for the Everclear sponge bath, either. Knowing that Beth would not applaud my decision to experiment with alcohol in college, I was honestly more nervous about her finding out than my parents knowing about it. The topic didn't come up until right before my parents were about to leave Oxford. Just as we were saying our goodbyes, Beth asked me if I was going to drink that night. I told her that it might happen and to my surprise, she took it quite well as if she knew it was just a matter of time.
In the spirit of feeling so liberated by her understanding, I proceeded to drink nine Natty Lights and proclaim it was the best beer ever.
Second, Shawn Chaney, who was my next-door neighbor in Stanton Hall our freshman year, came with me to my sister's party at The Limelight and made some obscene gesture involving his tongue and his lips to either Christy or another Limelight Lady. It didn't take. He didn't care.
To recap, as a freshman at Miami, I joined the Glee Club, drank wine coolers, and dated a Mormon who was still in high school. How in the hell was I not hooking up every single night?
Toodles. (again...still puzzled.)
Shopping line woes, Part Deux
Definite Capital T moment right there, Gleeboy.
You know what else grinds my gears? When you're waiting in a long line, so long in fact that as you approach the cashier, with maybe one or two people in front of you and now a dozen people now behind you, they finally open another register.
Now, does the new cashier point to the person who's been waiting the longest and say, "If you would like to come to my register, I'm now open"?
Never.
Instead, the cashier just announces the new open lane, and people who are BEHIND you, and who've been waiting far less, just hop right on over. Ridiculous.
I'm not saying there's a special place in Hell for these cashiers - and the rude people who don't give a rat's patootie about other customers - but there is. So I am.
You know what else grinds my gears? When you're waiting in a long line, so long in fact that as you approach the cashier, with maybe one or two people in front of you and now a dozen people now behind you, they finally open another register.
Now, does the new cashier point to the person who's been waiting the longest and say, "If you would like to come to my register, I'm now open"?
Never.
Instead, the cashier just announces the new open lane, and people who are BEHIND you, and who've been waiting far less, just hop right on over. Ridiculous.
I'm not saying there's a special place in Hell for these cashiers - and the rude people who don't give a rat's patootie about other customers - but there is. So I am.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Oh, my hair!
So I'm about to check out at the grocery store with five items in my mini cart. Normally, I use the self-checkout system because it eliminates the possibility of many of the infuriating time wasters such as the person in line in front of me whipping out a checkbook, questioning the sticker price, buying stamps, forgetting eggs, etc.
It's quite simple: Removing human interfacing will get me to my car faster.
But since I had a bottle of scotch and a bottle of Drambuie in my cart, I figured I'd have to encounter a person at some point in order to verify my age and remove the safety caps from the bottles, so I just picked what looked like the lesser evil of two open check-out lines.
Each line had one customer. The guy in one of those lines had nothing on the conveyor belt so I assumed he was in the process of paying, so I chose his line.
Immediately as I began placing my items on the belt, I noticed the customer was discussing the price of the ten packages of chicken he was purchasing. In his defense, his line of questioning was valid and he ended up saving money. If that was all that held me up, I would have forgotten about it the minute I left the store.
Then I saw his cart. Mind you, his cart was in front of him and he was already past the belt, standing by the card swiper - this is a sure indicator that all items have been scanned, right?
Wrong as wrong can be.
This asshole had a full-size cart loaded with groceries. He never put them on the belt. Instead, after the chicken puzzle was solved, he reached into his cart and handed each item, one by one, to the cashier who had to accept the handoff, scan the item, and reach out for the next handoff.
By now, of course, the other line was empty. I could have packed up my five items, placed them back in my mini cart, and switched lines. But in Frayo's World, that would be a grave mistake, for sure as shit, the moment I would leave the current line, someone with a full cart would beat me to the other line. Then, if I would have decided to return to the original line clogged up by this guy, someone else would have taken my spot in line there.
So I waited, visibly irritated and shaking my head in disbelief in what I was witnessing. I mean, who the crap doesn't use the conveyor belt, particularly when you have 49 items in the cart!?
Meanwhile, someone else did come through the other line and completed her entire checkout transaction while I stood there hopelessly watching and waiting.
I swear to all that I know that this shit doesn't happen to anyone else but Frayo. Ever. It is the perfect example of what we call a Capital T. The T stands for *typical* and we refer to any adverse outcome of a given situation that could have gone another way just as easily as a Capital T.
Capital T has a sibling that we call "Can Opener." This was derived from an episode of South Park where Kenny's poor family finally is able to sit down at the table to have a meal which is a single can of corn or something, and just as soon as they're about to serve it, Kenny's dad says, "Does anybody have a can opener?"
Silence.
"God damnit."
If I get a text from Fred that says "Can opener," I know something unfortunate has happened. Some situations can be both a Capital T and a can opener. Only those in our world really know how to make that call.
Toodles.
It's quite simple: Removing human interfacing will get me to my car faster.
But since I had a bottle of scotch and a bottle of Drambuie in my cart, I figured I'd have to encounter a person at some point in order to verify my age and remove the safety caps from the bottles, so I just picked what looked like the lesser evil of two open check-out lines.
Each line had one customer. The guy in one of those lines had nothing on the conveyor belt so I assumed he was in the process of paying, so I chose his line.
Immediately as I began placing my items on the belt, I noticed the customer was discussing the price of the ten packages of chicken he was purchasing. In his defense, his line of questioning was valid and he ended up saving money. If that was all that held me up, I would have forgotten about it the minute I left the store.
Then I saw his cart. Mind you, his cart was in front of him and he was already past the belt, standing by the card swiper - this is a sure indicator that all items have been scanned, right?
Wrong as wrong can be.
This asshole had a full-size cart loaded with groceries. He never put them on the belt. Instead, after the chicken puzzle was solved, he reached into his cart and handed each item, one by one, to the cashier who had to accept the handoff, scan the item, and reach out for the next handoff.
By now, of course, the other line was empty. I could have packed up my five items, placed them back in my mini cart, and switched lines. But in Frayo's World, that would be a grave mistake, for sure as shit, the moment I would leave the current line, someone with a full cart would beat me to the other line. Then, if I would have decided to return to the original line clogged up by this guy, someone else would have taken my spot in line there.
So I waited, visibly irritated and shaking my head in disbelief in what I was witnessing. I mean, who the crap doesn't use the conveyor belt, particularly when you have 49 items in the cart!?
Meanwhile, someone else did come through the other line and completed her entire checkout transaction while I stood there hopelessly watching and waiting.
I swear to all that I know that this shit doesn't happen to anyone else but Frayo. Ever. It is the perfect example of what we call a Capital T. The T stands for *typical* and we refer to any adverse outcome of a given situation that could have gone another way just as easily as a Capital T.
Capital T has a sibling that we call "Can Opener." This was derived from an episode of South Park where Kenny's poor family finally is able to sit down at the table to have a meal which is a single can of corn or something, and just as soon as they're about to serve it, Kenny's dad says, "Does anybody have a can opener?"
Silence.
"God damnit."
If I get a text from Fred that says "Can opener," I know something unfortunate has happened. Some situations can be both a Capital T and a can opener. Only those in our world really know how to make that call.
Toodles.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Fight the power
Well, there's another thing we share: I didn't drink in high school, either!
Hyeeeeaaaah.
Should I explain "hyeeeeaaaah" to our follower(s)? Oh wait: she knows what it means.
(And Gleeboy, perhaps it's time we trademark that baby).
Actually, we do have something in common from our high school days: I, too, decided against honors English.
My first high school, Warren, didn't even have honors/AP level classes (love those high standards!) Then my next high school, London, did have honors, but no AP. When I moved there for my junior year, I was placed in the honors track after a few weeks. The same teacher taught both college prep and honors ... and she taught the same stories/papers for both classes. In fact, when I was moved to honors with that same teacher, that class was a full two weeks behind the college prep class. So for two weeks, I was taught the same material we had already covered in college prep. Made the homework and tests rather easy for me!
After my junior year, we students were informed for honors senior year, we had to read a book over the summer, and we'd be tested on the book on the first day of school. Weh-heh-hell ... not so fast my friend, I said to the powers-that-be. You will not infringe upon my summer, I declared, and so I didn't read the book. That's me, rebellious Freddie, taking it to the man.
First day of school: test on the book. Second day of school: Freddie dropped out because he totally bombed the test and took college prep. That's me, rebellious Freddie, taking it to the man.
By the way, just like with junior year, the same teacher who taught senior honors also taught college prep. She was bitter for some reason that I had dropped out of honors. She didn't do anything about it ... until the end of the semester, when I had a 92.3% (you needed a 93% for an A). When I went to her to see if she'd round up my grade to a 93, she said, "The grade is what it is, and it will stand as it is."
That's me, rebellious Freddie, shuffling off and sobbing after the man takes it to me.
I obviously didn't take an AP test at London - I don't think I even knew what AP was - but I did, like you Rayo, learn about the placement test at Miami at the last minute. I took the test, too ... and got 3 hours of extra credit, unlike your 6 hours.
I guess you got the looks and the brains.
And excuuuuuuuuse me about the font switch. Sheesh! I suppose you'll punish me by purposely typing slower until I can get around you?
Hyeeeeaaaah.
Should I explain "hyeeeeaaaah" to our follower(s)? Oh wait: she knows what it means.
(And Gleeboy, perhaps it's time we trademark that baby).
Actually, we do have something in common from our high school days: I, too, decided against honors English.
My first high school, Warren, didn't even have honors/AP level classes (love those high standards!) Then my next high school, London, did have honors, but no AP. When I moved there for my junior year, I was placed in the honors track after a few weeks. The same teacher taught both college prep and honors ... and she taught the same stories/papers for both classes. In fact, when I was moved to honors with that same teacher, that class was a full two weeks behind the college prep class. So for two weeks, I was taught the same material we had already covered in college prep. Made the homework and tests rather easy for me!
After my junior year, we students were informed for honors senior year, we had to read a book over the summer, and we'd be tested on the book on the first day of school. Weh-heh-hell ... not so fast my friend, I said to the powers-that-be. You will not infringe upon my summer, I declared, and so I didn't read the book. That's me, rebellious Freddie, taking it to the man.
First day of school: test on the book. Second day of school: Freddie dropped out because he totally bombed the test and took college prep. That's me, rebellious Freddie, taking it to the man.
By the way, just like with junior year, the same teacher who taught senior honors also taught college prep. She was bitter for some reason that I had dropped out of honors. She didn't do anything about it ... until the end of the semester, when I had a 92.3% (you needed a 93% for an A). When I went to her to see if she'd round up my grade to a 93, she said, "The grade is what it is, and it will stand as it is."
That's me, rebellious Freddie, shuffling off and sobbing after the man takes it to me.
I obviously didn't take an AP test at London - I don't think I even knew what AP was - but I did, like you Rayo, learn about the placement test at Miami at the last minute. I took the test, too ... and got 3 hours of extra credit, unlike your 6 hours.
I guess you got the looks and the brains.
And excuuuuuuuuse me about the font switch. Sheesh! I suppose you'll punish me by purposely typing slower until I can get around you?
Friday, February 4, 2011
Beer is great, so is wine, we're the class of '89
I didn't even drink in high school.
You do not wear impatience well. I've never seen you wear impatiens, so the jury's out on that one. And go back to your own font. Again with the mimicking of everything I do. It's downright frightening.
You're right about the reading. I didn't even read that much at MHS. Quick story for you:
I once led a group of four students in a summer-reading book review assignment the first week back to school. Following our group review, we each had to turn in our own individual report. I was the only one in the group who earned an A on the assignment. I was also the only one in the group who didn't read a single page of the book.
Moreover, I elected college-prep English over AP English simply due to the summer reading requirements. AP English students were tasked to read five books during the summer months. College-prep students had to read only one. And I didn't even read that. (Gabe must never read this blog.)
I didn't read much of the required literature during the school year either. Somehow managed to get by. However, there were two disadvantages to electing college-prep English over Honors:
You do not wear impatience well. I've never seen you wear impatiens, so the jury's out on that one. And go back to your own font. Again with the mimicking of everything I do. It's downright frightening.
You're right about the reading. I didn't even read that much at MHS. Quick story for you:
I once led a group of four students in a summer-reading book review assignment the first week back to school. Following our group review, we each had to turn in our own individual report. I was the only one in the group who earned an A on the assignment. I was also the only one in the group who didn't read a single page of the book.
Moreover, I elected college-prep English over AP English simply due to the summer reading requirements. AP English students were tasked to read five books during the summer months. College-prep students had to read only one. And I didn't even read that. (Gabe must never read this blog.)
I didn't read much of the required literature during the school year either. Somehow managed to get by. However, there were two disadvantages to electing college-prep English over Honors:
- AP English students were rewarded with an extra point for their final grade. So instead of earning 4 points for a final grade of A, Honors students earned 5 points toward their GPA.
- At the end of the school year, AP English students were given the opportunity to take the AP test which, with a high enough score, could earn them 3-to-6 hours of college credit toward Freshman English.
It wasn't that I was lazy, I was merely efficient. Okay, I was lazy.
Toodles.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Give him some time
Why hasn't Rayo responded to my post, loyal follower(s)?
With all that reading - probably more than he's done since his days at Madeira High - he might need a week or so.
With all that reading - probably more than he's done since his days at Madeira High - he might need a week or so.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
I miss George
Glee: How dare you skip me in the rotation! How embarrassing for me!
Actually, my most embarrassing pitching moment: high school, my junior year. I was brought on in a very crucial situation: bases loaded, bottom of the sixth. Can't remember the score, but it was close. Can't remember how many outs there were. Can't remember who we were playing. Hilliard maybe? Anyway, first pitch to the dude, and he crushes a grand slam.
Yeesh.
Next dude comes up. First pitch to him: home run.
How am I not in the majors right now?
Anyway, in one of your previous posts, you admonished me for ripping on people. You're right. I shouldn't be so harsh toward our fellow man (and woman). I really don't think I'm superior to everyone, unless the subject is '80s hair bands. Even then, I'm a little fuzzy on Firehouse. (This is probably a good thing).
I don't really hate most humans. I'm speaking for Rayo here, but I think he agrees with this philosophy, as said by George Carlin: "I love and treasure individuals as I meet them; I loathe and despise the groups they identify with and belong to."
Speaking of Carlin, I share some of his stuff with my high school students each year. I discuss with students the power of words, and how one of the books we read, To Kill a Mockingbird, has the n-word, which of course offends many and puts Mockingbird on the banned list in some schools. I play them Carlin's "Baseball vs. Football" routine:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=om_yq4L3M_I
I love Carlin, mainly for his intense love of studying our language - all the silliness of it, the seriousness of it, how it's not just what we say that matters, but how we say it. When he died, there were of course a bunch of things written about him. One of the best things I found dealt with Carlin's most famous routine, "The Seven Words You Can Never Say On Television." Here's his routine (sorry, no video), followed by the article written about it.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PrD6k8PDr1o
I love the line: "these are the seven words that'll keep the country from winning the war." Seems more fitting today than ever, doesn't it: the concept that certain words provoke such intense fear (just look at how politicians and some talk show hosts try to convince us that certain leaders are destroying the country, and the words they use - he's a Nazi, or a Socialist, etc. - that pander to the irrational).
Here's the article on the impact Carlin had with his ideas on words:
http://civilliberty.about.com/od/freespeech/a/george_carlin.htm
I talk to my students about words, how Carlin said there are no bad words (and, really, no good words). There are, simply, words. And it's our intentions behind them that give them power.
Surprisingly, I don't get many calls from parents after our look at Carlin, saying that I'm exposing their children to radical thoughts. But it's not from a lack of trying.
Holy Toledo this is a gigantic post! No way in the word Rayo reads all of this.
Oh, and Rayo? Really mature on your tormenting the Greatest Generation with your driving. I've never been so proud.
Actually, my most embarrassing pitching moment: high school, my junior year. I was brought on in a very crucial situation: bases loaded, bottom of the sixth. Can't remember the score, but it was close. Can't remember how many outs there were. Can't remember who we were playing. Hilliard maybe? Anyway, first pitch to the dude, and he crushes a grand slam.
Yeesh.
Next dude comes up. First pitch to him: home run.
How am I not in the majors right now?
Anyway, in one of your previous posts, you admonished me for ripping on people. You're right. I shouldn't be so harsh toward our fellow man (and woman). I really don't think I'm superior to everyone, unless the subject is '80s hair bands. Even then, I'm a little fuzzy on Firehouse. (This is probably a good thing).
I don't really hate most humans. I'm speaking for Rayo here, but I think he agrees with this philosophy, as said by George Carlin: "I love and treasure individuals as I meet them; I loathe and despise the groups they identify with and belong to."
Speaking of Carlin, I share some of his stuff with my high school students each year. I discuss with students the power of words, and how one of the books we read, To Kill a Mockingbird, has the n-word, which of course offends many and puts Mockingbird on the banned list in some schools. I play them Carlin's "Baseball vs. Football" routine:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=om_yq4L3M_I
I love Carlin, mainly for his intense love of studying our language - all the silliness of it, the seriousness of it, how it's not just what we say that matters, but how we say it. When he died, there were of course a bunch of things written about him. One of the best things I found dealt with Carlin's most famous routine, "The Seven Words You Can Never Say On Television." Here's his routine (sorry, no video), followed by the article written about it.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PrD6k8PDr1o
I love the line: "these are the seven words that'll keep the country from winning the war." Seems more fitting today than ever, doesn't it: the concept that certain words provoke such intense fear (just look at how politicians and some talk show hosts try to convince us that certain leaders are destroying the country, and the words they use - he's a Nazi, or a Socialist, etc. - that pander to the irrational).
Here's the article on the impact Carlin had with his ideas on words:
http://civilliberty.about.com/od/freespeech/a/george_carlin.htm
I talk to my students about words, how Carlin said there are no bad words (and, really, no good words). There are, simply, words. And it's our intentions behind them that give them power.
Surprisingly, I don't get many calls from parents after our look at Carlin, saying that I'm exposing their children to radical thoughts. But it's not from a lack of trying.
Holy Toledo this is a gigantic post! No way in the word Rayo reads all of this.
Oh, and Rayo? Really mature on your tormenting the Greatest Generation with your driving. I've never been so proud.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)