Myrtle Beach: Day 1
Well, we had an uneventful flight down, considering the first near-hurricane (Alberto) of the year had just passed through town.
It was a Veterinary (oft pronounced "Vetinary") Conference and I tagged along. Kelly and I arrive at the hotel at 10:00 AM after getting up before the ass-crack of dawn to catch the flight, thinking, wow, we can relax when we get there and enjoy the WHOLE day! That was until the hotel clerks told us they couldn't get us a room until 2:00 at the earliest, no guarantees! All right.... so they tell us we can leave our luggage in "the office". We go to "the office" and there is this nice, large office with the waiting area PACKED FULL of UPS deliveries and other luggage. The two people working at the desks there barely had room to walk around their desks out the door. And of course I'm thinking this is a workers' comp injury waiting to happen, but since I don't know South Carolina WC Law, and I'm on vacation, I don't give a shit. My luggage becomes part of the hazard.
We walk the pier, walk the beach, decide we'll check out the scenery, and grab lunch at the "restaurant". The "restaurant" is nothing more than a high-school cafeteria. No ambience. And no BOOZE. Anywhere. Anywhere at the entire hotel! This scares me.
Now, when we get there, we see masses of Baptist Youth holding bibles and walking around. This scares me more, especially since there is NO BOOZE!
We kill time and eventually head to the exibitors area which was having the "welcome reception". Basically that meant you could look at all the cool equipment with a beer. They had two stations where you could get beer and wine. So I had me a few cold ones while looking at the auto processors and surgitrons (not to be confused with the "orgasmatron" from the movie "Sleeper". You don't just toss the dog in the machine and it does the surgery for you.)
But I digress.
During all this we keep checking back at the hotel. "Sorry, ma'am. Yer room ain't ready yet." They had quite an array of hotel clerks there: The Indian Woman, the wispy black man, the very dark-skinned black woman, the white trash middle aged woman, the 20 something hipster, the all-american ditzy pretty girl. All overseen by the fat, middle-aged, facial haired surly manager who didn't seem to do anything at all.
So we wait in the lobby for our room. And we watch the people, who are mostly Vet types and their spouses and their 9000 children. Each. There is The Loud Talker: "I have to wait in this line? I have a presentation to give! How long is this going to take! I can't believe I have to wait in this line! Well, in the meantime I'll have a pretentious conversation in a really loud voice with the stranger behind me!" Then there is the Really Ugly Butch Vet Tech With The Unfortunate Mullet Who Is Here With Her Look-Alike Mother". 'Nuff said. The Tall Woman With The Really Big Belly Who Nonetheless Wore A Perfectly Pressed, Too-Tight, Tucked In T-Shirt that said "Desparate Horsewives". Note to you: Horse People are whack jobs.
So finally I go up to the clerk and I say....You keep saying that "our" room isn't ready. Have you assigned us a room? Yes, but she can't tell us the number until she actually gives us the keys and officially assigns it. Okay then, are there other rooms available then? Yes, there are! Really? So why the fuck aren't you just assigning us a different room that is READY, I'm thinking. Can you give me another room? Yes, ma'am, I can give you a different room. My NY sensibilities start to boil and I want to say, WTF? Yes, give me the fucking room, moron! Can you see we've been sitting in your tacky lobby for hours asking you if our room is ready???? But Kelly says that in the south they don't talk like that, they say "That'd be just fahn". So I say to the dumbass clerk, Yes, a different room please. That would be just fine. Thank you.
Then Kelly has a few words with the manager. Better her than me. Trust me. They don't take too kindly to Yankees down in those there parts.
So, here we are in our room. Sober. The view is really nice. We unpack, relax. Then we get to go back to the cafeteria for yummy dinner! It has been a loooong day, so we take it easy the rest of the night. We watch game 5 of the Stanley Cup Finals. We make plans for me to procure booze the following day. Then we hit the sack.
Friday, February 11, 2005
Finally. The "job" post.
Well, Jebus it took me long enough, but I'm finally getting around to writing about my new job. Not so new already. I started mid October, three days after my gramma died.
Let me tell you about the type of company I'm working for. I was scheduled to start Monday the 11th. Gramma died that weekend. I had warned my boss about the possibility of it, so I called work to let them know she died. My boss said to come in on Thursday then, the day after the funeral. I had fully expected that they would then just change my start date to Thursday, but when I got there, I found out they kept the original start date and gave me three days of bereavement leave. Can you believe that? And when I got in, total strangers were offering me their condolences.
I work for Sedgwick Claims Managment Services, the 2nd largest Third Party Administrator in the US. My particular office handles worker's compensation claims. I work as a claims assistant - meaning the team that basically does the scut work of the office. I started as receptionist; answering the phones a dealing with the few delivery people and vendors who come. Thankfully I didn't have to deal with claimants in person, just deal with folks on the phone. But I just left that position last week when an opening for another CA came about. I took the shot to leave the switchboard (which I was chained to) to taking on the rest of the CA duties. I like it so far. I figure the more I learn, the better chance I have to move up.
Since the music industry sucks ass totally hard, and I'm too friggin' old to live the supposedly glamourous life of the struggling artist, the insurance industry is just as good a place as any, especially since this company is excellent. I have bennies up the yin/yang: health insurance, including eye and dental, short and long-term disability, life insurance, matching 401K, flexible spending accounts, retirement savings account, tuition reimbursement for continuing ed, no weekends, all federal holidays off, business casual attire with dress down Fridays, and no boss breathing down my neck.I have 11 days of vacation, with one day added each year, 2 personal days, 4 floating holidays, and whatever sick time you need, no limit, as long as it's not out of hand. I leave at 4:30, and when I'm done, I'm done. I don't have to think about whatever work is left behind, I don't take any of that shit home with me. OH, and, there are 70 office throughout the country, so when Kelly and I retire to the warm south, there are dozens of offices I can choose from, who will happily make a place for me at their location.
So that's the deal, basically. Whaddya think?
Well, Jebus it took me long enough, but I'm finally getting around to writing about my new job. Not so new already. I started mid October, three days after my gramma died.
Let me tell you about the type of company I'm working for. I was scheduled to start Monday the 11th. Gramma died that weekend. I had warned my boss about the possibility of it, so I called work to let them know she died. My boss said to come in on Thursday then, the day after the funeral. I had fully expected that they would then just change my start date to Thursday, but when I got there, I found out they kept the original start date and gave me three days of bereavement leave. Can you believe that? And when I got in, total strangers were offering me their condolences.
I work for Sedgwick Claims Managment Services, the 2nd largest Third Party Administrator in the US. My particular office handles worker's compensation claims. I work as a claims assistant - meaning the team that basically does the scut work of the office. I started as receptionist; answering the phones a dealing with the few delivery people and vendors who come. Thankfully I didn't have to deal with claimants in person, just deal with folks on the phone. But I just left that position last week when an opening for another CA came about. I took the shot to leave the switchboard (which I was chained to) to taking on the rest of the CA duties. I like it so far. I figure the more I learn, the better chance I have to move up.
Since the music industry sucks ass totally hard, and I'm too friggin' old to live the supposedly glamourous life of the struggling artist, the insurance industry is just as good a place as any, especially since this company is excellent. I have bennies up the yin/yang: health insurance, including eye and dental, short and long-term disability, life insurance, matching 401K, flexible spending accounts, retirement savings account, tuition reimbursement for continuing ed, no weekends, all federal holidays off, business casual attire with dress down Fridays, and no boss breathing down my neck.I have 11 days of vacation, with one day added each year, 2 personal days, 4 floating holidays, and whatever sick time you need, no limit, as long as it's not out of hand. I leave at 4:30, and when I'm done, I'm done. I don't have to think about whatever work is left behind, I don't take any of that shit home with me. OH, and, there are 70 office throughout the country, so when Kelly and I retire to the warm south, there are dozens of offices I can choose from, who will happily make a place for me at their location.
So that's the deal, basically. Whaddya think?
Friday, February 04, 2005
Puxatawney Stew.
I know I'm two days late with this rant, but whaddya gonna do.
Can someone please tell me what moron started Groundhog's Day? I'm sure I can find the history of it on the internet, but I'm talking about the logic of it. Has Puxatawney Phil ever NOT seen his shadow? Does he actually know what a shadow is? Has he ever poked his pea-brained head out of his hole, not seen a shadow, and !bing!, it's sunny and warm the next day.
Just look at your calendars, people. Count the days between Feb 2 and March 21. Wow! Look at that! 46 days. Now divide that by 7. Wow! 6.5 weeks! Look at that! Another six weeks more of winter! Wow!
I think Phil would be better suited chopped up and simmered with some veggies and served to the poor people in Puxatawny, PA, who clearly have nothing better to offer the world.
I know I'm two days late with this rant, but whaddya gonna do.
Can someone please tell me what moron started Groundhog's Day? I'm sure I can find the history of it on the internet, but I'm talking about the logic of it. Has Puxatawney Phil ever NOT seen his shadow? Does he actually know what a shadow is? Has he ever poked his pea-brained head out of his hole, not seen a shadow, and !bing!, it's sunny and warm the next day.
Just look at your calendars, people. Count the days between Feb 2 and March 21. Wow! Look at that! 46 days. Now divide that by 7. Wow! 6.5 weeks! Look at that! Another six weeks more of winter! Wow!
I think Phil would be better suited chopped up and simmered with some veggies and served to the poor people in Puxatawny, PA, who clearly have nothing better to offer the world.
Monday, January 10, 2005
Happy Birthday to me!
Woo Hoo! And Elvis, too.
So Kelly whisked me away to the Bristol Harbour Inn this weekend for an overnight romantical getaway. We got there Saturday afternoon and unpacked, cracked open some cold Stellas, and, er, enjoyed the room, as Kelly so euphemistically puts it. I opened presents! Kelly got me "Tuesdays With Morrie", the new Joni Mitchell retrospective "Dreamland", and the most beautiful leather jacket that fits me so perfectly it looks like it was tailored for me.
Dinner was included in the package so we had some martinis, a nice din-din, then headed back to the room to hang in front of the fireplace and TV. The fireplace was great: just flip a switch on the wall and on it came. Not being the outdoorsy type, this is an ideal way to make a fire to me.
Next morning we poured some mimosas and lounged around. Then we headed to brunch, which was also included in the package. Had the nastiest tasting Bloody Mary's you could ever imagine which we sent back. We decided to just finish the champagne back at the room instead, and watched some football. We may have enjoyed the room once or twice more. There was absolutely nobody left in the hotel, so they said we could check out late. Housekeeping came by and said, no rush, there's no turnover, they'd just clean the room tomorrow. So Kelly checked out so as not to get charged another day, then came back to the room, and we stayed like another two hours. Woo hoo!
A lovely weekend, indeed.
Woo Hoo! And Elvis, too.
So Kelly whisked me away to the Bristol Harbour Inn this weekend for an overnight romantical getaway. We got there Saturday afternoon and unpacked, cracked open some cold Stellas, and, er, enjoyed the room, as Kelly so euphemistically puts it. I opened presents! Kelly got me "Tuesdays With Morrie", the new Joni Mitchell retrospective "Dreamland", and the most beautiful leather jacket that fits me so perfectly it looks like it was tailored for me.
Dinner was included in the package so we had some martinis, a nice din-din, then headed back to the room to hang in front of the fireplace and TV. The fireplace was great: just flip a switch on the wall and on it came. Not being the outdoorsy type, this is an ideal way to make a fire to me.
Next morning we poured some mimosas and lounged around. Then we headed to brunch, which was also included in the package. Had the nastiest tasting Bloody Mary's you could ever imagine which we sent back. We decided to just finish the champagne back at the room instead, and watched some football. We may have enjoyed the room once or twice more. There was absolutely nobody left in the hotel, so they said we could check out late. Housekeeping came by and said, no rush, there's no turnover, they'd just clean the room tomorrow. So Kelly checked out so as not to get charged another day, then came back to the room, and we stayed like another two hours. Woo hoo!
A lovely weekend, indeed.
Thursday, December 30, 2004
Did ya miss me???
Americans are such a bunch of phonies.
Americans will run you over and kill you for the last cabbage patch doll. They will nearly drive you off the road and throw you the finger when you beep your horn. They will shoot you dead in a mad rage because you took a parking spot. They will beat their children in the back of SUVs and throttle them into brain damage. Or forget about them in the back of their cars. They will sue you because you made the coffee too hot. They'll blow their snow into your driveway because their dog pissed on your lawn. They'll flatten your tires because you broke up with them. They'll have affairs on their spouses and beat up faggots for being faggots.
But when a huge tragedy hits the world, such as the Tsunami, or 9/11, or the OKC bombing, suddenly Americans are loving and generous and compassionate. They'll send their old clothes to the Red Cross, write huge checks, feel this overwhelming need to get on a plane and go to the location to "help in any way". Suddenly they're magnanamous.
Charity begins at home, people. And when I say "home", I mean in your heart, in your character, in your everyday actions. Not just when the shit hits the fan.
They say that character is what you do when no one is looking.
Americans are such a bunch of phonies.
Americans will run you over and kill you for the last cabbage patch doll. They will nearly drive you off the road and throw you the finger when you beep your horn. They will shoot you dead in a mad rage because you took a parking spot. They will beat their children in the back of SUVs and throttle them into brain damage. Or forget about them in the back of their cars. They will sue you because you made the coffee too hot. They'll blow their snow into your driveway because their dog pissed on your lawn. They'll flatten your tires because you broke up with them. They'll have affairs on their spouses and beat up faggots for being faggots.
But when a huge tragedy hits the world, such as the Tsunami, or 9/11, or the OKC bombing, suddenly Americans are loving and generous and compassionate. They'll send their old clothes to the Red Cross, write huge checks, feel this overwhelming need to get on a plane and go to the location to "help in any way". Suddenly they're magnanamous.
Charity begins at home, people. And when I say "home", I mean in your heart, in your character, in your everyday actions. Not just when the shit hits the fan.
They say that character is what you do when no one is looking.
Sunday, December 26, 2004
By request...my Christmas story from last year.
I know it's a little late for this, but what the fuck. Oh, and it's not true.
* * * * * *
Never send a bitter lesbian out shopping by herself during the peak of Christmas rush...
Well, it all started when I was out serving papers in the area of a certain mall, so I said I may as well pick up that one item I need. So I went to the BIGGEST mall in two counties. The particular item I was looking for today is a kitchen accessory. I suppose those of you who shop regularly at malls like normal people already know this, but the damn kitchen accessories in EVERY department store are in the utmost remote section of the store, regardless of which entrance you come in.
As I said, I was looking in department stores, which I suppose you also know are those "anchor" stores, which mean they are at the VERY ENDS of each tentacle of said mall, and of course, I had to go to every last store to find what I was looking for.
So I had walked the ENTIRE mall, and by now my blood sugar was dropping, and I'm remembering how I hate this Christmas pressure obligation bullshit called holiday "giving" and I'm watching people glide along the mall like zombies which, except for the Goth couple I saw, they're not supposed to look like. So I suppose it was all that combined that made me lose it at last.
I was walking by the Santa area with all these pasty-faced parents saying "how cute..." when I saw this little boy tugging on Santa's beard and saying "gimme this and gimme that and I want I want!!!!" and he's yelling at Santa and calling him names and throwing a tantrum and nobody's saying anything. And I'm looking at Santa and he's looking at me helplessly. And they're all snapping pictures.
So I go up to the kid and I say, "Hey! Shut your mouth you little ingrate and be glad for what you have! And show Santa some respect! He's SANTA!" Then I turn to the mother and say to her "And you should be ashamed of yourself letting your child act like that and not disciplining him!" And the mother tells me "Go To Hell!" And I say, "I'm already going to hell because I'm a big dyke and I'll be you and your kid's guide down there!!" And someone yells "Security!" and the kid is cowering behind his mother now and Santa is giving me the ol' thumbs up like "Thank you!"
I see the dudes in the gray uniforms getting closer but I feel like I haven't finished my mission, because they're all still standing there waiting for me to go away so they can continue torturing Santa, as if I'M the crazy one, so as the guys are clasping the handcuffs on me I yell "Santa's not real! And the sooner you all realize that the sooner you can all be prepared for the bitter realities of life that await you! And underneath Santa's pasted-on beard and pillow-stuffed red suit, he's wearing ladies underwear!"
Well, that did the trick, because it was that last part that made all the parents look sideways at Santa and pack up their kids and leave the Santa area and go home. And I'm thinking, darn, now that they're all leaving I could be shopping in less crowded conditions, but I'm going to jail now, how's that for irony? An hour later I'm sitting in the Ontario County Jail contemplating whether I should call an attorney or a shrink, when who but Santa should appear. With bail money.
And he looks at me with his twinkling eyes and his little red cherry nose as we're leaving the jailhouse and he says "That's the first time anyone has done anything for me. It's always been take, take, take, until today. Thank you." And we go to Pickering's Pub and he buys me a few cold ones. Of course the topic turns to women, and I promised to keep our conversation private, but suffice to say, turns out that Mrs. Claus is one hot tamale in the boudoir. Who knew.
We finish our beers and with a wave of his hand, he's gone and I'm suddenly sitting in the food court shoveling down a Tom Wahl's burger and fries, with my kitchen item all wrapped up in a Bon-Ton's bag.
Now that's a Christmas story!
I know it's a little late for this, but what the fuck. Oh, and it's not true.
* * * * * *
Never send a bitter lesbian out shopping by herself during the peak of Christmas rush...
Well, it all started when I was out serving papers in the area of a certain mall, so I said I may as well pick up that one item I need. So I went to the BIGGEST mall in two counties. The particular item I was looking for today is a kitchen accessory. I suppose those of you who shop regularly at malls like normal people already know this, but the damn kitchen accessories in EVERY department store are in the utmost remote section of the store, regardless of which entrance you come in.
As I said, I was looking in department stores, which I suppose you also know are those "anchor" stores, which mean they are at the VERY ENDS of each tentacle of said mall, and of course, I had to go to every last store to find what I was looking for.
So I had walked the ENTIRE mall, and by now my blood sugar was dropping, and I'm remembering how I hate this Christmas pressure obligation bullshit called holiday "giving" and I'm watching people glide along the mall like zombies which, except for the Goth couple I saw, they're not supposed to look like. So I suppose it was all that combined that made me lose it at last.
I was walking by the Santa area with all these pasty-faced parents saying "how cute..." when I saw this little boy tugging on Santa's beard and saying "gimme this and gimme that and I want I want!!!!" and he's yelling at Santa and calling him names and throwing a tantrum and nobody's saying anything. And I'm looking at Santa and he's looking at me helplessly. And they're all snapping pictures.
So I go up to the kid and I say, "Hey! Shut your mouth you little ingrate and be glad for what you have! And show Santa some respect! He's SANTA!" Then I turn to the mother and say to her "And you should be ashamed of yourself letting your child act like that and not disciplining him!" And the mother tells me "Go To Hell!" And I say, "I'm already going to hell because I'm a big dyke and I'll be you and your kid's guide down there!!" And someone yells "Security!" and the kid is cowering behind his mother now and Santa is giving me the ol' thumbs up like "Thank you!"
I see the dudes in the gray uniforms getting closer but I feel like I haven't finished my mission, because they're all still standing there waiting for me to go away so they can continue torturing Santa, as if I'M the crazy one, so as the guys are clasping the handcuffs on me I yell "Santa's not real! And the sooner you all realize that the sooner you can all be prepared for the bitter realities of life that await you! And underneath Santa's pasted-on beard and pillow-stuffed red suit, he's wearing ladies underwear!"
Well, that did the trick, because it was that last part that made all the parents look sideways at Santa and pack up their kids and leave the Santa area and go home. And I'm thinking, darn, now that they're all leaving I could be shopping in less crowded conditions, but I'm going to jail now, how's that for irony? An hour later I'm sitting in the Ontario County Jail contemplating whether I should call an attorney or a shrink, when who but Santa should appear. With bail money.
And he looks at me with his twinkling eyes and his little red cherry nose as we're leaving the jailhouse and he says "That's the first time anyone has done anything for me. It's always been take, take, take, until today. Thank you." And we go to Pickering's Pub and he buys me a few cold ones. Of course the topic turns to women, and I promised to keep our conversation private, but suffice to say, turns out that Mrs. Claus is one hot tamale in the boudoir. Who knew.
We finish our beers and with a wave of his hand, he's gone and I'm suddenly sitting in the food court shoveling down a Tom Wahl's burger and fries, with my kitchen item all wrapped up in a Bon-Ton's bag.
Now that's a Christmas story!
Sunday, November 14, 2004
Little Pit Band of Horrors.
I dedicate this post to my buddy Alan, in fond memory of that hideous production of West Side Story we did almost two years ago, where the music director was sooooooooooo bad, we were drinking between acts until finally we resorted to drinking in the pit.
Well I'm doing Little Shop of Horrors right now with that theater company whose actors are all developmentally disabled. I'm sure I've ranted about this idiot music director (MD) before. Nice guy, but I have just a few issues with him:
1) I don't know how a guy can graduate from the Eastman School of Music and not be able to count to 4.
2) The band spends a whole lot of time sitting around doing nothing during tech week. These are 4-5 hours rehearsal for which we do not get paid.
3) His rehearsal thought process is not spent on figuring out how to make the band sound good, but on how else he can get himself on stage.
4) He always spells my name wrong in the program.
All that aside, the band isn't wearing concert blacks for this show, we're supposed to look like bums from Skid Row, the setting of the show. So we all look like slobs and it's hysterical. The other guitar player has been working on these shows on the tech side for years, so he gets all the free beer he wants. He goes up to the bar and brings me back two glasses at a time, and we slam 'em down while we're playing the show. Of course, I needed a prop to go with my costume and I thought my flask would suffice nicely, but in true method fashion I decided it should be filled...with a little brandy. Theatre veritas and all...
When Alan and I were doing WSS we had to sneak that beer in and drink it on the sly. Here nobody cares. Drink on. It appears that music is a hazard to my health and sobriety these days.
I must say I haven't enjoyed doing this production. I've been frustrated with the whole thing, at least from the musical standpoint. I've always loved working with this theater company and watching these people work against all odds to get up on stage. I've watched as the director threw sudden changes at them that I've seen "normal" actors freak out over, yet they say okay and execute it perfectly first shot. But I'm about at my wits end with this MD, and there's no learning in it for me. I didn't even get the score in advance. I got it first night of tech week. Luckily I played the show about 7 years ago and it's not hard, so I can sight read it. But still.
So I'm trying to decide should this be my attitude on it? Maybe I need to change my perspective? Maybe I should just suck it up and take the attitude that I'm here so these actors can work with the band all week, so they can hear what it sounds like; that this is a special situation and I shouldn't expect from this company what I should expect from professional theater groups. Still I get so frustrated because most of the wasted time could be avoided if the MD and the director did their homework and were better prepared for the rehearsals, because most of the wasted time is because they're still blocking scenes or figuring out the score.
What to do? Should I do it again next year, or is it time to move on? And when I say "move on", that means moving on to nothing. Not like I have any other opportunities knocking at my door. And this gig pays.
I dedicate this post to my buddy Alan, in fond memory of that hideous production of West Side Story we did almost two years ago, where the music director was sooooooooooo bad, we were drinking between acts until finally we resorted to drinking in the pit.
Well I'm doing Little Shop of Horrors right now with that theater company whose actors are all developmentally disabled. I'm sure I've ranted about this idiot music director (MD) before. Nice guy, but I have just a few issues with him:
1) I don't know how a guy can graduate from the Eastman School of Music and not be able to count to 4.
2) The band spends a whole lot of time sitting around doing nothing during tech week. These are 4-5 hours rehearsal for which we do not get paid.
3) His rehearsal thought process is not spent on figuring out how to make the band sound good, but on how else he can get himself on stage.
4) He always spells my name wrong in the program.
All that aside, the band isn't wearing concert blacks for this show, we're supposed to look like bums from Skid Row, the setting of the show. So we all look like slobs and it's hysterical. The other guitar player has been working on these shows on the tech side for years, so he gets all the free beer he wants. He goes up to the bar and brings me back two glasses at a time, and we slam 'em down while we're playing the show. Of course, I needed a prop to go with my costume and I thought my flask would suffice nicely, but in true method fashion I decided it should be filled...with a little brandy. Theatre veritas and all...
When Alan and I were doing WSS we had to sneak that beer in and drink it on the sly. Here nobody cares. Drink on. It appears that music is a hazard to my health and sobriety these days.
I must say I haven't enjoyed doing this production. I've been frustrated with the whole thing, at least from the musical standpoint. I've always loved working with this theater company and watching these people work against all odds to get up on stage. I've watched as the director threw sudden changes at them that I've seen "normal" actors freak out over, yet they say okay and execute it perfectly first shot. But I'm about at my wits end with this MD, and there's no learning in it for me. I didn't even get the score in advance. I got it first night of tech week. Luckily I played the show about 7 years ago and it's not hard, so I can sight read it. But still.
So I'm trying to decide should this be my attitude on it? Maybe I need to change my perspective? Maybe I should just suck it up and take the attitude that I'm here so these actors can work with the band all week, so they can hear what it sounds like; that this is a special situation and I shouldn't expect from this company what I should expect from professional theater groups. Still I get so frustrated because most of the wasted time could be avoided if the MD and the director did their homework and were better prepared for the rehearsals, because most of the wasted time is because they're still blocking scenes or figuring out the score.
What to do? Should I do it again next year, or is it time to move on? And when I say "move on", that means moving on to nothing. Not like I have any other opportunities knocking at my door. And this gig pays.
Wednesday, November 03, 2004
Hel-looo... YOU have the power...
Everyone has pissed and moaned all year about those bums in Albany, the red tape, the political games, the back room deals, the ass-kissing to Sheldon Silver, the inability to pass a budget on time, blah blah blah.
So what do all you morons do? Go right ahead and vote the same assholes into office again. It's your own fucking fault. You have no right to bitch about it now.
Everyone has pissed and moaned all year about those bums in Albany, the red tape, the political games, the back room deals, the ass-kissing to Sheldon Silver, the inability to pass a budget on time, blah blah blah.
So what do all you morons do? Go right ahead and vote the same assholes into office again. It's your own fucking fault. You have no right to bitch about it now.
Saturday, October 16, 2004
Grandma's Eulogy.
On Sunday, the day after Grandma died, we didn't know who was going to do the Eulogy. That night I went to bed and couldn't sleep. While I was lying in the silent darkness, this whole thing came flooding into my head. For hours. So I wrote it down, asked my family if I could do it and they said yes. A little background: Every years since the 50's my Grandma has made Christmas cookies for the whole family and her friends. They're famous. We literally bake 5000-7000 cookies each year to pass out, because everyone loves and wants them.
So here is my tribute to my beloved and achingly-missed Grandma. I hope you will participate in the favor I ask in the last paragraph.
******
Millie, Millie, Millie. Fun-loving, big-hearted, wild and crazy, sassy, bawdy Millie. You probably called her Millie, but some of us called her mom, a few more of us called her grandma, and most of us called her Aunt Millie. And as Matriarch of this family she leaves a big void and a large legacy.
How can you sum up 86 years in 5 minutes? She was so many things to so many people. She loved to bowl, she was involved with the Boy Scouts Troop 228, where she was den mother, though I'm sure people thought more of her as den "queen" mother. She was an excellent seamstress, a strong labor union advocate. And I know many of you learned the hard way that she was an amazing card player! She could have put Las Vegas out of business! And pity the poor fool if you were her partner and your Euchre skills weren't up to par. I remember once playing cards with her and I threw a card and she yelled at me "What are you throwing that card for? Don't you know they have both bowers?!"
Regardless of the seemingly infinite aspects of who she was, I think today we can all agree that Grandma will forever be best known as the best Christmas Cookie Baker to ever walk God's green Earth. And before I continue I would like to assure you all that the cookie baking tradition has been passed down two generations. My mom, Aunt Marie, my sister Lynn and Aunt Tracy have been making the cookies with Grandma for years, so you can all relax in knowing that the tradition continues, even though most of you probably already have Grandma's cookie recipes.
Perhaps you've made some of grandma's cookies yourself. But I know that when the Cugidares come out of the oven and you put it in your mouth you say "Wow this is really delicious, but it's not quite like Aunt Millie's. I don't know what she does but I can't duplicate it". And that's because Grandma had a secret ingredient that wasn't on the recipe card. It was her own unique secret ingredient, and today I'm going to reveal to you what it was.
Grandma's secret ingredient was Love.
Grandma poured her whole heart into every single cookie she made. It was one of her greatest joys when someone called her and said "Millie, can I have a plate of your Christmas cookies this year?" "Of course sweetheart!" she'd say. "What kind do you want?" And even though making these cookies are time and labor intensive, she looked forward to doing it every year because she knew the cookies were going to bring joy to you all. And when you came to get your cookies and she'd see your faces light up with joy, that was her greatest joy, because Grandma derived joy not by getting, but by giving. And it was just a simple plate of cookies. But Grandma knew it wasn't "just a plate of cookies". It was a plate of love that would bring joy to you and each of your families and subsequently to her.
And every time you ate one of Grandma's cookies you were filled with her love, which is why you couldn't put the plate down! You'd take the whole plate and just keep popping them into your mouth and you couldn't stop, because Grandma's love was delicious and infectious and irresistible.
Now there may be some people here today who never got to eat Grandma's cookies, but I can guarantee that you had received some kindness from her at some point in your life. Maybe it was your birthday and she gave you a card stuffed with money. Maybe you were sick and she called you to send her love and her prayers. Or maybe she took you in when everyone else cast you out. Maybe you were just going through a hard time in life and you just dropped in to talk and play cards, and as she filled your coffee cup, she filled your emotional cup.
When I look out at everyone here today I see a plate of cookies. Each of you is one of Grandma's cookies, because just as Grandma filled each and every cookie she made with love, so has she filled each and every one of us with love.
So today I'd like to ask you for a favor. I'd like for all of us to continue spinning Grandma's web of joy and love, so here's what I'd like for you to do:
Some time this October (because that's when she'd start baking the Christmas cookies) bake some cookies. Whatever kind you want, pick your best recipe. And it doesn't have to be a lot, just a couple of dozen. While you're baking them, think of Grandma, and pour your heart into the making of those cookies. Then put them on a pretty plate, wrap them in colorful cellophane, put a big old red bow on it, and give it someone outside the family. Give them to your neighbor, or your paper girl, or your mail carrier or hairdresser. And when you give that person that plate of cookies and you see the joy light up their face and they say "Thank you!" say to them "Don't thank me. Thank Millie".
On Sunday, the day after Grandma died, we didn't know who was going to do the Eulogy. That night I went to bed and couldn't sleep. While I was lying in the silent darkness, this whole thing came flooding into my head. For hours. So I wrote it down, asked my family if I could do it and they said yes. A little background: Every years since the 50's my Grandma has made Christmas cookies for the whole family and her friends. They're famous. We literally bake 5000-7000 cookies each year to pass out, because everyone loves and wants them.
So here is my tribute to my beloved and achingly-missed Grandma. I hope you will participate in the favor I ask in the last paragraph.
******
Millie, Millie, Millie. Fun-loving, big-hearted, wild and crazy, sassy, bawdy Millie. You probably called her Millie, but some of us called her mom, a few more of us called her grandma, and most of us called her Aunt Millie. And as Matriarch of this family she leaves a big void and a large legacy.
How can you sum up 86 years in 5 minutes? She was so many things to so many people. She loved to bowl, she was involved with the Boy Scouts Troop 228, where she was den mother, though I'm sure people thought more of her as den "queen" mother. She was an excellent seamstress, a strong labor union advocate. And I know many of you learned the hard way that she was an amazing card player! She could have put Las Vegas out of business! And pity the poor fool if you were her partner and your Euchre skills weren't up to par. I remember once playing cards with her and I threw a card and she yelled at me "What are you throwing that card for? Don't you know they have both bowers?!"
Regardless of the seemingly infinite aspects of who she was, I think today we can all agree that Grandma will forever be best known as the best Christmas Cookie Baker to ever walk God's green Earth. And before I continue I would like to assure you all that the cookie baking tradition has been passed down two generations. My mom, Aunt Marie, my sister Lynn and Aunt Tracy have been making the cookies with Grandma for years, so you can all relax in knowing that the tradition continues, even though most of you probably already have Grandma's cookie recipes.
Perhaps you've made some of grandma's cookies yourself. But I know that when the Cugidares come out of the oven and you put it in your mouth you say "Wow this is really delicious, but it's not quite like Aunt Millie's. I don't know what she does but I can't duplicate it". And that's because Grandma had a secret ingredient that wasn't on the recipe card. It was her own unique secret ingredient, and today I'm going to reveal to you what it was.
Grandma's secret ingredient was Love.
Grandma poured her whole heart into every single cookie she made. It was one of her greatest joys when someone called her and said "Millie, can I have a plate of your Christmas cookies this year?" "Of course sweetheart!" she'd say. "What kind do you want?" And even though making these cookies are time and labor intensive, she looked forward to doing it every year because she knew the cookies were going to bring joy to you all. And when you came to get your cookies and she'd see your faces light up with joy, that was her greatest joy, because Grandma derived joy not by getting, but by giving. And it was just a simple plate of cookies. But Grandma knew it wasn't "just a plate of cookies". It was a plate of love that would bring joy to you and each of your families and subsequently to her.
And every time you ate one of Grandma's cookies you were filled with her love, which is why you couldn't put the plate down! You'd take the whole plate and just keep popping them into your mouth and you couldn't stop, because Grandma's love was delicious and infectious and irresistible.
Now there may be some people here today who never got to eat Grandma's cookies, but I can guarantee that you had received some kindness from her at some point in your life. Maybe it was your birthday and she gave you a card stuffed with money. Maybe you were sick and she called you to send her love and her prayers. Or maybe she took you in when everyone else cast you out. Maybe you were just going through a hard time in life and you just dropped in to talk and play cards, and as she filled your coffee cup, she filled your emotional cup.
When I look out at everyone here today I see a plate of cookies. Each of you is one of Grandma's cookies, because just as Grandma filled each and every cookie she made with love, so has she filled each and every one of us with love.
So today I'd like to ask you for a favor. I'd like for all of us to continue spinning Grandma's web of joy and love, so here's what I'd like for you to do:
Some time this October (because that's when she'd start baking the Christmas cookies) bake some cookies. Whatever kind you want, pick your best recipe. And it doesn't have to be a lot, just a couple of dozen. While you're baking them, think of Grandma, and pour your heart into the making of those cookies. Then put them on a pretty plate, wrap them in colorful cellophane, put a big old red bow on it, and give it someone outside the family. Give them to your neighbor, or your paper girl, or your mail carrier or hairdresser. And when you give that person that plate of cookies and you see the joy light up their face and they say "Thank you!" say to them "Don't thank me. Thank Millie".
Sunday, October 10, 2004
Saturday, October 09, 2004
Friday, October 08, 2004
Thursday, October 07, 2004
Well, if Dolly Parton can do it, so can I.
I just got a job today. A regular-like kind of job. As in, the rat race. A bona fide full-time, 9-5, M-F corporate gig. No evenings, no weekends, no overtime. I guess this is where I accept my shortcomings as a musician and my failure to become a big huge star. I'll join the ranks of the hundreds of crappy musicians I've played with who worked a regular gig and did music on the side. Don't bother to make comments telling me otherwise. The truth is the truth. I'm willing to accept it now. I guess God had other plans.
Oh well. The money will be a good consolation prize. Getting out of debt is a nice idea, as is a new car. As is getting my own pad. I don't even own furniture. Not even a bed. I own a dresser, a tacky entertainment center, a desk and an office chair. That's it. The rest of my possessions are instruments and gear. And a whole lot of CDs (which make great christmas presents...).
I just got a job today. A regular-like kind of job. As in, the rat race. A bona fide full-time, 9-5, M-F corporate gig. No evenings, no weekends, no overtime. I guess this is where I accept my shortcomings as a musician and my failure to become a big huge star. I'll join the ranks of the hundreds of crappy musicians I've played with who worked a regular gig and did music on the side. Don't bother to make comments telling me otherwise. The truth is the truth. I'm willing to accept it now. I guess God had other plans.
Oh well. The money will be a good consolation prize. Getting out of debt is a nice idea, as is a new car. As is getting my own pad. I don't even own furniture. Not even a bed. I own a dresser, a tacky entertainment center, a desk and an office chair. That's it. The rest of my possessions are instruments and gear. And a whole lot of CDs (which make great christmas presents...).
Monday, October 04, 2004
Saturday, October 02, 2004
Quote of the Day...
...From my dear friend, Tom, who knows how to make a girl who has to give up her dream to get a regular job so she's not a leech on society feel good:
"Good luck with finding an office in which to imprison your freesoaring spirit and to benumb your remarkable talents for the seeming satisfaction of a regular paycheck and benefits."
...From my dear friend, Tom, who knows how to make a girl who has to give up her dream to get a regular job so she's not a leech on society feel good:
"Good luck with finding an office in which to imprison your freesoaring spirit and to benumb your remarkable talents for the seeming satisfaction of a regular paycheck and benefits."
Some people have NO sense of humor...
I was at the pharmacy filling two prescriptions yesterday, and because I've never used either drug the pharmacist felt I should be counseled on them. Fine. I like information.
Well, this 20-ish, towheaded geek of a girl with scholarly looking glasses came to talk to me about my drugs. The first drug was Ambien (because we all know I'm a total insomniac). So before she even started talking I quipped "Talk slow, I haven't slept in a week!", thinking she'd get the joke. She just started a little and said "OH! Okay", then she talked really slow.
Then she mentioned it wasn't a good idea to drink too much alcohol with this drug, and I said, "That's okay. I do all my drinking in the morning!" causing her to look at me with a VERY serious expression, wondering if I should be taking this drug since I obviously have problems with addiction. Even poking her arm and saying "I'm just kidding with ya" didn't make her smile!
Well, we go on to the next drug. It's a one time pill and my doctor said if the problem persists 4 days after taking the first pill, then take the 2nd one on the fourth day. The instructions said "take one pill then take 2nd pill after four days." Easy enough. Well, Miss Pharmacist said "Your doctor wants you to take the first pill, then take the 2nd pill 4 hours later." I asked "Four hours?". She said yes, your doctor said 4 hours later. I showed her the label and said "It says Four Days later." She grabbed the prescription, looked at the label and said , I swear to god,
"Wow! I'm glad I caught that!"
HAHAHAHAHA! What a maroon!
I was at the pharmacy filling two prescriptions yesterday, and because I've never used either drug the pharmacist felt I should be counseled on them. Fine. I like information.
Well, this 20-ish, towheaded geek of a girl with scholarly looking glasses came to talk to me about my drugs. The first drug was Ambien (because we all know I'm a total insomniac). So before she even started talking I quipped "Talk slow, I haven't slept in a week!", thinking she'd get the joke. She just started a little and said "OH! Okay", then she talked really slow.
Then she mentioned it wasn't a good idea to drink too much alcohol with this drug, and I said, "That's okay. I do all my drinking in the morning!" causing her to look at me with a VERY serious expression, wondering if I should be taking this drug since I obviously have problems with addiction. Even poking her arm and saying "I'm just kidding with ya" didn't make her smile!
Well, we go on to the next drug. It's a one time pill and my doctor said if the problem persists 4 days after taking the first pill, then take the 2nd one on the fourth day. The instructions said "take one pill then take 2nd pill after four days." Easy enough. Well, Miss Pharmacist said "Your doctor wants you to take the first pill, then take the 2nd pill 4 hours later." I asked "Four hours?". She said yes, your doctor said 4 hours later. I showed her the label and said "It says Four Days later." She grabbed the prescription, looked at the label and said , I swear to god,
"Wow! I'm glad I caught that!"
HAHAHAHAHA! What a maroon!
Wednesday, September 29, 2004
Tuesday, September 28, 2004
Was that actually some good music I heard???
You all need to head over to Bob Schneider's website and listen to his song Come With Me Tonight. It's the best frickin' song I've heard in a damn long time. His website is really cool, too. Skip his rambling on the splash page. Just click the "menu" link on the right and his song will automatically load.
Who's coming to my chat tomorrow night at 9:00 p.m.?
You all need to head over to Bob Schneider's website and listen to his song Come With Me Tonight. It's the best frickin' song I've heard in a damn long time. His website is really cool, too. Skip his rambling on the splash page. Just click the "menu" link on the right and his song will automatically load.
Who's coming to my chat tomorrow night at 9:00 p.m.?
Friday, September 24, 2004
Lemmiwinks has some seriously good Karma
So hours later I'm sitting in my living room working at the table when Farris, my other kitty, goes flying by into the kitchen. I knew he had a sight on the chipmunk. Sure enough, he's flailing about the kitchen, chairs are flying, there is much ruckus, and he snags the chipmunk, who put up a great fight.
Farris heads to the basement with it and I follow. I open the door that goes outside, and find Farris sitting in the middle of the floor with that wild look in his eye. I take hold of the chipmunk with my right hand, and gently put my finger in the side of Farris's mouth to open it. Well, he AIN'T letting go! I had to use all my strenghth to pry his mouth open to release that rodent. Finally he lets go and I take it outside. Lemminwinks flys out of my hand as soon as I'm outside and off he went. I assume he's packing his belongings and looking for a house without animals.
But really, to be caught by two cats in one day and STILL survive, well, I'm just saying that chipmunk must have done some good shit in his past life.
So hours later I'm sitting in my living room working at the table when Farris, my other kitty, goes flying by into the kitchen. I knew he had a sight on the chipmunk. Sure enough, he's flailing about the kitchen, chairs are flying, there is much ruckus, and he snags the chipmunk, who put up a great fight.
Farris heads to the basement with it and I follow. I open the door that goes outside, and find Farris sitting in the middle of the floor with that wild look in his eye. I take hold of the chipmunk with my right hand, and gently put my finger in the side of Farris's mouth to open it. Well, he AIN'T letting go! I had to use all my strenghth to pry his mouth open to release that rodent. Finally he lets go and I take it outside. Lemminwinks flys out of my hand as soon as I'm outside and off he went. I assume he's packing his belongings and looking for a house without animals.
But really, to be caught by two cats in one day and STILL survive, well, I'm just saying that chipmunk must have done some good shit in his past life.
Thursday, September 23, 2004
There's a chipmunk in my bedroom.
Now, before you all conjure up urban legends involving Richard Gere, let it be known that my cat was running around outside while I was practicing, when she appeared in my bedroom with this critter that looked dead. She put it down and off he scrambled. She and I chased the fucker around my room for awhile but I have SOMUCHCRAP in the room, that it has too many places to hide.
So it's still up there. Been there a few hours. I only hope I get to it before Puddy does.
Now, before you all conjure up urban legends involving Richard Gere, let it be known that my cat was running around outside while I was practicing, when she appeared in my bedroom with this critter that looked dead. She put it down and off he scrambled. She and I chased the fucker around my room for awhile but I have SOMUCHCRAP in the room, that it has too many places to hide.
So it's still up there. Been there a few hours. I only hope I get to it before Puddy does.
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