For years, I have avoided running. After all, what's the point? Sure, there's exercise, but I accomplish that through walking (when the weather is nice and I have proper motivation), reading (it exercises the mind, right?) or by regularly dancing the night away at the local discotheque. (Not true, but it does conjure a pretty funny image.) I figure that I won't ever be signing up for any road races and that the odds of being chased by dangerous wildlife near my home are not strong (though some squirrels do occasionally give me the stink-eye), so there's probably little in life that would ever require me to churn my legs in a running-like motion. Unfortunately, I happened upon a need to sprint the other night - the airport dash.
The story begins with my co-worker and I preparing to return home to Kansas after a few days in Orlando, Fla. As you might have guessed, being forced to spend three days in The Sunshine State in the midst of winter was pretty much torture. After all, who wants to enjoy a nice drink by a pool in 75-degree temperatures when he could be dealing with snow and wind back home?
Truth told, it was nice to get away for a few days, but both of us were ready to return home by Saturday. Our trade show* wrapped up early and we had checked out of the hotel so we arrived at the airport a few hours before the schedule boarding time of our flight. We wasted time by eating lunch in an airport restaurant (where, oddly, the waitstaff behaved as if they had not hoped to end up serving tacos to people lugging suitcases), surfing the Internet wirelessly, and staring at the wall. We did all this while staying far away from the gate our plane was leaving from, since it was packed so tightly with travelers that I'm fairly certain I saw two strangers sharing a pair of socks.
*Note to future self: "trade shows" don't involve swapping baseball cards. Leave them at home.
Finally, about 10 minutes before our boarding time, we approached the crowd surrounding our gate. Through the large windows in the airport, we noticed that there did not seem to be a plane actually sitting near said gate. This struck us as slightly odd, as we were fairly confident our tickets were, you know, plane tickets. Luckily, a couple of minutes later a plane taxied up. As folks started to exit the plane that had just arrived, the crowd parted like a balding man's comb over - rather sloppily. One seven-year-old boy was sitting in the way of an old woman and nearly wore luggage wheel tracks on his ankles as a result.
By this time, it was clear that things might be a bit behind, but we didn't figure the delay would be too awful. Minutes passed. We kissed the initial boarding time goodbye. More minutes passed. Then more. Finally, five minutes before the plane's schedule departure time, we heard an announcement from the gate attendant. "We're sorry for the delay folks. The incoming flight arrived a bit behind schedule and now we're still waiting for a crew to come clean the cabin."
Yup, my flight was being delayed because Mr. Belvedere was AWOL. Frankly, I did not care if there were some napkins on the floor of the plane, I just wanted to go and escape the sweaty blob that had formed from the crowd waiting to get on the plane.
After what seemed like hours of waiting and sweating, they finally allowed passengers to begin boarding. After what seemed like more hours of waiting (but at least no more sweating) we finally began to roll around the runway and actually took flight. It was at this time that I really let the situation at-hand sink it. Our plane was leaving the ground 50 minutes later than originally scheduled. My coworker and I were originally supposed to have a 75-minute layover in Dallas before our flight to Manhattan departed. After crunching some numbers in my head (ninth place in mental math at the State Math Contest in fourth grade... booyah!) I realized one thing: we were nearing a bind. Here came the sweating.
Up in the air, things seemed to get worse by the minute. No, the wings did not fall off the plane and there weren't any Airplane!-inspired issues with fish or singing stewardesses, but we seemed to be traveling at a snail's pace.* Further glances at clocks brought forth more worry. It was clear that we were going to be cutting the arrival at our next gate extremely close.
*You know, one of those snails that flies at high speeds, just not speeds that are high enough. You know those snails, right?
As we began our descent into Dallas-Fort Worth, a flight attendant announced that folks who had connecting flights should be given priority when exiting the plane. Yahtzee. Finally something was going our way. We would need it, as our plane touched ground just 15 minutes before our flight to Manhattan was scheduled to leave.
My coworker and I zigged around folks to get off the plane and as we neared the jetway, he said one thing. "Get ready to run."
With that, we took off. I've seen people sprinting in airports often on television shows or commercials; I always thought the situations seemed a bit hokey. Now, here I was sprinting by curious on-lookers. My coworker, though 10 years my senior, is a former college football player who had an NFL tryout once. Needless to say, he was a bit faster than me. (Though I was once unbeatable in Madden football on the Gamecube.)
I had the chance to attempt to catch my breath when we made it to the tram that would take us to the next terminal. It was at this time that I began to cough like someone who had just smoked a box of Cuban cigars while running the Boston Marathon. Note to self: run more often.
The tram stopped and we were back sprinting. I'd never advise anyone to run down a moving escalator, but we did just that, complete with laptop bags in tow. We even split through an elderly couple on the way down the moving steps. I didn't have time to get a long look, but they were certainly staring at us as if we had turned green and were cursing in Latvian... Then again, I may have by that point.
At long last, after more running than I've done since high school basketball coaches once forced conditioning on my team, we arrived at our gate.
It was empty.
We ran up to the desk and looked at the screen, only to read "Flight XXXX to Manhattan: Boarding Completed." One desk over, a woman stood covering a flight to San Juan. We asked her if there was any way we could still get on the plane to Manhattan. After all, the clock at the gate said 7:18 p.m. - still two minutes prior to our schedule departure time. She said she could not help us, as it was not her flight, but that the gate attendant for that flight would be back soon.
Seconds later, a middle-aged guy walked up to the desk at our gate. We immediately began asking him if he could help us; if there was any way we could still get on that plane. His response? He ignored us. Though we were two feet away from the guy, he said nothing. Finally, after a full-minute, he addressed the question of an older gentleman that had approached the desk and was in the same situation as we were. Unfortunately, the gate attendant was slightly less helpful than a paraplegic trained seal would have been in the situation. He clicked keys on the computer, but never had a reason that the plane could not have been held - since they knew ours was arriving late - or suggestions of alternative ways to get home.
Finally, my coworker snapped. With some choice words, he drove home the point that it was slightly ridiculous that his airline had put us in this situation, that we had done all we possibly could to get to the plane on time, and that he was not cooperating with us whatsoever. His response? A rather wide-eyed look and a call to his supervisor. Luckily, his supervisor acted as if she was actually familiar with the phrase "customer service." (Crazy thought, I know.) She calmly explained that they had been asking to hold the flight since ours was arriving late, but that the flight tower had the final call in the situation and that they had instructed the flight to leave. Fair enough. Frustrating, but fair.
The supervisor assisted us in arranging a flight to Wichita (which would then involve a two-hour drive home) and even provided us with a $20 refreshment voucher that would be accepted "anywhere in the airport."
We weren't thrilled, but we headed on our way to the gate for our flight to Wichita. This time, we didn't have to run. I guess things could have been worse... Then we attempted to purchase food and the vendor refused to accept our voucher and our request to rent a car in Wichita and drop it off in Manhattan was turned down by the car rental company.
Ever seen the movie, "Planes, Trains, and Automobiles"? If I was an overweight, mustached fellow that sold shower curtain rings for a living, I would have felt right at home on this trip.
-----
After a few days to reflect, I'm still not sure how it took so long to clean that plane. All I know is that I'm going to run if I ever hear that announcement over the PA again.
Showing posts with label DL Favorites. Show all posts
Showing posts with label DL Favorites. Show all posts
Monday, December 20, 2010
Monday, November 15, 2010
God bless grandparents
When I was a kid, it seemed like I was always waiting in line at family functions. The line - six giggling children deep - snaked about my grandparents’ living room. As with any line - whether it is at a theme park, movie theater, or even at the nearby grocery store - the goal was to get to the front; there was great anticipation to do so. At the front of this line was my grandfather’s chair and Grandpa - one grandchild on his knee - bucking and braying or kicking and neighing. Grandpa took the idea of a “horsy ride” to the extreme, customizing each one and not limiting himself to equestrian feats. Curious of what it might be like to ride an elephant? Simply make the request when your turn arrived and he would do his best to replicate each thumping step and trumpeting blow.
I can’t imagine how much Grandpa’s knee ached after several trips through the line by each grandchild, but the smile never passed from his face and he was always willing to meet requests for “one more turn,” even if they came from the tub of chubbiness that was the toddler version of his youngest grandson.
I have been blessed enough in my life to have four grandparents with amazing qualities - qualities that played big roles in shaping the person I am today. Grandpa, in particular, carried an abundance of traits that I have at least attempted to pick up through my 28 years.
He was a man of great faith, but knew that actions often speak with a greater volume than words. He was not preaching on the corner, but any observation of his everyday life would make his true beliefs clear. His core values were indisputable.
He was a man that knew the value of hard work. Some men farm. Some do people’s taxes. Grandpa did both. After his days of farming were complete, he kept doing taxes and continued the work well into his 80s.
He was a man of great humor - funnier than I could ever hope to be. With a wry smile and Sahara-dry wit, Grandpa could draw deep belly laughs with a simple two-word remark or have folks amusingly captivated by a story about something as simple as a 20-minute car ride. He loved to bring smiles to people’s faces and kept at it into his 95th year.
As with my three grandparents who preceded him in passing, Grandpa was unfailingly dedicated to his family - his grandkids in particular. He would attend school plays, football games, and anything else a kid might get wrapped up in and always had words of support. After a game where I scored a touchdown in junior high, he told me he’d never seen someone run so fast. Now well aware of my own athleticism (or lack thereof) I know the statement obviously contained a load of embellishment, but to a 5-6, 105 lbs., eight grader, it was a hefty compliment.
Days after his passing, a wealth of great memories remain, but the clichéd “feels like something is missing“ take on things holds true. On one of my final visits to see Grandpa, my dad and I took him to an outside courtyard of the nursing home. His speech was labored and whisper-soft, so he did not really speak at all. He didn’t have to. Once the wheels of his wheelchair rolled out the courtyard door, the look on his face seemed to morph. His face lifted and there was a sense of great comfort surrounding him. The visit is something I won’t soon forget; the way that something I take for granted each day could bring such appreciation years down the road.
He had slowed in recent years and there is no doubt that some days were filled with incredible pain, both physical and mental. Nevertheless, much like the days when an aching knee served as the greatest form of amusement for seven youngsters, he seemed to put it all aside when the grandchildren were around. His smile of hello seemed a little wider when grandkids would visit and brightness from years gone seemed to return to his eyes when a great-grandchild would have a chance to explore his collections.
It is clear that family brought great joy to Grandpa’s life. I just hope he knows that he brought as much to ours.
God bless grandparents.
I can’t imagine how much Grandpa’s knee ached after several trips through the line by each grandchild, but the smile never passed from his face and he was always willing to meet requests for “one more turn,” even if they came from the tub of chubbiness that was the toddler version of his youngest grandson.
I have been blessed enough in my life to have four grandparents with amazing qualities - qualities that played big roles in shaping the person I am today. Grandpa, in particular, carried an abundance of traits that I have at least attempted to pick up through my 28 years.
He was a man of great faith, but knew that actions often speak with a greater volume than words. He was not preaching on the corner, but any observation of his everyday life would make his true beliefs clear. His core values were indisputable.
He was a man that knew the value of hard work. Some men farm. Some do people’s taxes. Grandpa did both. After his days of farming were complete, he kept doing taxes and continued the work well into his 80s.
He was a man of great humor - funnier than I could ever hope to be. With a wry smile and Sahara-dry wit, Grandpa could draw deep belly laughs with a simple two-word remark or have folks amusingly captivated by a story about something as simple as a 20-minute car ride. He loved to bring smiles to people’s faces and kept at it into his 95th year.
As with my three grandparents who preceded him in passing, Grandpa was unfailingly dedicated to his family - his grandkids in particular. He would attend school plays, football games, and anything else a kid might get wrapped up in and always had words of support. After a game where I scored a touchdown in junior high, he told me he’d never seen someone run so fast. Now well aware of my own athleticism (or lack thereof) I know the statement obviously contained a load of embellishment, but to a 5-6, 105 lbs., eight grader, it was a hefty compliment.
Days after his passing, a wealth of great memories remain, but the clichéd “feels like something is missing“ take on things holds true. On one of my final visits to see Grandpa, my dad and I took him to an outside courtyard of the nursing home. His speech was labored and whisper-soft, so he did not really speak at all. He didn’t have to. Once the wheels of his wheelchair rolled out the courtyard door, the look on his face seemed to morph. His face lifted and there was a sense of great comfort surrounding him. The visit is something I won’t soon forget; the way that something I take for granted each day could bring such appreciation years down the road.
He had slowed in recent years and there is no doubt that some days were filled with incredible pain, both physical and mental. Nevertheless, much like the days when an aching knee served as the greatest form of amusement for seven youngsters, he seemed to put it all aside when the grandchildren were around. His smile of hello seemed a little wider when grandkids would visit and brightness from years gone seemed to return to his eyes when a great-grandchild would have a chance to explore his collections.
It is clear that family brought great joy to Grandpa’s life. I just hope he knows that he brought as much to ours.
God bless grandparents.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Honk if... uhh, nevermind
While idling in a fast-food drive-thru lane today, I noticed that the vehicle to my fore wore a 30-day tag. Good for the driver, I thought. He’s not letting economic struggles hinder his life and he has a new/used vehicle to show for it. Further examination of the dark Jeep Grand Cherokee, however, left me slightly concerned. You see, a window on the driver’s side wore a sticker bearing the phrase, “Honk if U Horny.”
I’m not one to judge folks for the messages promoted by their vehicles. After all, the sticker could have been part of scientific research, with the driver attempting to determine which areas of town respond in most positive fashion to such a window-borne stimulus. (Please note that there were no honks heard while at Burger King.) The concern I have is with the fact that, again, this vehicle wore a 30-day tag, dated Oct. 11, 2010. The leads a thinking person* (which I am nearly 38-percent of the time) to one of
three conclusions (aside from the fact that Mr. Driver really needs to get his vehicle legally registered):
1. The call for action put forth on the aforementioned sticker is so important to the driver that he adhered it to the window prior to even ensuring that the vehicle was legally registered.
2. The vehicle wore the sticker prior to being purchased by the new driver, meaning a previous driving approved of said message and the new driver found it thought-provoking enough that he purchased the vehicle without consideration of having the adhesive directive removed prior to transfer of ownership.
3. The car dealership placed the sticker on the vehicle as further incentive to purchase the mode of conveyance. (Car salesman: You see that sticker? You'll be the life of the party.; Car shopper: What party? I'd be driving...; Car salesman:... Uhh... Hey, look. It has heated seats.)
Whether the reasoning behind said sticker is No. 1, 2, or 3, my concern for the driver (and society in general) remains the same. After all, if folks are busy following the “Honk if U Horny” motto, how is one supposed to be sure if someone is actually honking because you just cut them off, or your light turned green, or you’re about to back into them in the Hastings’ parking lot? Frankly, though the message communicated is an intelligent and highly sophisticated request, I’m not sure this whole “Honk if U Horny” idea will lead to anything but problems.
Beyond that, the sentence is one out of a writer's nightmare.* If kids are going to be reading this, can we at least have it appear in grammatically correct fashion?
*Yes, a writer (which I pretend to be nearly 38-percent of the time) has pretty lame nightmares.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
They say it's your birthday...
Since Friday, I've been a part of more birthday action than most pizza-place-owning animatronic mice could imagine possible. I guess that's what happens when one hits a milestone like turning 28.
(Waiting for realization that turning 28 is about as notable as eating a cheese sandwich... There it is. Let's move on.)
The birthday shenanigans started up on Friday, when (on the actual anniversary of the blog author's birth) I decided I would pick up some donuts and take them to work to share. Little did I know that one of my customer service staffers would bring in brownies and another coworker would trot in with cookies. Feeding a sugar craving at work is never a bad thing, however there was enough glucose there to put Willy Wonka into a diabetic coma. I left work that day with the feeling an eight-year-old has after too much Halloween candy, plus a plateful of leftovers. (Let my dentist rejoice.)
Friday night, the party moved to my parents' home, where our family enjoyed a quiet evening of insightful conversation... with a good mix of my two-year-old niece's brand of celebrating mixed in. I'm not sure I could name the last time I'd listened to "The Wheels on the Bus" as a way to ring in my birthday, but I wouldn't change it if I could.
On Saturday, there was an actual milestone to celebrate, as it marked my grandpa's 95th birthday. The party brought more time with family and more toddler mayhem. The company was good and the occasion was great. Though he can't get around like he used to, it was undeniably enjoyable seeing my grandfather have the chance to interact a bit with his great-grandchildren, just as he did 20-plus years ago when his grandkids were young.
Saturday night, I helped a friend (who happened to be born the day after me in the hospital room next to mine) celebrate his birthday. Today, there were no official birthday celebrations, but I brought home a leftover slab of ice cream cake roughly the size of a Honda Accord and had to figure out how to fit it into my freezer. The task is now complete, though I'm a little worried about being crushed by a falling chunk of DQ's finest the next time I open my freezer door.
The birthday weekend is now complete, and it was one that was truly enjoyable thanks to contributions from family and friends. With that in mind, we close this Writing with some words of wisdom about birthdays.
- Without family and friends, a birthday celebrates little more than the fact that you have yet to be hit by a bus.
- Without family and friends, "birthday" is nothing but an eight-letter word that rhymes with girth-ray.
- Without family and friends, birthday party photos prove to be more depressing than the draft history of the Kansas City Royals.
- Without family and friends, a birthday is nothing but a reminder that (age here) years ago, people actually thought you were cute.
- Without family and friends, a birthday is nothing but a reminder that (age here) years ago, people actually thought you had potential.
- Without family and friends, a birthday is nothing but a reminder that people will try to profit from anything; even from copyrighting the birthday song.
- Without family and friends, The Writings entry on birthdays would have been composed of nothing but transcriptions of the lyrics to The Beatles' "Birthday" repeated over and over until I reached 2,000 words.
I think we're all thankful for family and friends now.
(Waiting for realization that turning 28 is about as notable as eating a cheese sandwich... There it is. Let's move on.)
The birthday shenanigans started up on Friday, when (on the actual anniversary of the blog author's birth) I decided I would pick up some donuts and take them to work to share. Little did I know that one of my customer service staffers would bring in brownies and another coworker would trot in with cookies. Feeding a sugar craving at work is never a bad thing, however there was enough glucose there to put Willy Wonka into a diabetic coma. I left work that day with the feeling an eight-year-old has after too much Halloween candy, plus a plateful of leftovers. (Let my dentist rejoice.)
Friday night, the party moved to my parents' home, where our family enjoyed a quiet evening of insightful conversation... with a good mix of my two-year-old niece's brand of celebrating mixed in. I'm not sure I could name the last time I'd listened to "The Wheels on the Bus" as a way to ring in my birthday, but I wouldn't change it if I could.
On Saturday, there was an actual milestone to celebrate, as it marked my grandpa's 95th birthday. The party brought more time with family and more toddler mayhem. The company was good and the occasion was great. Though he can't get around like he used to, it was undeniably enjoyable seeing my grandfather have the chance to interact a bit with his great-grandchildren, just as he did 20-plus years ago when his grandkids were young.
Saturday night, I helped a friend (who happened to be born the day after me in the hospital room next to mine) celebrate his birthday. Today, there were no official birthday celebrations, but I brought home a leftover slab of ice cream cake roughly the size of a Honda Accord and had to figure out how to fit it into my freezer. The task is now complete, though I'm a little worried about being crushed by a falling chunk of DQ's finest the next time I open my freezer door.
The birthday weekend is now complete, and it was one that was truly enjoyable thanks to contributions from family and friends. With that in mind, we close this Writing with some words of wisdom about birthdays.
- Without family and friends, a birthday celebrates little more than the fact that you have yet to be hit by a bus.
- Without family and friends, "birthday" is nothing but an eight-letter word that rhymes with girth-ray.
- Without family and friends, birthday party photos prove to be more depressing than the draft history of the Kansas City Royals.
- Without family and friends, a birthday is nothing but a reminder that (age here) years ago, people actually thought you were cute.
- Without family and friends, a birthday is nothing but a reminder that (age here) years ago, people actually thought you had potential.
- Without family and friends, a birthday is nothing but a reminder that people will try to profit from anything; even from copyrighting the birthday song.
- Without family and friends, The Writings entry on birthdays would have been composed of nothing but transcriptions of the lyrics to The Beatles' "Birthday" repeated over and over until I reached 2,000 words.
I think we're all thankful for family and friends now.
Friday, July 09, 2010
The Dating Handbook
If you know me (and since you're reading this, odds are pretty good that you do. (Good to see you. It's been a long time. How are the kids/dogs/televisions?)), you probably laughed when you read the title of this Writing. After all, I've never been confused for any sort of ladies' man. Generally, I go on dates about as often as someone says "That was a great way to spend two hours," after watching "Tenacious D in The Pick of Destiny." Nevertheless, The Writings have given advice on subjects like child-rearing and stress-relief in previous entries even though I have never fathered/adopted a child nor do I live an insanely stressful life. (Though it can be tough deciding which frozen dinners I'd like to purchase at the market.) With that in mind, one has to figure I'm at least somewhat qualified to breakdown different options for entertaining a date. (After all, you can only go watch a bear drive around in a tiny car so many times.*)
*Note: If you did not understand this reference, you should really make a concentrated effort to see more episodes of The Simpsons. Watch them all and it will almost be like we're speaking the same language.
Though I've never lived in a larger city, I have to imagine dating options might be more diverse in locations where one can find some sort of live entertainment any night of the week. Keep in mind that this guide is written for an area where "supporting the arts" might mean going to watch a school rendition of "A Very Snoopy Musical."
Dinner and a movie
The good - It's a dating classic. When one hears the term "date night" this combo is likely the first thought to come to mind. (Unless one is a really big fan of dried figs.) There's much to like about this combination. Who likes dinner? Everyone. Who like moves? Nearly everyone. (Perhaps not the Amish.)
The bad - Scheduling can be tricky. If you plan to see a 7 p.m. show but restaurant service is slow, you're looking at a pressure situation, and even facing the possibility of missing the preview for the next M. Night Shyamalan film that no one understands.
There's also the rare (though terrifying) chance that the chef at the eatery will be someone who holds a grudge against you for declining a birthday party invitation in fourth grade. You didn't eat the birthday cake then, but you might be eating something that tastes like it's been sitting out for 17 years now.
Walk in the park
The good - It's scenic. You can enjoy the outdoors. You get exercise. The walks can even present new topics for conversation if you're struggling for ideas. (Or if you really just enjoy observation humor... Not speaking from experience or anything here.)
The bad - If you're prone to perspiring in the face more than the average person (again, certainly not speaking from experience), said feature may look like you've been steaming in a sauna after just a quarter of a lap.
If your date falls on the Attention Deficit side of the fence, your nice stroll might turn into 20 minutes spent chasing a squirrel.
Parks are public. That's not a bad thing, but the fact that old men wearing clothing that puts the "short" in "shorts" might be walking ahead of you puts forth an interesting date environment.
Concert
The good - Who doesn't love live music? (Other than the Grinch when Whos are involved... and I suppose those that can't hear are probably indifferent.)
The bad - If it's a popular act your going to see, you're going to pay good money and you'll have to deal with horrible traffic. If it's not a popular act, the concert might be free, but you might end up hearing a curse-filled song about Wal-Mart. (In hindsight, that would be pretty funny, but your date might be offended at the time.)
If your idea of going to a concert is sitting in the hallway outside your neighbor's apartment to listen to his horrible attempts at rapping, you won't have to worry about many more dates.
Putt-putt golf/Bowling
The good - There's nothing wrong with a little friendly competition. In fact, it can be an excellent way to break any (figurative) ice that might be present.
The bad - There can be something wrong with competition if you're a sore loser. Serious accusations that your date stepped over the foul line or didn't count a golf stroke, though they may seem relevant at the time, might ultimately have you viewed as "insane" or "unstable."
If you are genuinely horrible at either "sport" true embarrassment could be encountered. Sure, you're date will probably be civil, but it's never good when 7-year-old in the next lane over is laughing at the 89 you rolled.
Watching live sports
The good - There's action and there are an endless amount of conversation topics, from the play of your team's point guard to the fact that the chubby cheerleader looks like she's going to eat floor every time she does a backflip.
The bad - There's the chance your team will lose (If you have the author's luck, they almost certainly will) leading to an awkward close to the date when you say, "I had a really good time tonight... except for the fact that we can't make a freaking free throw! That was unbelievable! My niece's Elmo toy could shoot 48-percent from the line!"
With that, we've run through the most basic of date options. If you can think of any that I've missed that you would like analyzed, feel free to comment. Due to the fact that many females seem to have unfortunate allergic reactions that cause them to leave the area when I'm near, you probably don't need to worry about having any such date ideas stolen.
*Note: If you did not understand this reference, you should really make a concentrated effort to see more episodes of The Simpsons. Watch them all and it will almost be like we're speaking the same language.
Though I've never lived in a larger city, I have to imagine dating options might be more diverse in locations where one can find some sort of live entertainment any night of the week. Keep in mind that this guide is written for an area where "supporting the arts" might mean going to watch a school rendition of "A Very Snoopy Musical."
Dinner and a movie
The good - It's a dating classic. When one hears the term "date night" this combo is likely the first thought to come to mind. (Unless one is a really big fan of dried figs.) There's much to like about this combination. Who likes dinner? Everyone. Who like moves? Nearly everyone. (Perhaps not the Amish.)
The bad - Scheduling can be tricky. If you plan to see a 7 p.m. show but restaurant service is slow, you're looking at a pressure situation, and even facing the possibility of missing the preview for the next M. Night Shyamalan film that no one understands.
There's also the rare (though terrifying) chance that the chef at the eatery will be someone who holds a grudge against you for declining a birthday party invitation in fourth grade. You didn't eat the birthday cake then, but you might be eating something that tastes like it's been sitting out for 17 years now.
Walk in the park
The good - It's scenic. You can enjoy the outdoors. You get exercise. The walks can even present new topics for conversation if you're struggling for ideas. (Or if you really just enjoy observation humor... Not speaking from experience or anything here.)
The bad - If you're prone to perspiring in the face more than the average person (again, certainly not speaking from experience), said feature may look like you've been steaming in a sauna after just a quarter of a lap.
If your date falls on the Attention Deficit side of the fence, your nice stroll might turn into 20 minutes spent chasing a squirrel.
Parks are public. That's not a bad thing, but the fact that old men wearing clothing that puts the "short" in "shorts" might be walking ahead of you puts forth an interesting date environment.
Concert
The good - Who doesn't love live music? (Other than the Grinch when Whos are involved... and I suppose those that can't hear are probably indifferent.)
The bad - If it's a popular act your going to see, you're going to pay good money and you'll have to deal with horrible traffic. If it's not a popular act, the concert might be free, but you might end up hearing a curse-filled song about Wal-Mart. (In hindsight, that would be pretty funny, but your date might be offended at the time.)
If your idea of going to a concert is sitting in the hallway outside your neighbor's apartment to listen to his horrible attempts at rapping, you won't have to worry about many more dates.
Putt-putt golf/Bowling
The good - There's nothing wrong with a little friendly competition. In fact, it can be an excellent way to break any (figurative) ice that might be present.
The bad - There can be something wrong with competition if you're a sore loser. Serious accusations that your date stepped over the foul line or didn't count a golf stroke, though they may seem relevant at the time, might ultimately have you viewed as "insane" or "unstable."
If you are genuinely horrible at either "sport" true embarrassment could be encountered. Sure, you're date will probably be civil, but it's never good when 7-year-old in the next lane over is laughing at the 89 you rolled.
Watching live sports
The good - There's action and there are an endless amount of conversation topics, from the play of your team's point guard to the fact that the chubby cheerleader looks like she's going to eat floor every time she does a backflip.
The bad - There's the chance your team will lose (If you have the author's luck, they almost certainly will) leading to an awkward close to the date when you say, "I had a really good time tonight... except for the fact that we can't make a freaking free throw! That was unbelievable! My niece's Elmo toy could shoot 48-percent from the line!"
With that, we've run through the most basic of date options. If you can think of any that I've missed that you would like analyzed, feel free to comment. Due to the fact that many females seem to have unfortunate allergic reactions that cause them to leave the area when I'm near, you probably don't need to worry about having any such date ideas stolen.
Thursday, July 03, 2008
It's Good To Be (at) the King
Three minutes and 41 seconds ago, I entered my apartment. Considering that I had a Burger King to-go bag in hand and that I had not consumed food of any sort for six hours, one might think that I would have sat down and torn the wrapper off my Tendercrisp sandwich. Yet, here I sit, typing away on my laptop.
What could cause such disregard for my own hunger? Have I suddenly become ill? Did I discover my food has been replaced with rat remains? Is a member of PETA holding me at gunpoint?
No.
I just experienced a magical moment one can only have at a place like Burger King.
Upon my entry in BK, I noticed group of teenage males waiting for their food. Naturally, I thought little of it.
After placing my order with the guy behind the counter (unfortunately the 65-year-old German woman who has worked there since the first Bush presidency was not in), I walked by the awkward group of guys. They were apparently discussing plans for setting of fireworks. The discussion included the following spat of verbal volleys:
"We have to wait awhile. It's not close to being dark yet."
"Yeah, but it can't be too dark. We have to be able to see the stuff."
... Checkmate.
I barely had time to hope that these kids were on the debate team before I noticed something. Something that will occupy my thoughts whenever I enter this royal burger establishment from now on.
Picture, if you can, the two nerds that befriend Billy Madison in the motion picture about the latter's return to school. It's lunchtime and Billy has food dumped on him by the eldest O'Doyle*. Two kids sitting across the table begin to tell Billy that he's become one of them... Someone unpopular (dun dun DUNNNNN).
*O'Doyle rules.
Hopefully, now that the scene is set, you're picturing those two kids. Now quit picturing the fatter one, and focus on the one with long hair.
Now picture the long-haired kid from Billy Madison standing in your local BK, discussing strategies for firecracker usage. This kid was the spitting image of him. I kept expecting him to look my way and reel off some spiel about "loser denial."
I was so taken aback, I could barely fill my Sprite. Luckily, I fought through and was able to hold back from asking him what it was like kissing the "mucus queen" at the end of the film.
This all was too much. My brain was overloaded. I needed the chick who was calling out order numbers with the zest of a death row inmate to give me my food so I could go home.
... Then the guy with the guy with the mullet that made his head kind of look like a black French poodle had suffered a cardiac arrhythmia atop it walked in....
What could cause such disregard for my own hunger? Have I suddenly become ill? Did I discover my food has been replaced with rat remains? Is a member of PETA holding me at gunpoint?
No.
I just experienced a magical moment one can only have at a place like Burger King.
Upon my entry in BK, I noticed group of teenage males waiting for their food. Naturally, I thought little of it.
After placing my order with the guy behind the counter (unfortunately the 65-year-old German woman who has worked there since the first Bush presidency was not in), I walked by the awkward group of guys. They were apparently discussing plans for setting of fireworks. The discussion included the following spat of verbal volleys:
"We have to wait awhile. It's not close to being dark yet."
"Yeah, but it can't be too dark. We have to be able to see the stuff."
... Checkmate.
I barely had time to hope that these kids were on the debate team before I noticed something. Something that will occupy my thoughts whenever I enter this royal burger establishment from now on.
Picture, if you can, the two nerds that befriend Billy Madison in the motion picture about the latter's return to school. It's lunchtime and Billy has food dumped on him by the eldest O'Doyle*. Two kids sitting across the table begin to tell Billy that he's become one of them... Someone unpopular (dun dun DUNNNNN).
*O'Doyle rules.
Hopefully, now that the scene is set, you're picturing those two kids. Now quit picturing the fatter one, and focus on the one with long hair.
Now picture the long-haired kid from Billy Madison standing in your local BK, discussing strategies for firecracker usage. This kid was the spitting image of him. I kept expecting him to look my way and reel off some spiel about "loser denial."
I was so taken aback, I could barely fill my Sprite. Luckily, I fought through and was able to hold back from asking him what it was like kissing the "mucus queen" at the end of the film.
This all was too much. My brain was overloaded. I needed the chick who was calling out order numbers with the zest of a death row inmate to give me my food so I could go home.
... Then the guy with the guy with the mullet that made his head kind of look like a black French poodle had suffered a cardiac arrhythmia atop it walked in....
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Things I Don't Understand - I Have No Blue Teeth
So I am sitting in Bramlage Coliseum as the countdown to tip off ticks second-by-second closer, and something a few rows in front of me catches my eye. A man stands, clapping (mostly in rhythm) to "Wildcat Victory." He's decked in Wildcat gear, and has no features that might cause one to gasp in horror, yet something about the guy strikes me the wrong way - his right ear... Not his ear in particular, but what was in his ear - a Bluetooth earpiece.
I have no qualms with the Bluetooth earpiece in general. In fact, it's a pretty slick innovation. It allows folks to devote both hands to driving and yet talk on their cell phone at the same time. As a result, it follows Derek's Essential Rule #84 - Safety First.
My issues with Bluetooth earpieces are multiple.
- What's a hand to do?
It's time for the first ever Writings of Derek Larson Physical Challenge. No matter where you are currently reading this, put one of your hands up to your ear (in phone-holding fashion), get up (if you're sitting - or lying down (I won't claim to know how you relax) - to read this), and walk 10 paces, turn around, and walk back to your current spot. I'll give you time to complete this challenge, occupying myself by singing a little tune...
"A man walks down the street, it's a street in a strange world;
Maybe it's the Third World, maybe it's his first time around;
He doesn't speak the language, he holds no currency;
He is a foreign man, he is surrounded by the sound, the sound;
Cattle in the marketplace, scatterlings and orphanages, he looks around, around;
He sees angels in the architecture, spinning in infinity;
He says 'amen, hallelujah!'
If you'll be my bodyguard, I can be your long lost pal;
I can call you Betty, and Betty when you call me you can call me Al;
Call me Al."
Thank you, Paul Simon.
Anyway, hopefully you've had enough time to complete the physical challenge. Now it's time to evaluate... While walking with your hand to your ear, did you walk right into anything, injuring yourself? Did your arm get really tired, to the point that you could no longer hold it up? Did you feel less safe than you would have with that arm at your side?
My point with all these inane questions is that taking advantage of the hands-free quality of the Bluetooth earpieces when not using your hands for anything else seems to serve no other purpose than promoting laziness. Granted, I'm not the ideal person to be giving a lecture on avoiding laziness. As I write this I'm slouched on my couch with my feet propped on my coffee table, and I'm slowly going thirsty because I can't reach my cup of lemonade (grow, arms, grow!). Nevertheless, I have successfully completed the physical challenge and stand by my "don't use Bluetooth earpieces if you're arms aren't engaged" stance.
- Are you talking to me?
You've (hopefully) passed the physical challenge (if not, I deeply apologize), now it's time to test your imagination.
Picture yourself in the grocery store of your choosing. Your cupboards are bare in your home and you've made the poor decision of going to buy groceries at dinnertime - before eating (dun dun DUNNNNN). Every food item you see looks delicious, and your cart is filling up faster than an Arrowhead Stadium restroom at halftime. As you stand in the frozen food aisle, attempting to determine exactly what brand of frozen pizza is right for you, you hear, "Hey, what's going on?"
You glance to your right and see some little lady pushing her cart your way, seemingly looking in your direction. You don't exactly recognize her, but you aren't exactly one who remembers every name/face you encounter. Not wanting to seem rude, you begin to toss your preferred greeting (whether it's "hello," "what's up," or "a hoi hoi"), before she seemingly cuts you off and says, "Yeah, I was totally hammered," (Is the fact that I live in a college town evident from the fact that such is a commonly overheard statement?).
You stand stunned, unsure exactly what the heck this girl is talking about and thinking it's a bit weird that she took the conversation - without any prompting - in such a direction... That is, until you notice that her hair is covering a barely visible Bluetooth earpiece. This girl does not know you and was not speaking to you, but instead was speaking to one of her little friends via Bluetooth. As you realize this, you attempt to cover up the appearance of your hand (partially raised, as you prepared to give your preferred visual greeting (be it a wave, a peace sign, or a Three Stooges eye poke)) and your mouth (partially open, as you had begun to toss out your spoken greeting) by quickly coughing into a closed fist... Your efforts earn you little more than a bewildered look and a stronger sense of self deprecation.
Had it not been for the Bluetooth earpiece, you would have minded your own business, picked up a couple pizzas, and been on your way.
Thank you for taking part in the this 100-percent hypothetical (I certainly never encounter awkward social situations... never) imagination exercise.
- Can you hear me now? Of course not!
My last point refers back to the whole reason I was set off on this rant - the guy at the ballgame. Have you ever tried talking on a phone in a basketball arena or outdoor stadium while game action is actually occurring? Normally these athletic events involve screaming fans, clapping hands, and pep bands (you get the rhyme for free). Such an atmosphere does not exactly ooze the opportunity for civil conversation.
In fact, I'm confident I can sum up 96.4-percent of such phone calls with the following transcript -
Fan at Arena (FaA): Hello?
Friend Calling at Inopportune Time (FCaIT): (inaudible)
FaA: (yelling) What?
FCaIT: (inaudible)
FaA: (yelling louder, because if you can't hear the person talking to you, it's obvious that YOU need to be louder) WHAT??? I'M AT THE GAME.
FCaIT: (inaudible again)
FaA: (yelling still) NO! THE GAME! THE BASKETBALL GAME!
FCaIT: (inaudible... although one phrase sounded like "chicken pudding in a trailer")
FaA: (now yelling so loud all fans in the area are glaring) YEAH, OK, I'LL CALL YOU LATER.
The point of this whole spiel is that - due to the fact that the odds of having a productive phone call at a ballgame are as likely as one of the athletes in that game removing his shoelaces, fashioning them into a bullwhip, and then using that whip to swing from the rafters - there is no point to having the Bluetooth earpiece in "ready to converse" position (in an ear) while at a sporting event.
As far as I know, these earpieces are not surgically attached upon purchase, and therefore they are removable. Wouldn't it be nice to give an ear a chance to live a little during a game, freeing it from its intrusive new occupant?
Please, guy at Bramlage and other Bluetooth earpiece users, use this technology in a sensible manner.
I have no qualms with the Bluetooth earpiece in general. In fact, it's a pretty slick innovation. It allows folks to devote both hands to driving and yet talk on their cell phone at the same time. As a result, it follows Derek's Essential Rule #84 - Safety First.
My issues with Bluetooth earpieces are multiple.
- What's a hand to do?
It's time for the first ever Writings of Derek Larson Physical Challenge. No matter where you are currently reading this, put one of your hands up to your ear (in phone-holding fashion), get up (if you're sitting - or lying down (I won't claim to know how you relax) - to read this), and walk 10 paces, turn around, and walk back to your current spot. I'll give you time to complete this challenge, occupying myself by singing a little tune...
"A man walks down the street, it's a street in a strange world;
Maybe it's the Third World, maybe it's his first time around;
He doesn't speak the language, he holds no currency;
He is a foreign man, he is surrounded by the sound, the sound;
Cattle in the marketplace, scatterlings and orphanages, he looks around, around;
He sees angels in the architecture, spinning in infinity;
He says 'amen, hallelujah!'
If you'll be my bodyguard, I can be your long lost pal;
I can call you Betty, and Betty when you call me you can call me Al;
Call me Al."
Thank you, Paul Simon.
Anyway, hopefully you've had enough time to complete the physical challenge. Now it's time to evaluate... While walking with your hand to your ear, did you walk right into anything, injuring yourself? Did your arm get really tired, to the point that you could no longer hold it up? Did you feel less safe than you would have with that arm at your side?
My point with all these inane questions is that taking advantage of the hands-free quality of the Bluetooth earpieces when not using your hands for anything else seems to serve no other purpose than promoting laziness. Granted, I'm not the ideal person to be giving a lecture on avoiding laziness. As I write this I'm slouched on my couch with my feet propped on my coffee table, and I'm slowly going thirsty because I can't reach my cup of lemonade (grow, arms, grow!). Nevertheless, I have successfully completed the physical challenge and stand by my "don't use Bluetooth earpieces if you're arms aren't engaged" stance.
- Are you talking to me?
You've (hopefully) passed the physical challenge (if not, I deeply apologize), now it's time to test your imagination.
Picture yourself in the grocery store of your choosing. Your cupboards are bare in your home and you've made the poor decision of going to buy groceries at dinnertime - before eating (dun dun DUNNNNN). Every food item you see looks delicious, and your cart is filling up faster than an Arrowhead Stadium restroom at halftime. As you stand in the frozen food aisle, attempting to determine exactly what brand of frozen pizza is right for you, you hear, "Hey, what's going on?"
You glance to your right and see some little lady pushing her cart your way, seemingly looking in your direction. You don't exactly recognize her, but you aren't exactly one who remembers every name/face you encounter. Not wanting to seem rude, you begin to toss your preferred greeting (whether it's "hello," "what's up," or "a hoi hoi"), before she seemingly cuts you off and says, "Yeah, I was totally hammered," (Is the fact that I live in a college town evident from the fact that such is a commonly overheard statement?).
You stand stunned, unsure exactly what the heck this girl is talking about and thinking it's a bit weird that she took the conversation - without any prompting - in such a direction... That is, until you notice that her hair is covering a barely visible Bluetooth earpiece. This girl does not know you and was not speaking to you, but instead was speaking to one of her little friends via Bluetooth. As you realize this, you attempt to cover up the appearance of your hand (partially raised, as you prepared to give your preferred visual greeting (be it a wave, a peace sign, or a Three Stooges eye poke)) and your mouth (partially open, as you had begun to toss out your spoken greeting) by quickly coughing into a closed fist... Your efforts earn you little more than a bewildered look and a stronger sense of self deprecation.
Had it not been for the Bluetooth earpiece, you would have minded your own business, picked up a couple pizzas, and been on your way.
Thank you for taking part in the this 100-percent hypothetical (I certainly never encounter awkward social situations... never) imagination exercise.
- Can you hear me now? Of course not!
My last point refers back to the whole reason I was set off on this rant - the guy at the ballgame. Have you ever tried talking on a phone in a basketball arena or outdoor stadium while game action is actually occurring? Normally these athletic events involve screaming fans, clapping hands, and pep bands (you get the rhyme for free). Such an atmosphere does not exactly ooze the opportunity for civil conversation.
In fact, I'm confident I can sum up 96.4-percent of such phone calls with the following transcript -
Fan at Arena (FaA): Hello?
Friend Calling at Inopportune Time (FCaIT): (inaudible)
FaA: (yelling) What?
FCaIT: (inaudible)
FaA: (yelling louder, because if you can't hear the person talking to you, it's obvious that YOU need to be louder) WHAT??? I'M AT THE GAME.
FCaIT: (inaudible again)
FaA: (yelling still) NO! THE GAME! THE BASKETBALL GAME!
FCaIT: (inaudible... although one phrase sounded like "chicken pudding in a trailer")
FaA: (now yelling so loud all fans in the area are glaring) YEAH, OK, I'LL CALL YOU LATER.
The point of this whole spiel is that - due to the fact that the odds of having a productive phone call at a ballgame are as likely as one of the athletes in that game removing his shoelaces, fashioning them into a bullwhip, and then using that whip to swing from the rafters - there is no point to having the Bluetooth earpiece in "ready to converse" position (in an ear) while at a sporting event.
As far as I know, these earpieces are not surgically attached upon purchase, and therefore they are removable. Wouldn't it be nice to give an ear a chance to live a little during a game, freeing it from its intrusive new occupant?
Please, guy at Bramlage and other Bluetooth earpiece users, use this technology in a sensible manner.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
An evening with Ms. Sony
Watch out world, it’s Saturday night! Some folks may be heading off to the movies. Others might have a dinner date. Others may have a far more crazy night ahead. Me? I just finished “You, Me and Dupree,” (not as funny as I’d hoped) grilled up a burger and a hot dog (thank you, George Foreman), and am now preparing for the wondrous TV lineup that Saturday evenings are known to provide… OK, actually it’s all the crap they throw on, since they figure most people have lives and won’t be watching TV on a Saturday night… Boy, I sure showed them. What follows are the highlights of a night of channel flipping and junk sifting, stationed from the home office – my couch.
7:08 p.m., Spike TV- “When Animals Attack 3” is showing the recreation of an alligator attack on a seven-year-old boy… Nothing about this scenario should be humorous, but the creators of such a masterpiece of television production have decided to cast a 30-year-old man to play the youngster in some of the scenes. I’m not quite sure if it was the size or the 5 o’clock shadow that gave the actor's age away. They may as well have cast a box turtle to play the gator. Instead, the fake alligator they're using is somewhat reminiscent of the inflatable alligator pool rafts. Apparently the creators of the show obviously didn’t realize that, if they used real animals in the reenactments, they could potentially make even more money… Who wouldn’t watch an episode of “When Animals Attack While Filming Episodes of When Animals Attack”?
7:20 p.m., Local Access Channel – Some grade school kids are putting on a program where they sing western-themed songs while wearing cowboy hats and bandannas. Several of them have the glazed look on their faces that you might see in a hostage video, and they’re singing with the enthusiasm of an odontophobic person waiting to get a root canal.
7:36 p.m., ESPN2 – Maria Sharapova is competing against a woman from Japan named Ai Sugiyama. Sharapova just scored an ace with a 111 mph serve. As a result, the eternal question, “Is it possible to be attracted to and afraid of a person simultaneously?” has now been answered.
7:45 p.m., The Disney Channel – Your one-stop shop for horrible acting… Wait, I mean, no, I’d never stop on the Disney Channel!
7:48 p.m., CNBC – Uh oh, the banker just called on “Deal or No Deal.” Howie says the offer will be more than a quarter of a million dollars, before cutting to commercial. My guess is that the banker doesn’t actually exist. When the phone rings, it’s simply people calling up and requesting that Mr. Mandel get Bobby’s World back on the air… Now that was quality television.
7:50 p.m. – Scantily clad women dancing seductively to catchy music right before a children’s toy is advertised? That can only mean one thing - we’re on Univision! I took two years of Spanish in high school, and I’ve recognized exactly one sentence I’ve heard. How’s that for comprehension?
7:54 p.m., BET – Oh boy, it’s the constant hilarity of the Wayans Brothers… This brings only one thought to mind, from the mind of Dave Chappelle. “The Wayans brothers… There’s more?”
8:00 p.m. – Back to Univision for some “Sabado Gigante,” and right in time for some sort of game show segment. It involves numbers… Quatro means four.
8:05 p.m., Animal Planet – A man best described as… well, a fool is walking in a swampy area, feeling for anacondas with his toes. Now he’s just gone in to tackle one, after describing the snake as feeling like an elephant's trunk. Excuse me for a moment as I run to the zoo to feel an elephant’s trunk with my bare foot, thus establishing a point of reference. Shows like this make me glad that my hobbies involve writing and watching TV, as opposed to hunting snakes and planning my own funeral.
8:25 p.m., FX – “If you can dodge a wrench, you can dodge a ball.” Take that, kid from the Mac commercials! I’ve seen it so many times, yet it never gets old.
8:30 p.m., ESPN – A quote from Baseball Tonight, “Grady Sizemore, what doesn’t he do?” … Well, hopefully he doesn’t punch war veterans or kick puppies. I know it would be weird to bring that up on the air, but you asked the question.
8:35 p.m., MTV – A kid is singing a horrible song to a crowd at a baseball game, as the crowd members sit uncomfortably… I guess he wants to be “made” into someone who ends up getting booed at Wrigley Field while singing “Take Me Out To The Ballgame.” They really must be running out of ideas. As a result, I am “made” into a person that continues to grow disgusted with MTV and must change the channel.
8:47 p.m., ABC Family – Holy smokes, it’s Ziggy from “What About Bob?” post-puberty. I always wondered what happened to that kid. Apparently he got to be in a movie with Jennifer Love Hewitt, Seth Green and the Rusty Griswold kid from “Vegas Vacation.”
…
After further examination (and serious thought wondering what in the world my life has become), I’ve discovered that I’ve actually heard of this movie before; it’s “Can’t Hardly Wait.” After the mandatory awkward pause, I realize I can’t hardly wait to change the channel and the subject.
8:55 p.m., CBS – It’s Tom Selleck, but he’s not playing Thomas Magnum…. Boooooooooo! I think some actors should never be able to play new roles after achieving success with a particular one. And has any role been more successful than Thomas Magnum? Channeling my inner Ricky Bobby, I believe “Magnum P.I.” won the award for greatest TV show ever made.
9:01 p.m., TNT – Tom Hanks speaks to his volleyball, Wilson, on “Castaway.” Meanwhile, a baseball with George Brett’s face on it sits on top of my entertainment center. Time to change the channel before I start asking it about the ’85 World Series.
9:05 p.m., ESPN – A commercial with former World Series MVP, and former Royal, Jermaine Dye wearing his White Sox uniform… Urge to punch wall… rising.
9:07 p.m., VH1 – Whoa, whoa, whoa…. Paris Hilton was in jail??? Have you heard about this??? Boy, that story really slipped under the radar. I guess we can all be thankful that the stations dedicated to covering news in our country devote time to stories that really matter, and not the imprisonment of someone who is only known because she was born into money.
(We must pause for a moment while my computer attempts to process the last paragraph. I may have overloaded its sarcasm accepting circuits.)
9:20 p.m., Spike TV – More animal attack action, now featuring actual footage. This time we’re treated to a kangaroo in an Australian backyard, and then a possibly diseased lab monkey that got loose in a suburban neighborhood. Thank goodness the people involved had the foresight to film these situations, as opposed to, you know, HELPING CATCH THE DANGEROUS ANIMALS!
9:34 p.m., MTV2 – An utterly disturbing video by Queens of the Stone Age may have just taken a few years off my life. I guess it’s all part of MTV’s continuing “let’s try to get Derek to skip our channels” campaign.
9:55 p.m., FX – Another great quote from Dodgeball, in FCC-edited fashion, “Freakin’ Chuck Norris.”
10:02 p.m., Food – Iron Chef Cora gets the call on “Iron Chef.” Since this show is almost treated like a sport, should we, as viewers be treated to statistics? I’m curious how many cuts of pork Cora can slice per minute. Seems like this would really open things up for the commentators, as well. The commentary could be upgraded from “pointless drivel” to “pointless, stat-driven drivel.”
Three hours of my life later, what do I have to show for my Saturday evening? A written-account of three wasted hours, and some progress at breaking in my couch. Now I’m off to find a recap of the Royals game (John Buck wasn’t in the lineup and the offense struggled? But Buddy Bell’s boy Jason Larue was in… Urge to punch wall… rising).
7:08 p.m., Spike TV- “When Animals Attack 3” is showing the recreation of an alligator attack on a seven-year-old boy… Nothing about this scenario should be humorous, but the creators of such a masterpiece of television production have decided to cast a 30-year-old man to play the youngster in some of the scenes. I’m not quite sure if it was the size or the 5 o’clock shadow that gave the actor's age away. They may as well have cast a box turtle to play the gator. Instead, the fake alligator they're using is somewhat reminiscent of the inflatable alligator pool rafts. Apparently the creators of the show obviously didn’t realize that, if they used real animals in the reenactments, they could potentially make even more money… Who wouldn’t watch an episode of “When Animals Attack While Filming Episodes of When Animals Attack”?
7:20 p.m., Local Access Channel – Some grade school kids are putting on a program where they sing western-themed songs while wearing cowboy hats and bandannas. Several of them have the glazed look on their faces that you might see in a hostage video, and they’re singing with the enthusiasm of an odontophobic person waiting to get a root canal.
7:36 p.m., ESPN2 – Maria Sharapova is competing against a woman from Japan named Ai Sugiyama. Sharapova just scored an ace with a 111 mph serve. As a result, the eternal question, “Is it possible to be attracted to and afraid of a person simultaneously?” has now been answered.
7:45 p.m., The Disney Channel – Your one-stop shop for horrible acting… Wait, I mean, no, I’d never stop on the Disney Channel!
7:48 p.m., CNBC – Uh oh, the banker just called on “Deal or No Deal.” Howie says the offer will be more than a quarter of a million dollars, before cutting to commercial. My guess is that the banker doesn’t actually exist. When the phone rings, it’s simply people calling up and requesting that Mr. Mandel get Bobby’s World back on the air… Now that was quality television.
7:50 p.m. – Scantily clad women dancing seductively to catchy music right before a children’s toy is advertised? That can only mean one thing - we’re on Univision! I took two years of Spanish in high school, and I’ve recognized exactly one sentence I’ve heard. How’s that for comprehension?
7:54 p.m., BET – Oh boy, it’s the constant hilarity of the Wayans Brothers… This brings only one thought to mind, from the mind of Dave Chappelle. “The Wayans brothers… There’s more?”
8:00 p.m. – Back to Univision for some “Sabado Gigante,” and right in time for some sort of game show segment. It involves numbers… Quatro means four.
8:05 p.m., Animal Planet – A man best described as… well, a fool is walking in a swampy area, feeling for anacondas with his toes. Now he’s just gone in to tackle one, after describing the snake as feeling like an elephant's trunk. Excuse me for a moment as I run to the zoo to feel an elephant’s trunk with my bare foot, thus establishing a point of reference. Shows like this make me glad that my hobbies involve writing and watching TV, as opposed to hunting snakes and planning my own funeral.
8:25 p.m., FX – “If you can dodge a wrench, you can dodge a ball.” Take that, kid from the Mac commercials! I’ve seen it so many times, yet it never gets old.
8:30 p.m., ESPN – A quote from Baseball Tonight, “Grady Sizemore, what doesn’t he do?” … Well, hopefully he doesn’t punch war veterans or kick puppies. I know it would be weird to bring that up on the air, but you asked the question.
8:35 p.m., MTV – A kid is singing a horrible song to a crowd at a baseball game, as the crowd members sit uncomfortably… I guess he wants to be “made” into someone who ends up getting booed at Wrigley Field while singing “Take Me Out To The Ballgame.” They really must be running out of ideas. As a result, I am “made” into a person that continues to grow disgusted with MTV and must change the channel.
8:47 p.m., ABC Family – Holy smokes, it’s Ziggy from “What About Bob?” post-puberty. I always wondered what happened to that kid. Apparently he got to be in a movie with Jennifer Love Hewitt, Seth Green and the Rusty Griswold kid from “Vegas Vacation.”
…
After further examination (and serious thought wondering what in the world my life has become), I’ve discovered that I’ve actually heard of this movie before; it’s “Can’t Hardly Wait.” After the mandatory awkward pause, I realize I can’t hardly wait to change the channel and the subject.
8:55 p.m., CBS – It’s Tom Selleck, but he’s not playing Thomas Magnum…. Boooooooooo! I think some actors should never be able to play new roles after achieving success with a particular one. And has any role been more successful than Thomas Magnum? Channeling my inner Ricky Bobby, I believe “Magnum P.I.” won the award for greatest TV show ever made.
9:01 p.m., TNT – Tom Hanks speaks to his volleyball, Wilson, on “Castaway.” Meanwhile, a baseball with George Brett’s face on it sits on top of my entertainment center. Time to change the channel before I start asking it about the ’85 World Series.
9:05 p.m., ESPN – A commercial with former World Series MVP, and former Royal, Jermaine Dye wearing his White Sox uniform… Urge to punch wall… rising.
9:07 p.m., VH1 – Whoa, whoa, whoa…. Paris Hilton was in jail??? Have you heard about this??? Boy, that story really slipped under the radar. I guess we can all be thankful that the stations dedicated to covering news in our country devote time to stories that really matter, and not the imprisonment of someone who is only known because she was born into money.
(We must pause for a moment while my computer attempts to process the last paragraph. I may have overloaded its sarcasm accepting circuits.)
9:20 p.m., Spike TV – More animal attack action, now featuring actual footage. This time we’re treated to a kangaroo in an Australian backyard, and then a possibly diseased lab monkey that got loose in a suburban neighborhood. Thank goodness the people involved had the foresight to film these situations, as opposed to, you know, HELPING CATCH THE DANGEROUS ANIMALS!
9:34 p.m., MTV2 – An utterly disturbing video by Queens of the Stone Age may have just taken a few years off my life. I guess it’s all part of MTV’s continuing “let’s try to get Derek to skip our channels” campaign.
9:55 p.m., FX – Another great quote from Dodgeball, in FCC-edited fashion, “Freakin’ Chuck Norris.”
10:02 p.m., Food – Iron Chef Cora gets the call on “Iron Chef.” Since this show is almost treated like a sport, should we, as viewers be treated to statistics? I’m curious how many cuts of pork Cora can slice per minute. Seems like this would really open things up for the commentators, as well. The commentary could be upgraded from “pointless drivel” to “pointless, stat-driven drivel.”
Three hours of my life later, what do I have to show for my Saturday evening? A written-account of three wasted hours, and some progress at breaking in my couch. Now I’m off to find a recap of the Royals game (John Buck wasn’t in the lineup and the offense struggled? But Buddy Bell’s boy Jason Larue was in… Urge to punch wall… rising).
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Stating the Obvious - Observations From the Air
A recent trip to Virginia provided me with plenty of time to kill while sitting a Northwest Airlines (NWA for short... which can be deceiving) plane. I composed some random thoughts to entertain myself, because it was either that or crafting paper hats out of the pages of the Skymall catalog.
5-9-07
1st flight
On television and in film, prison guards are often portrayed as characters who are as tough as week old meatloaf and inebriated with their own sense of power. What happens if a prisoner even glances at a guard in a slightly distasteful manner? He's nailed with a club and tossed in the hole.
What does any of this have to do with travel? Airline security folks are the closest thing I've experienced to Hollywood's portrayal of prison guards. At least, that's how the experience was at the airport this morning.
As is the manner in these days of heightened security, I took my shoes off at the correct time and placed them in a tub to send them through the machine. I had on clean socks, so everything was dandy. I also took off my watch, and emptied my pockets of my keys, change and cellphone. I began to approach the metal detecting doorway thingy (though, with a bit of caution, because who knows if it could be some portal into another dimension), but then a security woman gruffly asked me if I had everything out of my pockets. I pulled out a pack of gum and was immediately told it had to go through the machine. Such an issue with my ear-popping deterrent seemed a bit outrageous (although tests may very well be underway on potential dangers of flavor crystals).
Nonetheless, I paused for a split-second to find one of the plastic bowls to toss my pack of crystal mint Orbit gum into, and I immediately heard, "ON YOUR RIGHT, ON TOP OF THE MACHINE," in a tone that could have made a drill sergeant quiver. Had I taken any longer to get the gum through the machine, I think the woman was going to reach for a rubber hose to crack me with.
Thankfully, my gum and I both made the flight, and, in retrospect, I guess the concern about the gum may make a little sense... it's all Tom Cruise's fault. If he had not used explosive chewing gum in Mission Impossible, the verbal abuse I suffered probably would not have happened. I hope scientologists aren't out to get me.
2nd Flight
At this point in my life, I've seen a number of films and television shows that deal with airplanes on some level. ABC's Lost stands out most specifically in my mind at this point, which means I do one thing immediately once I take my seat on a plane... I scope out my fellow flyers to try to identify which passenger could best fit each role if we were to crash on to a mysterious island (yes, I know that the flight from Detroit to Norfolk does not trek over any oceans or seas. Thanks, geography master). Unfortunately today, as far as I can tell, neither flight has produced any African druglords-turn-priests, any paralyzed folks who were pushed out of a window by their fathers who had previously stolen a kidney, nor any cute fugitives who have been on the run. I haven't even seen a large guy who says "dude" a lot and who won the lottery using numbers he heard from a resident of a mental hospital... This is unbelievable.
On a separate note, this current flight features a male flight attendant. Naturally, this brings to mind the episode of "The Simpsons" in which Marge's fear of flying results from having discovered her father was a flight attendant. I only hope this flight attendant does not have a daughter who will someday be hopelessly scarred emotional as the result of his career pouring half-cups of Pepsi aboard an airplane.
To further complicate things, this particular flight attendant looks like he could be a cousin of Billy Dee Williams. Perhaps he enjoys flying because it reminds him of Cloud City...
Flying in a plane also brings to mind that classic comedy that we all know and love: "Blazing Saddles,"... no, wait... that's not it.... "Airplane." Once again, letting film shape my expectations has wrought disappointment. There has been no in-flight meal featuring poisoned fish, I have not seen a single nun with a guitar, and I'm pretty sure our co-pilot is not Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. I know Hollywood exaggerates from time to time, but they've missed on my current flying experience by at least 30,000 feet. I hope I don't suffer similar disappointments if I'm ever bitten by a strange spider at a science lab or if I'm ever exposed to nuclear radiation.
5-18
3rd Flight
Over a week since the last writing, I'm on a flight from Norfolk to Detroit. I had planned to either sleep or write on this flight, though both options are proving difficult. My seat is 24D, although it may as well be called, "the middle of the freaking engine." That, or maybe the D in 24D stands for what I'll be when the flight is over - deaf.
As a result of this noise level, which would have made Beethoven wince, I've been forced to increase the volume of the Jackson 5 currently playing on my iPod. Thus, it's difficult to concentrate on writing anything other than "ABC, it's easy as 1, 2, 3," over and over (and I really don't want to be sued by Tito Jackson).
Nonetheless, I'm please to be heading home, where things are normal. Most notably, time and television schedules that correspond with said time. Put simply, the eastern time zone is just a horrible TV watching environment. The fact that so many folks can live in a zone where prime time extends until 11 o'clock and Conan O'Brien's red pompadour does not see the light of television screens until after midnight is beyond me.
Perhaps this time issue would not be such a big deal if I had not been operating on the same schedule as residents of Del Boca Vista Phase 3 this past week. Rising and attempting to shine at 4:30 a.m. does not exactly fill my days with hope and optimism. As a result, I've been drifting to sleep early, as if I was watching tennis on TV.
PLEASE PAUSE FOR TURBULENCE
It never fails that turbulence hits right as someone is walking to the restroom, and a flight attendant is pouring a drink... poor folks. On this flight, I'm lucky enough to have another male flight attendant (apparently they're the new rage). Unfortunately, this one has no similarities to Lando Calrissian. This fellow is older, and has the look and demeanor of a pilot that has been demoted. Is such an action possible in the world of airlines? If so, is there someplace in the newspaper where I can read the latest transactions by each airline? I want to know if Northwest trades an established pilot with a high salary and character issues to Delta for a couple of bag-checking prospects in attempt to stay under the salary cap. Is that too much to ask?
Random Analogy....
The overhead luggage compartment is to humans as a transparent window is to birds. You're headed toward your intended destination (for humans, a plane seat; for birds, indoors), no worries... then BOOM (please excuse the channeling my inner John Madden there), you're in pain and you feel like an idiot. I have steered clear of such happenings thus far on this trip, but I've seen three people hit their heads on this flight alone. The reaction is always the same... act like nothing happened, sit down as quickly as possible, and then glance around to see if anyone noticed. Naturally, putting any padding on these compartments to protect people in the case of such accidents makes entirely too much sense.
5-9-07
1st flight
On television and in film, prison guards are often portrayed as characters who are as tough as week old meatloaf and inebriated with their own sense of power. What happens if a prisoner even glances at a guard in a slightly distasteful manner? He's nailed with a club and tossed in the hole.
What does any of this have to do with travel? Airline security folks are the closest thing I've experienced to Hollywood's portrayal of prison guards. At least, that's how the experience was at the airport this morning.
As is the manner in these days of heightened security, I took my shoes off at the correct time and placed them in a tub to send them through the machine. I had on clean socks, so everything was dandy. I also took off my watch, and emptied my pockets of my keys, change and cellphone. I began to approach the metal detecting doorway thingy (though, with a bit of caution, because who knows if it could be some portal into another dimension), but then a security woman gruffly asked me if I had everything out of my pockets. I pulled out a pack of gum and was immediately told it had to go through the machine. Such an issue with my ear-popping deterrent seemed a bit outrageous (although tests may very well be underway on potential dangers of flavor crystals).
Nonetheless, I paused for a split-second to find one of the plastic bowls to toss my pack of crystal mint Orbit gum into, and I immediately heard, "ON YOUR RIGHT, ON TOP OF THE MACHINE," in a tone that could have made a drill sergeant quiver. Had I taken any longer to get the gum through the machine, I think the woman was going to reach for a rubber hose to crack me with.
Thankfully, my gum and I both made the flight, and, in retrospect, I guess the concern about the gum may make a little sense... it's all Tom Cruise's fault. If he had not used explosive chewing gum in Mission Impossible, the verbal abuse I suffered probably would not have happened. I hope scientologists aren't out to get me.
2nd Flight
At this point in my life, I've seen a number of films and television shows that deal with airplanes on some level. ABC's Lost stands out most specifically in my mind at this point, which means I do one thing immediately once I take my seat on a plane... I scope out my fellow flyers to try to identify which passenger could best fit each role if we were to crash on to a mysterious island (yes, I know that the flight from Detroit to Norfolk does not trek over any oceans or seas. Thanks, geography master). Unfortunately today, as far as I can tell, neither flight has produced any African druglords-turn-priests, any paralyzed folks who were pushed out of a window by their fathers who had previously stolen a kidney, nor any cute fugitives who have been on the run. I haven't even seen a large guy who says "dude" a lot and who won the lottery using numbers he heard from a resident of a mental hospital... This is unbelievable.
On a separate note, this current flight features a male flight attendant. Naturally, this brings to mind the episode of "The Simpsons" in which Marge's fear of flying results from having discovered her father was a flight attendant. I only hope this flight attendant does not have a daughter who will someday be hopelessly scarred emotional as the result of his career pouring half-cups of Pepsi aboard an airplane.
To further complicate things, this particular flight attendant looks like he could be a cousin of Billy Dee Williams. Perhaps he enjoys flying because it reminds him of Cloud City...
Flying in a plane also brings to mind that classic comedy that we all know and love: "Blazing Saddles,"... no, wait... that's not it.... "Airplane." Once again, letting film shape my expectations has wrought disappointment. There has been no in-flight meal featuring poisoned fish, I have not seen a single nun with a guitar, and I'm pretty sure our co-pilot is not Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. I know Hollywood exaggerates from time to time, but they've missed on my current flying experience by at least 30,000 feet. I hope I don't suffer similar disappointments if I'm ever bitten by a strange spider at a science lab or if I'm ever exposed to nuclear radiation.
5-18
3rd Flight
Over a week since the last writing, I'm on a flight from Norfolk to Detroit. I had planned to either sleep or write on this flight, though both options are proving difficult. My seat is 24D, although it may as well be called, "the middle of the freaking engine." That, or maybe the D in 24D stands for what I'll be when the flight is over - deaf.
As a result of this noise level, which would have made Beethoven wince, I've been forced to increase the volume of the Jackson 5 currently playing on my iPod. Thus, it's difficult to concentrate on writing anything other than "ABC, it's easy as 1, 2, 3," over and over (and I really don't want to be sued by Tito Jackson).
Nonetheless, I'm please to be heading home, where things are normal. Most notably, time and television schedules that correspond with said time. Put simply, the eastern time zone is just a horrible TV watching environment. The fact that so many folks can live in a zone where prime time extends until 11 o'clock and Conan O'Brien's red pompadour does not see the light of television screens until after midnight is beyond me.
Perhaps this time issue would not be such a big deal if I had not been operating on the same schedule as residents of Del Boca Vista Phase 3 this past week. Rising and attempting to shine at 4:30 a.m. does not exactly fill my days with hope and optimism. As a result, I've been drifting to sleep early, as if I was watching tennis on TV.
PLEASE PAUSE FOR TURBULENCE
It never fails that turbulence hits right as someone is walking to the restroom, and a flight attendant is pouring a drink... poor folks. On this flight, I'm lucky enough to have another male flight attendant (apparently they're the new rage). Unfortunately, this one has no similarities to Lando Calrissian. This fellow is older, and has the look and demeanor of a pilot that has been demoted. Is such an action possible in the world of airlines? If so, is there someplace in the newspaper where I can read the latest transactions by each airline? I want to know if Northwest trades an established pilot with a high salary and character issues to Delta for a couple of bag-checking prospects in attempt to stay under the salary cap. Is that too much to ask?
Random Analogy....
The overhead luggage compartment is to humans as a transparent window is to birds. You're headed toward your intended destination (for humans, a plane seat; for birds, indoors), no worries... then BOOM (please excuse the channeling my inner John Madden there), you're in pain and you feel like an idiot. I have steered clear of such happenings thus far on this trip, but I've seen three people hit their heads on this flight alone. The reaction is always the same... act like nothing happened, sit down as quickly as possible, and then glance around to see if anyone noticed. Naturally, putting any padding on these compartments to protect people in the case of such accidents makes entirely too much sense.
Friday, October 06, 2006
Things I don’t understand (part 2 in a never-ending series… because things beyond my comprehension pop up every day): The clothing edition
As you may come to understand from the title, there are some fashions and fads in today’s culture that I consider faux pas (I just punched myself for typing that… Honestly, is there a term that seems more suited for a stuck-up, too-rich-for-their-own-good person than “faux pas?” Just try saying it without feeling like someone named Tabby at a wine-and-cheese party… or anyone on E!).
Anyway, what follows is just a sampling of some of the fashion statements I don’t understand. I’m not saying they’re wrong, or that those who adhere to these trends are bad people (though they very well could be), they are just concepts I won’t abide by (especially in the case of the female clothing).
Flip-flops with long pants
To prove I’m not trying to begin a campaign to get these people run out of the country or put into their own schools, I’m going to start with this style, which is growing more and more common. I have friends who do this… but that doesn’t mean I understand it.
Personally, when I wear long pants (as opposed to short pants, i.e., “shorts”), it is because, 1) the temperature put forth by the current environmental weather conditions is cold enough that I would not feel comfortable wearing shorts; 2) I am in a setting where I do not feel that shorts provide a “dressy” enough appearance (i.e., work, church, wine-and-cheese parties… wait, no…); or 3) I am planning on being in an environmental area in which long grasses are prevalent (like the African savannah) and could potentially leave my legs itchy.
In each of the above-mentioned situations, it would not be plausible to have my legs sheathed but my feet exposed to the elements. I mean, my feet get just as cold as my legs; my feet aren’t particularly attractive, so I would not wish to flash them about in a dressing-up situation; and my feet are just as prone to getting itchy from tall grasses as my exposed legs.
Capri pants
What do you call a pair of pants so short they only reach halfway down your calves? They used to be called “garage-sale material,” but now they’re “Capri pants.” Have we entered an age where the lower-calf-to-sock-line area is something worth flaunting? Is wearing fabric on that area simply too constricting? I honestly don’t know what makes them fashionable, but I’m currently working on a new form of glove on which the only the fingernail area is cut off to take advantage of this craze.
Straw top hats
Granted, in my 24 years, I have seen only one of these… and that was in my time spent as a resident of Central Kansas, but it was simply ridiculous. Imagine a top hat like that worn by Harry and Lloyd in Dumb and Dumber, but completely made of straw. I understand, if worn for comedic value, but the gentleman wearing it was not taking that route. Perhaps this guy was on to something, and in the coming months they will catch on, along with straw tuxedos and rope neckties… frankly, I’m scared.
Sweatbands worn for no reason
The concept of sweatbands makes sense. They soak up sweat, and they are bands of cloth. I have nothing wrong with the donning of sweatbands… if you are running up and down a basketball court or a football field. Seriously, what is the point of wearing sweatbands if you are going to Physics 101? Are everyday activities really that strenuous? As a guy whose sweat glands are more active than most (it’s pretty much impossible to find a good way to describe sweating a lot… I’ve tried), even I know that sweatbands simply aren’t practical in social settings.
What will be the next item Derek does not understand?Philosphy?Elven script?How Damon Huard played so well against the 49ers?Does he even know?Find out down the road (that’s figurative speak… you can’t actually travel down a road to discover it… although that is an interesting idea).
Anyway, what follows is just a sampling of some of the fashion statements I don’t understand. I’m not saying they’re wrong, or that those who adhere to these trends are bad people (though they very well could be), they are just concepts I won’t abide by (especially in the case of the female clothing).
Flip-flops with long pants
To prove I’m not trying to begin a campaign to get these people run out of the country or put into their own schools, I’m going to start with this style, which is growing more and more common. I have friends who do this… but that doesn’t mean I understand it.
Personally, when I wear long pants (as opposed to short pants, i.e., “shorts”), it is because, 1) the temperature put forth by the current environmental weather conditions is cold enough that I would not feel comfortable wearing shorts; 2) I am in a setting where I do not feel that shorts provide a “dressy” enough appearance (i.e., work, church, wine-and-cheese parties… wait, no…); or 3) I am planning on being in an environmental area in which long grasses are prevalent (like the African savannah) and could potentially leave my legs itchy.
In each of the above-mentioned situations, it would not be plausible to have my legs sheathed but my feet exposed to the elements. I mean, my feet get just as cold as my legs; my feet aren’t particularly attractive, so I would not wish to flash them about in a dressing-up situation; and my feet are just as prone to getting itchy from tall grasses as my exposed legs.
Capri pants
What do you call a pair of pants so short they only reach halfway down your calves? They used to be called “garage-sale material,” but now they’re “Capri pants.” Have we entered an age where the lower-calf-to-sock-line area is something worth flaunting? Is wearing fabric on that area simply too constricting? I honestly don’t know what makes them fashionable, but I’m currently working on a new form of glove on which the only the fingernail area is cut off to take advantage of this craze.
Straw top hats
Granted, in my 24 years, I have seen only one of these… and that was in my time spent as a resident of Central Kansas, but it was simply ridiculous. Imagine a top hat like that worn by Harry and Lloyd in Dumb and Dumber, but completely made of straw. I understand, if worn for comedic value, but the gentleman wearing it was not taking that route. Perhaps this guy was on to something, and in the coming months they will catch on, along with straw tuxedos and rope neckties… frankly, I’m scared.
Sweatbands worn for no reason
The concept of sweatbands makes sense. They soak up sweat, and they are bands of cloth. I have nothing wrong with the donning of sweatbands… if you are running up and down a basketball court or a football field. Seriously, what is the point of wearing sweatbands if you are going to Physics 101? Are everyday activities really that strenuous? As a guy whose sweat glands are more active than most (it’s pretty much impossible to find a good way to describe sweating a lot… I’ve tried), even I know that sweatbands simply aren’t practical in social settings.
What will be the next item Derek does not understand?Philosphy?Elven script?How Damon Huard played so well against the 49ers?Does he even know?Find out down the road (that’s figurative speak… you can’t actually travel down a road to discover it… although that is an interesting idea).
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Final story for my fiction writing class...
This was the final story I wrote in my fiction writing class at K-State (it earned an A, naturally). There are some humourous elements, but looking back at it now, it seems alot like a 'chick story' (cousin of the chick flick). Nevertheless, a group member told me she read it to her sorority friends and all would be interested in meeting the author. Naturally, I didn't follow up on it... because I'm stupid. Enjoy.
Smile and tell her she looks great… smile and tell her she looks great. Doug repeated the thought through his head as he stepped out of his rusty, 1979 Caprice and headed up the sidewalk toward the house on the corner. 1836 Eppinger Street – this had to be the right place. He had already stopped by 1638 Eppinger, and he was pretty sure the shirtless, old man with the Old English bottle held in his spindly fingers was not the “sweet, cute girl” he was supposed to be set up with.
The porch step creaked as he stepped on to it and Doug jumped back at the sound. He was always easily startled when he was nervous. Not even a year before he had been on a similar blind date and let his nerves get the best of him. As he had held the screen door to that date’s home open for her, the moisture from his sweaty hands nearly saturating the wooden frame, the neighbor’s basset hound bellowed at him. Doug, his heart already pounding, flinched, letting go of the screen door. One scream (hers) and face full of screen mesh (also hers) later and Doug’s date had gotten off to a rather rocky start.
He went after the step again, fully prepared for the aching groan of the wood this time. He was not going to let his social misgivings screw up this date.
Smile and tell her she looks great… He repeated the thought as he pressed the doorbell. But what if she didn’t look great? What if she has a face like a frying pan or has her hair dyed green?
His roommate’s girlfriend had set him up on this date just a week earlier. She had said the girl was cute, but Doug had learned to be skeptical of girl’s judgments of the appearances of others of their persuasion. Oftentimes, if a girl was “cute” in girl terms, she might be radically overweight or have somewhat of a horse-face. Should he stick with his plan if that were the case? Of course he’d smile, but what about saying-
The door slowly opened, and two of the bluest eyes Doug had ever seen met his own from the opposite side of the doorway. There was no horse-face, and she was definitely not overweight. Blonde hair hung down to her shoulders, and her face had the look of a finely crafted piece of art. No blemishes, and no irregularities. This pleasant development swept Doug’s mind clean. What had he planned on saying? He wanted to try to remember, but he couldn’t just stand there and not say anything. He went with the most pressing thought in his head.
“You look great,” he said, breaking into a smile.
“Thanks,” she said, quickly glancing down while the hue of her face became red.
“So you are the one that ordered a night guaranteed to be full of awkward silences and lame attempts at small talk, right?”
She glanced back up at him, eyes bright, but lips shut tightly. Doug knew she was suppressing a smirk, maybe even trying to keep from laughing out loud. Despite his insecurities, Doug loved trying to make his dates, however few and far between they were, laugh throughout the night – as long as it was with him, not at him.
“Sorry, I guess I have the wrong place,” Doug responded. “I’m supposed to be picking up a girl that can speak.”
She gently punched him in the arm, and then held out her hand as a greeting. “I’m Laci,” she said. “And you will probably be tired of hearing me talk by the end of the night.”
Doug strained to listen to what Laci was saying as they cruised down Crimson Street, on the way to Applebee’s. His concentration troubles weren’t because he was bored by what she was saying, or because he had other things on his mind, he simply could hardly hear her over the noise his car created. His muffler was not exactly in prime condition, and Doug was in no position to shell out the money to have it fixed. He and his buddies called the car his 747, and not just because it constantly sounded like it was preparing for takeoff. In an age of shrinking, compact cars, Doug’s seemed like an elephant stuck in the gopher exhibit at the zoo.
Through the roar of the pasty-white road beast he could hear Laci saying something about her roommates. Stupid car, it could ruin everything. Sure he could mostly piece together what she was saying, but what if she asked him something particular about the conversation later on? No amount of smiling and nodding could get him through that. Then again, she was probably just rambling because she was horrified to be riding in this car.
Doug took a quick glance to his right, past the fabric drooping from the ceiling of the vehicle to the passenger seat. He expected her to be slouched down in her seat, shielding her face from any possible eyes that might steal a peek of her from outside the car. Instead, he saw Laci sitting trim and proper, gazing out the window, continuing on about her roommate hogging the bathroom. She must simply be too polite to comment on his junk-heap with wheels.
Suddenly, Laci broke away from the roommate conversation, and said, “This is such a joke,” with a giggle in her voice. There it was. The car had finally made her crack.
“I know. I’m sorry,” Doug said. Beads of sweat materialized on his brow as he prepared to explain how he had been given the car from his grandpa, and how it would break the man’s heart if he got rid of it. It wasn’t entirely true, but it was the only way he could explain the car situation without mentioning money woes.
“Why are you sorry?” Laci asked. “You can’t really keep struggling actresses from recording crappy songs about being heartbroken.”
Crappy songs? The radio – that’s what she had been talking about. She wasn’t commenting on the prehistoric vehicle after all. He quickly ran his hand through his short, brown hair, beginning at his forehead to take care of the sweat. No sweat.
“I’m just sorry you had to be witness to such an atrocity of a song in my vehicle.”
“Well, it’s not going to be past your curfew by the time we get seated, will it?” Doug asked with a kidding tone on the surface that was masking a stomach bubbling with anxiety.
“It’ll probably be a 20-to-30 minute wait,” the hostess had said. Funny how restaurant folk always seemed to operate on a different time system than everyone else. It was like they condensed every two minutes into a single one. Applebee’s seemed to be especially bad about this.
“It’s fine,” Laci said, smiling. “There’s probably more atmosphere out here, anyway.”
They were seated on a bench just inside the entrance, across from a family of six – four kids, the oldest no older than ten, and two parents looking like dejected occupants of cell block D who had just been denied parole.
Doug and Laci watched as a dirty-blonde haired boy gave his younger sister an Indian burn, and the young girl fell crying, face-first into her mother’s lap.
“Don’t you just love kids?” Laci asked, eyes remaining on the action before them.
Was this a test? What type of answer did she want? Here came the sweat again. Of course he’d say yes, but how should he do it? If he was too enthusiastic, she might think he was looking to procreate right away, but a simple nod could send an apathetic message. What if it was just a rhetorical question? How could such a simply question become so-
“Williams, party of two.” The stocky, redheaded waitress had ended the stress. Doug glanced down at his silver Rolex. 8:17 p.m. They had arrived at 7:36. The time-bending phenomenon of the restaurant world was definitely in effect. He knew his watch wasn’t wrong. Granted, it wasn’t a real Rolex. It was a knockoff he’d bought from a sidewalk vendor in New York when he’d been there on a class trip. It kept good time, though… and it looked good. Laci had even said so.
He’d never met, or even talked to Laci before tonight. It was the blindest of blind dates.
“That’s us, shall we?” Doug asked, getting up from his spot on the bench in the waiting-to-be-seated area and motioning for Laci to walk ahead of him.
“Absolutely,” she responded, picking up her purse and running her delicate, finely manicured hands down the sides of her skirt as she stood. The skirt wasn’t short, but it wasn’t ultra-conservative either. Doug liked the happy medium.
As they approached their table, the booth in the far corner, Doug thought back to their conversation when he had arrived to pick her up. So far, neither of them had been correct. Despite his raging anxiety, conversation had been flowing smoothly, and he had really enjoyed listening to her. Her voice seemed to be just a few decibels above soft – but, other than over the roar of Caprice the beast, he never had to strain to hear her – and she had an adorable giggle. Doug remained focused on getting her to laugh.
“Order anything you want. Price is not an object,” Doug told her. He was lying, of course. Price was definitely an object for any college student, let alone one that earned minimum wage working in the mail center on campus. He knew that tonight would cause problems with his budgeting, but he told himself that having a good date would be worth eating tuna sandwiches for lunch a few more times a week. Then again, if she went with a steak he might have to forfeit his cable.
“Oh, don’t worry,” she said. “I don’t eat much.”
Score another one for Laci. Doug pictured a giant checklist of positives in his mind. Cute… check. Good sense of humor… check. Doesn’t hate my car… check. Won’t put me in the poorhouse… check. Times were good.
“So, besides going to school, what do you do?” Laci asked, peering at the salads on her menu.
D’oh! Doug wanted to avoid any conversation involving his feeble-paying job. He had only dated three girls in his four years in school, and his minimal funds had been at least part of the reason that two of the relationships hadn’t worked out. He couldn’t just completely ignore the question, could he? No, he had to tell her something. His heart kicked into a higher gear.
He panned the Applebee’s wall, looking for inspiration. A youth hockey coach? A mobster? An international man of mystery? Damn that wall and the stupid movie memorabilia on it.
He had to think of something. Something impressive, but still believable. “I’m a lawyer, I try mostly civil suits.” Impressive, yes. Believable… not exactly. Doug immediately cringed when he realized what he had just said.
“A part-time lawyer?” Laci asked, examining his eyes deeply. It was like she was trying to see right through his lying ways. “You must manage your time really well.”
“I’m sorry, that’s not the truth. I really-“
“Don’t worry about it,” Laci said, her peering eyes turning soft as her sweet smile spread slowly. “Whatever you really do, I’m sure it’s cool. I’m the one that should be embarrassed about their job.”
Doug stared at a single bubble in his Pepsi as it floated up to the top of his glass. He was running the previous statement back through his head, trying to detect any sarcasm. It had seemed sincere, but surely someone who was so personable could not have any sort of embarrassing job. He hadn’t really put any thought into what she might do. He’d just assumed she worked at one of those trendy clothing stores or brought in big tips as a waitress somewhere.
The bubble had attached itself to an ice cube. He ran Laci’s words repeatedly through his head. His eyes held onto the bubble intently, as if he was trying to pop it with his mind.
“Doug, are you all right?”
“Oh, uh, yeah, just fine,” Doug said, glancing back up to Laci, deciding he had to know the truth. “So what can you possibly do that’s so horrible?”
Laci sipped her tea, her eyes immediately glancing down at her straw when she heard the question. She took the straw in her fingers, nimbly stirred her drink, and glanced around the room as she answered.
“Well,” she paused, as if she was considering whether she wanted to tell the truth. She had to be teasing him. “I bag groceries at Applemart.”
A grocery bagger? There was no way. Grocery baggers were one of just three career opportunities that Doug and his mailroom buddies felt comfortable making fun of.
As he thought about what joke he might make to call her bluff, Laci spoke again.
“It’s nothing great, but I think anyone who bases their judgment of a person on what they do to earn money for school is probably too shallow to talk to.”
Doug realized she was being truthful. Completely truthful. She wasn’t like those other girls he had dated – worrying more about what they were wearing than who they were with. She would be completely accepting of anything he said.
“I disagree with everything you just said,” Doug said, unable to keep from smiling to mask his joke. “After all, I have one of those high profile jobs you hear about. You know, the ones where you sort mail all day.”
The whole Caprice shook as Doug turned off the engine in front of Laci’s house. It had done this since Doug had begun driving it, and although he’d let it pass earlier in the night, he figured he should at least mention it now.
“You’d think some of those rust spots would fall off with all that shaking.”
“It’s fine, every car needs a little character,” Laci said, patting the dashboard.
Was this some sort of trick? Throughout the entire evening, Laci had been exposed to a number of phases of his life that made Doug’s stomach uneasy with a simple mention, and she had delightfully accepted everything. Surely this whole thing was too good to be true. He half-expected Laci to tell him he was on “Candid Camera.” Instead, he found himself walking her up to her front door.
How in the world had that just happened? Was this one of those out-of-body experiences? He’d never been bold enough to initiate such a move on any previous first date. It was practically mind-boggling.
Nevertheless, he now had much larger issues to confront. What in the world was he supposed to do when they got to the door? He ran the options through his head as his heart bounced in his chest like Evander Holyfield’s punching bag.
He could simply put out his hand for a shake. It would be a pretty safe move, and stood no chance of offending her, but it seemed too safe. Was he running for office? Who shakes hands at the end of an enjoyable evening?
Then there was the hug. The positives and negatives flew threw his head as they walked up the sidewalk to her home. It was still pretty safe, and there was nothing wrong with establishing a little body contact. Of course the hug could quickly turn sour. Too tight of a squeeze could make him seem too clingy, too loose of a grip and he would come off like a fragile grandmother.
The porch step groaned louder now that two sets of feet had bore their weight upon them. They were getting down to crunch time, and he had no idea what to do.
Leaning in for a kiss was obviously a high-risk, high-reward move. He was pretty sure she had enjoyed the night. She had laughed at his jokes, and been smiling the whole night – it seemed a kiss could be the perfect capper… or a knife to the chest. If he leaned in and received a blank stare or a turned head in return, he could probably forget any plans about a future date, or having any more confidence in the future. The denied kiss was something Doug and his friends even hesitated to joke about, it was that rough to deal with.
They stopped. The arrival at the door meant it was time to make a move. He turned towards her, and the sheer blueness of her eyes struck her once again.
“Well, thanks for putting up with me. I hope it wasn’t too painful,” Doug said, the thoughts of the moments ahead still cycling through his mind.
“Well, I thought about downing the cyanide pill in my pocket a couple times, but somehow I pulled through,” Laci said, not missing a beat.
The evening had gone too well. How could he avoid screwing it up? This final goodbye was big, and he could not afford dropping the ball.
He dropped his head quickly, trying to weigh his options one final time, but something brought an immediate halt to the whirlwind. His peripheral vision showed that her face had drawn in close to his, and a light press on his cheek confirmed his thinking.
“Anyway, thanks. You’ve got my number, don’t you?” She asked opening the door and stepping across the threshold, cocking her head slightly at an angle in mock interrogation.
Doug smiled wider than he could remember smiling before, and nodded. He declined speaking because there was only one thought in his mind. “She looks great.”
Smile and tell her she looks great… smile and tell her she looks great. Doug repeated the thought through his head as he stepped out of his rusty, 1979 Caprice and headed up the sidewalk toward the house on the corner. 1836 Eppinger Street – this had to be the right place. He had already stopped by 1638 Eppinger, and he was pretty sure the shirtless, old man with the Old English bottle held in his spindly fingers was not the “sweet, cute girl” he was supposed to be set up with.
The porch step creaked as he stepped on to it and Doug jumped back at the sound. He was always easily startled when he was nervous. Not even a year before he had been on a similar blind date and let his nerves get the best of him. As he had held the screen door to that date’s home open for her, the moisture from his sweaty hands nearly saturating the wooden frame, the neighbor’s basset hound bellowed at him. Doug, his heart already pounding, flinched, letting go of the screen door. One scream (hers) and face full of screen mesh (also hers) later and Doug’s date had gotten off to a rather rocky start.
He went after the step again, fully prepared for the aching groan of the wood this time. He was not going to let his social misgivings screw up this date.
Smile and tell her she looks great… He repeated the thought as he pressed the doorbell. But what if she didn’t look great? What if she has a face like a frying pan or has her hair dyed green?
His roommate’s girlfriend had set him up on this date just a week earlier. She had said the girl was cute, but Doug had learned to be skeptical of girl’s judgments of the appearances of others of their persuasion. Oftentimes, if a girl was “cute” in girl terms, she might be radically overweight or have somewhat of a horse-face. Should he stick with his plan if that were the case? Of course he’d smile, but what about saying-
The door slowly opened, and two of the bluest eyes Doug had ever seen met his own from the opposite side of the doorway. There was no horse-face, and she was definitely not overweight. Blonde hair hung down to her shoulders, and her face had the look of a finely crafted piece of art. No blemishes, and no irregularities. This pleasant development swept Doug’s mind clean. What had he planned on saying? He wanted to try to remember, but he couldn’t just stand there and not say anything. He went with the most pressing thought in his head.
“You look great,” he said, breaking into a smile.
“Thanks,” she said, quickly glancing down while the hue of her face became red.
“So you are the one that ordered a night guaranteed to be full of awkward silences and lame attempts at small talk, right?”
She glanced back up at him, eyes bright, but lips shut tightly. Doug knew she was suppressing a smirk, maybe even trying to keep from laughing out loud. Despite his insecurities, Doug loved trying to make his dates, however few and far between they were, laugh throughout the night – as long as it was with him, not at him.
“Sorry, I guess I have the wrong place,” Doug responded. “I’m supposed to be picking up a girl that can speak.”
She gently punched him in the arm, and then held out her hand as a greeting. “I’m Laci,” she said. “And you will probably be tired of hearing me talk by the end of the night.”
Doug strained to listen to what Laci was saying as they cruised down Crimson Street, on the way to Applebee’s. His concentration troubles weren’t because he was bored by what she was saying, or because he had other things on his mind, he simply could hardly hear her over the noise his car created. His muffler was not exactly in prime condition, and Doug was in no position to shell out the money to have it fixed. He and his buddies called the car his 747, and not just because it constantly sounded like it was preparing for takeoff. In an age of shrinking, compact cars, Doug’s seemed like an elephant stuck in the gopher exhibit at the zoo.
Through the roar of the pasty-white road beast he could hear Laci saying something about her roommates. Stupid car, it could ruin everything. Sure he could mostly piece together what she was saying, but what if she asked him something particular about the conversation later on? No amount of smiling and nodding could get him through that. Then again, she was probably just rambling because she was horrified to be riding in this car.
Doug took a quick glance to his right, past the fabric drooping from the ceiling of the vehicle to the passenger seat. He expected her to be slouched down in her seat, shielding her face from any possible eyes that might steal a peek of her from outside the car. Instead, he saw Laci sitting trim and proper, gazing out the window, continuing on about her roommate hogging the bathroom. She must simply be too polite to comment on his junk-heap with wheels.
Suddenly, Laci broke away from the roommate conversation, and said, “This is such a joke,” with a giggle in her voice. There it was. The car had finally made her crack.
“I know. I’m sorry,” Doug said. Beads of sweat materialized on his brow as he prepared to explain how he had been given the car from his grandpa, and how it would break the man’s heart if he got rid of it. It wasn’t entirely true, but it was the only way he could explain the car situation without mentioning money woes.
“Why are you sorry?” Laci asked. “You can’t really keep struggling actresses from recording crappy songs about being heartbroken.”
Crappy songs? The radio – that’s what she had been talking about. She wasn’t commenting on the prehistoric vehicle after all. He quickly ran his hand through his short, brown hair, beginning at his forehead to take care of the sweat. No sweat.
“I’m just sorry you had to be witness to such an atrocity of a song in my vehicle.”
“Well, it’s not going to be past your curfew by the time we get seated, will it?” Doug asked with a kidding tone on the surface that was masking a stomach bubbling with anxiety.
“It’ll probably be a 20-to-30 minute wait,” the hostess had said. Funny how restaurant folk always seemed to operate on a different time system than everyone else. It was like they condensed every two minutes into a single one. Applebee’s seemed to be especially bad about this.
“It’s fine,” Laci said, smiling. “There’s probably more atmosphere out here, anyway.”
They were seated on a bench just inside the entrance, across from a family of six – four kids, the oldest no older than ten, and two parents looking like dejected occupants of cell block D who had just been denied parole.
Doug and Laci watched as a dirty-blonde haired boy gave his younger sister an Indian burn, and the young girl fell crying, face-first into her mother’s lap.
“Don’t you just love kids?” Laci asked, eyes remaining on the action before them.
Was this a test? What type of answer did she want? Here came the sweat again. Of course he’d say yes, but how should he do it? If he was too enthusiastic, she might think he was looking to procreate right away, but a simple nod could send an apathetic message. What if it was just a rhetorical question? How could such a simply question become so-
“Williams, party of two.” The stocky, redheaded waitress had ended the stress. Doug glanced down at his silver Rolex. 8:17 p.m. They had arrived at 7:36. The time-bending phenomenon of the restaurant world was definitely in effect. He knew his watch wasn’t wrong. Granted, it wasn’t a real Rolex. It was a knockoff he’d bought from a sidewalk vendor in New York when he’d been there on a class trip. It kept good time, though… and it looked good. Laci had even said so.
He’d never met, or even talked to Laci before tonight. It was the blindest of blind dates.
“That’s us, shall we?” Doug asked, getting up from his spot on the bench in the waiting-to-be-seated area and motioning for Laci to walk ahead of him.
“Absolutely,” she responded, picking up her purse and running her delicate, finely manicured hands down the sides of her skirt as she stood. The skirt wasn’t short, but it wasn’t ultra-conservative either. Doug liked the happy medium.
As they approached their table, the booth in the far corner, Doug thought back to their conversation when he had arrived to pick her up. So far, neither of them had been correct. Despite his raging anxiety, conversation had been flowing smoothly, and he had really enjoyed listening to her. Her voice seemed to be just a few decibels above soft – but, other than over the roar of Caprice the beast, he never had to strain to hear her – and she had an adorable giggle. Doug remained focused on getting her to laugh.
“Order anything you want. Price is not an object,” Doug told her. He was lying, of course. Price was definitely an object for any college student, let alone one that earned minimum wage working in the mail center on campus. He knew that tonight would cause problems with his budgeting, but he told himself that having a good date would be worth eating tuna sandwiches for lunch a few more times a week. Then again, if she went with a steak he might have to forfeit his cable.
“Oh, don’t worry,” she said. “I don’t eat much.”
Score another one for Laci. Doug pictured a giant checklist of positives in his mind. Cute… check. Good sense of humor… check. Doesn’t hate my car… check. Won’t put me in the poorhouse… check. Times were good.
“So, besides going to school, what do you do?” Laci asked, peering at the salads on her menu.
D’oh! Doug wanted to avoid any conversation involving his feeble-paying job. He had only dated three girls in his four years in school, and his minimal funds had been at least part of the reason that two of the relationships hadn’t worked out. He couldn’t just completely ignore the question, could he? No, he had to tell her something. His heart kicked into a higher gear.
He panned the Applebee’s wall, looking for inspiration. A youth hockey coach? A mobster? An international man of mystery? Damn that wall and the stupid movie memorabilia on it.
He had to think of something. Something impressive, but still believable. “I’m a lawyer, I try mostly civil suits.” Impressive, yes. Believable… not exactly. Doug immediately cringed when he realized what he had just said.
“A part-time lawyer?” Laci asked, examining his eyes deeply. It was like she was trying to see right through his lying ways. “You must manage your time really well.”
“I’m sorry, that’s not the truth. I really-“
“Don’t worry about it,” Laci said, her peering eyes turning soft as her sweet smile spread slowly. “Whatever you really do, I’m sure it’s cool. I’m the one that should be embarrassed about their job.”
Doug stared at a single bubble in his Pepsi as it floated up to the top of his glass. He was running the previous statement back through his head, trying to detect any sarcasm. It had seemed sincere, but surely someone who was so personable could not have any sort of embarrassing job. He hadn’t really put any thought into what she might do. He’d just assumed she worked at one of those trendy clothing stores or brought in big tips as a waitress somewhere.
The bubble had attached itself to an ice cube. He ran Laci’s words repeatedly through his head. His eyes held onto the bubble intently, as if he was trying to pop it with his mind.
“Doug, are you all right?”
“Oh, uh, yeah, just fine,” Doug said, glancing back up to Laci, deciding he had to know the truth. “So what can you possibly do that’s so horrible?”
Laci sipped her tea, her eyes immediately glancing down at her straw when she heard the question. She took the straw in her fingers, nimbly stirred her drink, and glanced around the room as she answered.
“Well,” she paused, as if she was considering whether she wanted to tell the truth. She had to be teasing him. “I bag groceries at Applemart.”
A grocery bagger? There was no way. Grocery baggers were one of just three career opportunities that Doug and his mailroom buddies felt comfortable making fun of.
As he thought about what joke he might make to call her bluff, Laci spoke again.
“It’s nothing great, but I think anyone who bases their judgment of a person on what they do to earn money for school is probably too shallow to talk to.”
Doug realized she was being truthful. Completely truthful. She wasn’t like those other girls he had dated – worrying more about what they were wearing than who they were with. She would be completely accepting of anything he said.
“I disagree with everything you just said,” Doug said, unable to keep from smiling to mask his joke. “After all, I have one of those high profile jobs you hear about. You know, the ones where you sort mail all day.”
The whole Caprice shook as Doug turned off the engine in front of Laci’s house. It had done this since Doug had begun driving it, and although he’d let it pass earlier in the night, he figured he should at least mention it now.
“You’d think some of those rust spots would fall off with all that shaking.”
“It’s fine, every car needs a little character,” Laci said, patting the dashboard.
Was this some sort of trick? Throughout the entire evening, Laci had been exposed to a number of phases of his life that made Doug’s stomach uneasy with a simple mention, and she had delightfully accepted everything. Surely this whole thing was too good to be true. He half-expected Laci to tell him he was on “Candid Camera.” Instead, he found himself walking her up to her front door.
How in the world had that just happened? Was this one of those out-of-body experiences? He’d never been bold enough to initiate such a move on any previous first date. It was practically mind-boggling.
Nevertheless, he now had much larger issues to confront. What in the world was he supposed to do when they got to the door? He ran the options through his head as his heart bounced in his chest like Evander Holyfield’s punching bag.
He could simply put out his hand for a shake. It would be a pretty safe move, and stood no chance of offending her, but it seemed too safe. Was he running for office? Who shakes hands at the end of an enjoyable evening?
Then there was the hug. The positives and negatives flew threw his head as they walked up the sidewalk to her home. It was still pretty safe, and there was nothing wrong with establishing a little body contact. Of course the hug could quickly turn sour. Too tight of a squeeze could make him seem too clingy, too loose of a grip and he would come off like a fragile grandmother.
The porch step groaned louder now that two sets of feet had bore their weight upon them. They were getting down to crunch time, and he had no idea what to do.
Leaning in for a kiss was obviously a high-risk, high-reward move. He was pretty sure she had enjoyed the night. She had laughed at his jokes, and been smiling the whole night – it seemed a kiss could be the perfect capper… or a knife to the chest. If he leaned in and received a blank stare or a turned head in return, he could probably forget any plans about a future date, or having any more confidence in the future. The denied kiss was something Doug and his friends even hesitated to joke about, it was that rough to deal with.
They stopped. The arrival at the door meant it was time to make a move. He turned towards her, and the sheer blueness of her eyes struck her once again.
“Well, thanks for putting up with me. I hope it wasn’t too painful,” Doug said, the thoughts of the moments ahead still cycling through his mind.
“Well, I thought about downing the cyanide pill in my pocket a couple times, but somehow I pulled through,” Laci said, not missing a beat.
The evening had gone too well. How could he avoid screwing it up? This final goodbye was big, and he could not afford dropping the ball.
He dropped his head quickly, trying to weigh his options one final time, but something brought an immediate halt to the whirlwind. His peripheral vision showed that her face had drawn in close to his, and a light press on his cheek confirmed his thinking.
“Anyway, thanks. You’ve got my number, don’t you?” She asked opening the door and stepping across the threshold, cocking her head slightly at an angle in mock interrogation.
Doug smiled wider than he could remember smiling before, and nodded. He declined speaking because there was only one thought in his mind. “She looks great.”
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