One of the nice things about going to my parent’s house. . . I get to play with the dog and the cats.
The dog is Charlotte, a black lab mix thing who while is a couple of years old, has a puppy mind and throws her body around when she is excited. When we first arrived, she jumped up on the bed as we were unpacking, which normally might be a annoying but given that Stuart had just put his arsenal of electronic equipment on the bed could have been disastrous. I tried to pull her down while he cradled his iPhone and looked terrified.
We’ll be keeping the door to our bedroom shut.
Their pool was just finished and nearly every time we let Charlotte out yesterday, she had to show off her swimming skills by gingerly stepping into it and swimming to the other side.
She’s funny and like many children, is fun to play with and you are rather glad you can give her back to her parents when she starts crying.
The parentals have a screen porch that is a pleasant way to sit outside but not really be outside because you don’t get eaten alive by bugs. You look out at their enormous garden and it is really relaxing. The size of their garden is not hyperbole. You could seriously fit a football pitch inside it and still have room for the pool.
Last night I sat there with a glass of red, reading a magazine and wrote a short scene. The cats, (George, my baby they adopted from me, Jake, Zack and Miss Sophie) were hanging out with me as well and once in a while one would come and say hello and then go back to their chair or shelf and blink and be cattish.
I don’t know what my parents have been feeding George because he has lost his girlish svelte figure. Perhaps like all of us he has gotten old and just decided to let himself go. He’s always been a solid kitty, but now when he kneads his paws into you, he has some serious bulk behind his kitty shiatsu.
I think perhaps when I come visit, is is as much to see the zoo as it is to see my folks.
“–but I gotta say I think there’s something to this cold climate business. I mean, you go to the beach what do you do? Drink a few beers, wait for a fish to flop up on the sand. Can’t build no civilization that way. You got a hard winter coming, though, you got to plan ahead, and that gives your cerebral cortex a workout.” Lone Star
Posted on August 13, 2008 @ 9:49 pm
Soon I will be floating in my parent’s pool or in the ocean.
Stuart and I leave tomorrow to visit my folks in Charleston, where I will be doing very little other than cause myself serious skin damage.
I’m all packed. I am now a master packer. When I go on business trips I even just take a carry on. I still take a ton of stuff, but instead of five pairs of shoes I take two.
The last two years at this time we have gone on a road trip. Last year was Spain and the year before was France. Both years we had an amazing time but it was go-go-go-go-go-go-go-go and this year I really just needed to have some sun to help get me through the approaching darkness.
When I lived in California, I had no idea. I mean I knew the weather was good. I lived in Seattle for two years before LA, but after a year you forget. You think it’s normal to wear a short sleeve dress in April and to crank up the AC.
Not to say the weather is that bad here. It really isn’t. It’s not Russia or Chicago. It just isn’t Maui, but then again few places are.
So we’re off. Off for some sun and cervaza and food and hanging out with the parentals.
Then we have to come back and get cracking. Lots of things to get done. Work is going to heat up plus finishing the play plus exercising.
People die violently every day. Why can’t Kathie Lee be one of them?
Posted on @ 9:00 pm
When I was working on my degree in Playwrighting, I took a class called Visceral Writing. Our Professor took us on field trips and we then needed to write a three-page play out of the experience.
I still remember the first class. He took us to Sunrise Hospital to look at the newborns and then we went to a funeral home and through one of those twists of fate that if it were written in a film or novel would be contrived, there was a baby funeral that day. The coffin was white and tiny. The Hispanic family that were following it looked like they had been put through the wringer.
I say this, because I just had an intense visceral moment that made me very happy that I am not living in America at the moment.
I need to say something first.
I really, really, really with the intensity of 1,000 suns HATE Kathy Lee Gifford. I hate her. Hate is too weak a word. I hate George Walker Bush. I hate Bob O’Reilly. I hate Ann Coulter.
Kathie Lee Gifford née Epstein is a class all to herself. She’s smug. She’s pretentious, obnoxious and every other ous. She’s the antithesis of clever. She’s a terrible singer. She spells her name with an ‘ie’. If I need proof that there isn’t a God, I point to the fact that she is still walking the planet because if there were a God she would have knocked her teeth out years ago. And I’m not even getting into the sweatshop stuff and the Christmas specials.
When Frank Gifford got caught having an affair, my first thought was I’m not surprised that he had one. I would have been surprised if he hadn’t.
I’m not a fan.
I hope that her children are happy and well because it is not their fault their mother is a cow, but I hope that they decide to live their lives in such a way that it will cause her head to explode. Like they come out as gay or decide they’re Jewish.
Is that wrong?
What brought this up?
Up until this evening, I was blissfully unaware that she was on the Today show as I have been safe over here. Then I read the New York Times. Because I like to torture myself, I watchedafewclipsof her on You Tube and I felt my blood pressure (along with a case of the giggles) rise.
I stopped.
I took note of my feelings of intense, visceral dislike and wrote this.
I feel much better now.
Vitriolic rant over.
The best part is, in my wanderings, I found this classic bit from Jon Stewart that reaffirmed my faith in humanity.
There even are places where English completely disappears; in America they haven’t used it for years.
Posted on August 11, 2008 @ 9:07 pm
I could spend hours at this site: The Speech Accent Archive You can listen to people from all over the world read the same paragraph. It’s really interesting to hear the different accents.
Last night I was at work late for conference calls, so I didn’t leave the office until 7. I called Stuart suggesting we meet somewhere before we met a friend for dinner in our hood. He suggested The Tup, a pub 60 seconds from the station and 60 seconds from our front door.
I walked in the door and the gentleman behind the bar interrupted me as I was about to order a glass of wine.
“If you’re here to meet a group of girls, they’re down there.” He pointed to the end of the bar.
“No, I’m here to meet my husband actually.”
“You might not want to go down there then.”
“Oh, I could,” I said. “And scare them.”
He brought me my glass of wine and as he gave me my change he smiled and said, “Try to not scare them too much.”
It was the first time in I can’t remember when, when a random stranger flirted and it was even slightly creepy. It was fun and friendly.
Tonight Stu and I met another friend and Stu suggested the same pub.
I ordered a pint of ale. He smiled. “I like a girl that orders pints. Too bad you’re married.’
What a flirt whore. But it was nice . . . A girl needs a few flirt whores in her life.
Yesterday was a re-reading day. I finished off Moon For The Misbegotten, which I must admit I had never read. O’Neill is interesting. At first he pisses me off, his novelistic character descriptions and stage directions. The way his people talk to each other, then he sucks me in and breaks my heart. I’ve actually never seen his plays performed which is a sin.
Over lunch I read re-read Betrayal which is my favourite Pinter play. I love it actually and it is the only Pinter play I can say that about. I realise that this is also a sin.
Around 5 or 6 PM I decided to re-read the last Harry Potter. I haven’t looked at it for a year and I was in the mood. Finished it around 3 AM. I do that sometimes. Read things straight through. I’ve never been good about holding off the pleasure of reading, making it last. I rush through to the end.
Some work people were going out last night in Soho, but I made the choice to not go. I want to be on the wagon for a few months. My loophole is that I can drink when I am out of the country visiting my mom in a couple of weeks and my next biz trip in September.
Stuart was going to the pub and wanted me to go with him, but in addition to my not drinking in the UK thing I have a ‘I do not want to be around him if at all possible when he is drinking’ thing.
It’s for the best.
He called me at 11:30 and he was lucid. He didn’t have that click in his voice when I know he’s been on the lash. I was impressed. He said he would be home in twenty minutes.
He left his phone at home so when I closed HP at 3 AM and he still wasn’t home, I couldn’t call him.
I started to turn out the lights and get ready for bed when the phone rang.
I heard Richard saying something.
Then Matt said, “Rapp! Rapp!”
And Stuart sang, “Three times a lady.”
I stared at the phone. “Hello?”
They hung up.
I waited a few moments debating if I should call Richard’s number or not to say something that ended in an exclamation point.
I called and Stuart answered.
“Did you like that?”
“What was it?”
“She didn’t get it! You didn’t get it. And we PRACTISED. Come on—“
I heard Richard saying something.
Then Matt said, “Rapp! Rapp!”
And Stuart sang, “Three times a lady.”
Pause.
“Did you get it?”
“Your singing?”
“Once, twice, three times a lady. “
“Why did you hang up?
“We thought you would be sleeping—“
“You thought I would be sleeping?”
“And you would pick up the phone and hear once, twice, three times a lady and then we’d hang up and that would make you happy.”
“I was awake.”
“You were awake?”
“You should be happy I was awake.”
“You don’t get it. She doesn’t get it.”
I tried to explain that I did get it, but that I didn’t think the execution was perhaps the best and I didn’t understand why they thought calling and hanging up on me at three in the morning was going to make me HAPPY but he ignored my speaking and they ran through the song again.
I decided to cut bait. “Ok, baby. Sounds like you’re having fun. I’ll let you go.”
”I was sad you weren’t here Thomas Cole. People kept asking and I had to make excuses.
”I’m sorry baby.”
“Know what we’re doing right now?”
“Something that will likely result in your being killed and or arrested?”
“We’re standing in front of a church yelling at people through a traffic cone.”
Requesting Donations For The Sunrise Children’s Centre
Posted on August 1, 2008 @ 12:11 pm
Those of you that read this on a regular basis can tell I am sure who my employer is by reading between the lines. I am about to out myself for those of you that haven’t read between the lines but it is all for a good cause.
One of the things that I think is fantastic about Microsoft is you can take three days off from work a year to volunteer for a charity.In September, the UK search and display teams will be spending two days at the Sunrise Children’s Centre (part of Barnado’s) in Kent. The centre supports over 200 families whose children have learning or physical disabilities.
We will be creating a games room, revamping the outdoor areas with a pergola, a sensory garden and a new drop-off area.We’re trying to raise £10,000 to put toward revitalising the centre. Whatever we raise, Microsoft will double so if you could even spare just £5.00 it will go a long way.
You can donate online and read a bit more at our Just Giving page. Click here.
(Those of you in the US remember the current exchange rate- so if you would like to donate $20.00 enter £10.00 on the Website.)
Remember, no donation is too small! (Then again, if you would like to give us a truck of money, that would be quite nice as well.)
Not that I think that anyone would be silly enough to steal my ramblings, but in case you may be thinking about it. . . the very act of my writing this means that I own the copyright. Really. Look it up.
So, please don't plagiarize. It just ain't cool. And what I say just isn't that interesting. Trust me. Most of my friends don't even read this.
That being said, I do subscribe to the T.S. Eliot philosophy of "Immature poets borrow, mature poets steal." There is a difference between Stealing and stealing. . . This is not to say that I am mature. If anything. . . I'm rambling aren't I? That's what I do. I ramble. So, yeah. I'll shut up now.
