Every profession has its own lexicon, built on the jargon, jokes, and technical terminology used by its laborers. Theatre – perhaps more so than other trades – has some really quality (and really colorful) vocabulary, the brunt of which originates in the electrics department. For all those of you who are fortunate enough to have a job that isn’t a theatre electrician, allow me to introduce you to some of the more useful and entertaining terms and phrases that exist in my world. In no particular order:
Hot Pocket: Hot patch or “courtesy” outlets contained in many touring dimmer racks. They are always on (“hot”) allowing the user to quickly test fixtures, cables, etc.
Inhibs: Inhibitive Submasters, which prevent lights from coming on. Opposite of a standard submaster, the higher the level of the sub, the lower the level of the light. Also a verb.
Pepsi Challenge: the act of slightly altering a designer’s specifications to be more practical/less neurotic. For example, if a designer specs a trim height of 20’-1” on his or her electrics, you would trim them at 20’ because that is a normal height, and then if, and only if, the designer notices, you change it. Pepsi Challenge can also refer to a scenario in which a designer gives you a note, and you don’t do it, but the next day you tell them you’ve done it and see if simply thinking it’s better alters their perception of what they thought was wrong in the first place.
50/50: the standard home position for many moving lights. 50% of tilt faces the light straight down, and 50% of pan gives the light ability to rotate in either direction.
Iso-opto: isolated optical splitter. It’s a device that splits a single line of data (usually DMX) into several lines. It serves roughly the same function for lighting data as a switch does for Ethernet.
Strippers: wire strippers.
Spaghetti: a cable or rope that is hopelessly and irrevocably knotted around itself and other cables or ropes. Also referred to as an “Asshole.”
Fucknut: the tiny set-screw on many lighting c-clamps that controls the pan of the unit. So named because it is super easy to over-tighten and shear off, and when you inevitably do it, you say “fuck.” Also known in some circles as the OJN (Oh Jesus nut).
Dykes: diagonal cutters.
Stinger: can be one of two things. Either a) a hot Edison extension cable or b) a short wire cable used for rigging.
Meanie: a rope cleat on the west coast.
Uncle Buddy: a rope cleat on the east coast.
“Spin a disk:” to save a show on a light board. This phrase has its origins in the fact that all computerized lighting consoles used to have floppy disk drives so you could save a backup copy of your show.
Jumper: an extension cable (usually stage pin).
“Bang it:” to go directly into a cue, bypassing the computerized fade time. This phrase has stems from the fact that on early model ETC consoles, you would go into a cue by “banging” the playback faders down and up. This phrase has been made largely obsolete by the “go to cue” function.
Dimmer Beach: the area in a theatre (or, more commonly, in a touring setup) designated for the lighting dimmers. Supposed origin: Since the dimmers are usually the heaviest things on the electrics truck, they are usually packed near the rear of the truck, over the wheels. As such, they are one of the first things off the truck during load in. Once the dimmers off the truck and set up on the venue, many L1’s like to set up a beach chair near (or sometimes on top of) the dimmers and instruct the crew on where to put the rest of the lighting gear. Hence, dimmer beach.
Alligator Pits: This may just be a thing at my theatre, but the open holes in the grid through which the batten lift lines travel are called alligator pits. Presumably because if you fall into one, you die.
Yup. See if you can take my job seriously now (as if you ever could)…
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Needless Sexual Innuendo The Week Before Christmas
Yesterday afternoon, I decided to log in to my work email before I went home. Awaiting me were several messages, but the one that jumped out at me had a subject line that read, “Have you seen my package?” I was really scared to open it, but it turned out to be a guy looking for a DVD he got in the mail. Fortunately, the next email I read was one about how there was a going to be a free keg at 4:30pm, so I was able to calm my nerves. But, Jesus Christ. Proofread your emails.
Monday, November 30, 2009
The Postal Service is a Sham
First, let me make perfectly clear that the organization we are about to be mercilessly deriding is, in fact, the United States Postal Service, not the band “The Postal Service,” because the band is actually pretty decent at what they do, namely making sweet music. But even if their music was totally horrible, they’d still be doing a better job than USPS because, well, at least they’d be doing something. I swear to Christ, if I had a nickel for every time some deadbeat postal worker decided to go on break right when I walk in the post office, I’d be a rich man (well, I’d have at least about seventy five cents, because I try at all costs to avoid the post office like Fox News avoids the issues). Since I have been living in California (about four months) the following have not been delivered to my apartment: two issues of GQ, one issue of the New Yorker, one birthday card containing a check, and one freelance check. The following have been delivered to my apartment: numerous letters and a package for someone with an unpronounceable Asian name, a jury summons for someone named David, an alumni magazine from a college that neither my roommates nor I attended, a metric shitload of direct mail advertising for “current resident” and a letter marked “Urgent: Open Immediately, Time Sensitive Information Enclosed” for someone named Steve. I find it absolutely remarkable that I can get so much mail for people whose names are not Matt Avery, but that mail addressed to me has such a hard time actually getting to me. You’d think that at the very least, since I’m getting everyone else’s mail, the odds would be better for me to get some of my own mail too – it’s just simple odds.
Oh, and UPS, you’re on notice too. The next time you pull up next to my apartment with a package and don’t knock or even leave a “delivery attempt” slip, you’re getting a nasty blog post too. And don’t think I forgot about that time you somehow managed to get into our locked parking lot and leave a package outside my back door where I never go without leaving a note that sat out there for god knows how long before I happened to find it while I was taking out the trash. I know I live in South Berkeley and I don’t have a doorbell, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have to knock on the goddamn door. At least pretend to make an effort.
All delivery services outside of FedEx and DHL are duly warned. Everyone else, if you need to send something, send it to my work address. If you don’t know what it is, ask, but then I damn well better see a package within the week.
Punk ass delivery services think they can charge an arm and a leg and a kidney and a pint of virgin blood to not deliver packages…
Monday, November 9, 2009
A few items of note:
I finally designed a show on an Eos. The show was a playwright’s series, which was only about 90 minutes long, and needed minimal tech support. I was using one of the best consoles on the market, with over 400 lights and about 40 scrollers at my disposal. It was like driving a tank to the supermarket: ultra badass, but super unnecessary.
The Bay Bridge is a PR nightmare. If it’s not getting destroyed by earthquakes or falling on cars, cars (or, more specifically, huge semi trucks) are falling off of it. I go to Treasure Island regularly because one of our rental vendors is located there, and I’m pretty sure I haven’t ever felt safe driving on that bridge. The new bridge being built to replace it is already years behind schedule and millions of dollars over budget, and the new bridge isn’t going to replace or even circumvent the retarded double deck tunnel through Treasure Island/Yerba Buena Island. Also, Treasure Island and YBI are technically only one island because Treasure Island is man-made, but that’s a story for another time. Caltrans and the Highway Patrol might as well give up and cut their losses – it’s only going to get worse from here.
I’m flying from the second busiest airport on the west coast to the busiest this weekend. Wish me luck.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Somebody out there has to hate Halloween as much as I do
I really fucking hate Halloween. It’s just the truth. I hate costumes and I hate going to parties where everyone is wearing a stupid costume and I hate walking down the street and seeing people in costumes. I hate it when all the bars are really crowded, and I hate it even more when they’re really crowded with costumed drunks. It’s like the one day of the year where everybody gets license to act and look dumber than they already do in their everyday lives. This one holiday basically embodies most of the things that are wrong with America.
I also hate children, and as such, I hate trick or treating. It really defies every type of conventional logic and reason. If there’s anything worse than a mob of children walking unattended down the street, it’s a mob of sticky, costumed, sugar-crazed children walking down the street asking you for free shit. Fuck trick or treat. Who thought up that crazy-ass shit? Let’s give all these already hyperactive children a metric f-ton of candy. For free. Yeah, that’s a great idea. Hell.
But here’s the thing: everybody else fucking loves Halloween. It’s like these people wait all fucking year to get dressed up and get really drunk and puke on their stupid ass costumes. Nobody’s even clever about it. I don’t how many girls in college told me the were going to their Halloween parties as a sexy (insert noun here): pirate, soldier, fucking bumblebee. Here’s a word to the wise. Bumblebees aren’t sexy. They’re really fucking boring. All they do is make honey and sting the shit out of people. That’s not a good Halloween costume. The only good Halloween costume I’ve seen this year is a girl who went as the Bay Bridge wrapped in caution tape with crushed matchbox cars glued to it. And the guy last night who was dressed like Aristotle Onassis, but that was more just a good fashion choice than a good costume.
I can make neither heads nor tails of it. It doesn’t seem to me like you would do more work and spend more money just to go out drinking - which, incidentally, is already really expensive– but I guess that’s just me. Which is why this year, like every other year, I’ll spend Halloween sitting in my apartment with all the lights off and the curtains closed, drinking alone and cursing quietly cursing the trick or treaters.
I also hate children, and as such, I hate trick or treating. It really defies every type of conventional logic and reason. If there’s anything worse than a mob of children walking unattended down the street, it’s a mob of sticky, costumed, sugar-crazed children walking down the street asking you for free shit. Fuck trick or treat. Who thought up that crazy-ass shit? Let’s give all these already hyperactive children a metric f-ton of candy. For free. Yeah, that’s a great idea. Hell.
But here’s the thing: everybody else fucking loves Halloween. It’s like these people wait all fucking year to get dressed up and get really drunk and puke on their stupid ass costumes. Nobody’s even clever about it. I don’t how many girls in college told me the were going to their Halloween parties as a sexy (insert noun here): pirate, soldier, fucking bumblebee. Here’s a word to the wise. Bumblebees aren’t sexy. They’re really fucking boring. All they do is make honey and sting the shit out of people. That’s not a good Halloween costume. The only good Halloween costume I’ve seen this year is a girl who went as the Bay Bridge wrapped in caution tape with crushed matchbox cars glued to it. And the guy last night who was dressed like Aristotle Onassis, but that was more just a good fashion choice than a good costume.
I can make neither heads nor tails of it. It doesn’t seem to me like you would do more work and spend more money just to go out drinking - which, incidentally, is already really expensive– but I guess that’s just me. Which is why this year, like every other year, I’ll spend Halloween sitting in my apartment with all the lights off and the curtains closed, drinking alone and cursing quietly cursing the trick or treaters.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
In Explanation:
Yeah. I haven’t posted for a month. Want to fight about it?
Here’s what’s been keeping me busy:
1. Getting engaged to my girlfriend. More to come.
2. Tech week for Tiny Kushner
3. Watching both the Dodgers and the Angels lose, shattering my dreams for a freeway series the one year I’m living in California. Was that really too much to ask?
4. Reading all the awesome reviews of American Idiot and Tiny Kushner.
5. Serving drinks to Lea Michele (of recent fame on the TV show Glee, for those of you who don’t follow Broadway actors).
6. Seeing a guy Chinese fire drill the Bart train.
7. Getting verbally abused by bums.
8. Enjoying the nice weather.
But not to worry. I’ll be back with a vengeance in the coming weeks.
Here’s what’s been keeping me busy:
1. Getting engaged to my girlfriend. More to come.
2. Tech week for Tiny Kushner
3. Watching both the Dodgers and the Angels lose, shattering my dreams for a freeway series the one year I’m living in California. Was that really too much to ask?
4. Reading all the awesome reviews of American Idiot and Tiny Kushner.
5. Serving drinks to Lea Michele (of recent fame on the TV show Glee, for those of you who don’t follow Broadway actors).
6. Seeing a guy Chinese fire drill the Bart train.
7. Getting verbally abused by bums.
8. Enjoying the nice weather.
But not to worry. I’ll be back with a vengeance in the coming weeks.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
National Pastime
Ahh, baseball. America’s national pastime that hasn’t been taken seriously for at least two decades now. The playoffs haven’t even started yet and I already don’t see any suitable outcomes; as today marked both the Cardinals (whom I abhor) and the Yankees (who use the playoffs like cheap prostitutes just about every season) clinching playoff spots, while the Cubs are 8.5 games back in the NL central, and the Brewers are another 4.5 games behind that. Even the Giants, who I started rooting for because I live in the bay area and certainly can’t root for the A’s, did a great job of blowing a wildcard chance, and now have a great chance of ending their season in predictable, mediocre fashion. Really the only high points for me this season are that the White Sox almost certainly won’t make the playoffs, while the Red Sox almost certainly will (unless they keep playing like they did this weekend). Baseball makes me sad.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Berkeley Is Weird
I would have to take off my shoes to count the number of times in the past few weeks that I have been completely dumbfounded by shit that has happened in this city. I feel like almost once a day I am either stopped dead in my tracks or made to literally laugh out loud by something that I overheard or oversaw completely in passing. The other night, I went to the bodega down the street from my house, and upon entering, found that a borderline drunken woman was cursing out the clerk, saying some shit that would have made Mamet blush. The coup de grace of the tirade was, "You better put a skirt on 'cause you actin' like a bitch. Go put some pumps on, ho, and suck my dick motherfucker." I can’t make this shit up – nobody can really – and that’s the beauty of it. It’s raw, unrestricted human interaction in it’s truest form.
The problem is, I don’t even know where to begin in describing some of this stuff – I can only tell the same “I heard/saw a homeless man/woman say/do something really funny/sad” so many times. But that’s only the beginning. A lot of people will tell you that New York City is the place where you can do anything and not stand out, but I’ve been to New York, and that claim is false. There is a lot of crazy shit going on in NYC, and to be fair, their bars are (sadly) open much later than ours, but Berkeley is really the place to come for balls to the walls, unencumbered weirdness.
For example, the other night, as I was waiting downtown for the late Fremont train after seeing a movie with a friend, I happened to stumble into a conversation (I use “conversation” in it’s loosest sense) with a few girls from St. Mary’s college. The conversation started by virtue of the fact that they were drunk and had no idea how to get back to their school by train, and then centered on (drunkenly swerved around) how one of the girls was from Chicago and I was from Milwaukee (tri-staters have a bond in California), and we both like the Deftones. As a side note, apparently I don’t look like I just moved here because everyone asks me directions to places. Almost every time I take the train, someone asks me how to get to San Francisco. It’s unreal, because I don’t really live here, but I know the transit system better than people who do.
Regardless, midway through this conversation we were approached by a woman who, in addition to having the physical appearance of someone on the tail end of a weeks long meth binge, was clearly either blazed out of her mind or wasted on acid. Now, if you’ve ever been to NYC, you know that getting approached by anyone at a subway station let alone someone looking like the physical embodiment of slow death wearing a bed sheet for a skirt and hand painted sneakers would, at best, be received with a “go fuck yourself” and a halfhearted wave. But no. One of these girls actually summoned her over to ask about her shoes. When I used the words “hand painted,” I of course meant that they were splotched with fabric paint in a drug-addled haze, not actually painted with any semblance of clarity or meaning, but she asked nonetheless. The woman came over and talked for a minute – I don’t really remember what she said; I was too busy being stunned at how high she must have been – and after she left, the girl who started talking to her in the first place simply said, “Damn, she must’ve been smoking those trees. Like four or five of them.” I was laughing for days, and she just shrugged it off like that kind of shit happens every day. Which it basically does.
Moral? I don’t really know how to respond to Northern California. People have asked how I like it here and I never quite know how to respond. It can be such an all-encompassing question; I don’t really feel like I can address it in passing. “The weather’s gorgeous all the time, but everybody’s fucking psychotic” is usually what I end up saying, but that’s not necessarily all the way true. The best way of articulating this is that Berkeley – much more so than many other places I’ve lived – is a state of mind, rather than just simply a location. I just haven’t quite got the mindset down all the way yet…
The problem is, I don’t even know where to begin in describing some of this stuff – I can only tell the same “I heard/saw a homeless man/woman say/do something really funny/sad” so many times. But that’s only the beginning. A lot of people will tell you that New York City is the place where you can do anything and not stand out, but I’ve been to New York, and that claim is false. There is a lot of crazy shit going on in NYC, and to be fair, their bars are (sadly) open much later than ours, but Berkeley is really the place to come for balls to the walls, unencumbered weirdness.
For example, the other night, as I was waiting downtown for the late Fremont train after seeing a movie with a friend, I happened to stumble into a conversation (I use “conversation” in it’s loosest sense) with a few girls from St. Mary’s college. The conversation started by virtue of the fact that they were drunk and had no idea how to get back to their school by train, and then centered on (drunkenly swerved around) how one of the girls was from Chicago and I was from Milwaukee (tri-staters have a bond in California), and we both like the Deftones. As a side note, apparently I don’t look like I just moved here because everyone asks me directions to places. Almost every time I take the train, someone asks me how to get to San Francisco. It’s unreal, because I don’t really live here, but I know the transit system better than people who do.
Regardless, midway through this conversation we were approached by a woman who, in addition to having the physical appearance of someone on the tail end of a weeks long meth binge, was clearly either blazed out of her mind or wasted on acid. Now, if you’ve ever been to NYC, you know that getting approached by anyone at a subway station let alone someone looking like the physical embodiment of slow death wearing a bed sheet for a skirt and hand painted sneakers would, at best, be received with a “go fuck yourself” and a halfhearted wave. But no. One of these girls actually summoned her over to ask about her shoes. When I used the words “hand painted,” I of course meant that they were splotched with fabric paint in a drug-addled haze, not actually painted with any semblance of clarity or meaning, but she asked nonetheless. The woman came over and talked for a minute – I don’t really remember what she said; I was too busy being stunned at how high she must have been – and after she left, the girl who started talking to her in the first place simply said, “Damn, she must’ve been smoking those trees. Like four or five of them.” I was laughing for days, and she just shrugged it off like that kind of shit happens every day. Which it basically does.
Moral? I don’t really know how to respond to Northern California. People have asked how I like it here and I never quite know how to respond. It can be such an all-encompassing question; I don’t really feel like I can address it in passing. “The weather’s gorgeous all the time, but everybody’s fucking psychotic” is usually what I end up saying, but that’s not necessarily all the way true. The best way of articulating this is that Berkeley – much more so than many other places I’ve lived – is a state of mind, rather than just simply a location. I just haven’t quite got the mindset down all the way yet…
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
An Open Letter
Dear Hipsters who live in my apartment building:
Do you think it is cool to throw parties on two consecutive WEEK NIGHTS? Do you think it’s cool to ride your fixie to a party in south Berkeley and then stand around outside on the sidewalk drinking 40s out of paper bags and listening to Massive Attack with the system on blast? It’s not. It makes you look like douche bags. You’re making everything smell like pot and sound like angst. I’m sorry your parents didn’t love you enough, but seriously cut it out. Some people actually have the wherewithal to hold down steady jobs, and those same people have to be at work at nine o’clock in the fucking morning tomorrow. Knock it the fuck off.
Sincerely,
Your hate filled, job holding, upstairs neighbor.
Note 1: Karma, bitch that she is, is apparently paying me back for all the times I partied recklessly on weeknights during college.
Note 2: I seriously just looked out my window, and I have a laundry list of stereotypes:
3 fixies
2 girls wearing flannel shirts, knit hats, and horn rimmed glasses
3 guys wearing skinny jeans
4 40s of steel reserve
1 douchebag moustache
I’ve never even met these people, and yet I hate them with the burning fury of a million fiery suns.
Do you think it is cool to throw parties on two consecutive WEEK NIGHTS? Do you think it’s cool to ride your fixie to a party in south Berkeley and then stand around outside on the sidewalk drinking 40s out of paper bags and listening to Massive Attack with the system on blast? It’s not. It makes you look like douche bags. You’re making everything smell like pot and sound like angst. I’m sorry your parents didn’t love you enough, but seriously cut it out. Some people actually have the wherewithal to hold down steady jobs, and those same people have to be at work at nine o’clock in the fucking morning tomorrow. Knock it the fuck off.
Sincerely,
Your hate filled, job holding, upstairs neighbor.
***
Note 1: Karma, bitch that she is, is apparently paying me back for all the times I partied recklessly on weeknights during college.
Note 2: I seriously just looked out my window, and I have a laundry list of stereotypes:
3 fixies
2 girls wearing flannel shirts, knit hats, and horn rimmed glasses
3 guys wearing skinny jeans
4 40s of steel reserve
1 douchebag moustache
I’ve never even met these people, and yet I hate them with the burning fury of a million fiery suns.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Summer '09: What a Letdown
Dude. What a shitty summer. As far as I can tell, the people who received the most publicity this summer can be grouped into three categories. And those are:
1. Saying stupid shit at bad times (See also: Gates, Obama, Williams, Wilson, West).
2. Good tennis players sucking at the US Open (See also: Roddick, Murray, Federer, Nadal, Williams).
3. Dying: (See also: Jackson, Mays, Kennedy, Fawcett, Swayze).
Yup.
1. Saying stupid shit at bad times (See also: Gates, Obama, Williams, Wilson, West).
2. Good tennis players sucking at the US Open (See also: Roddick, Murray, Federer, Nadal, Williams).
3. Dying: (See also: Jackson, Mays, Kennedy, Fawcett, Swayze).
Yup.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Green Day’s American Idiot World Premire: A Comprehensive Analysis
REDACTED.
Front office at BRT has specifically asked the entire staff, due to the number of premiers and works in progress, to refrain from disseminating information regarding American Idiot, or any other shows in the upcoming season. This is - to say the least - understandable, and because I like my job, I've decided to comply. Until further notice, all information regarding this and all other shows can be found at berkeleyrep.org. This original post may be back once American Idiot has opened, but for now, I have never seen the show, nor do I know anything about it.
Apologies...
-MPA
Front office at BRT has specifically asked the entire staff, due to the number of premiers and works in progress, to refrain from disseminating information regarding American Idiot, or any other shows in the upcoming season. This is - to say the least - understandable, and because I like my job, I've decided to comply. Until further notice, all information regarding this and all other shows can be found at berkeleyrep.org. This original post may be back once American Idiot has opened, but for now, I have never seen the show, nor do I know anything about it.
Apologies...
-MPA
Sunday, August 30, 2009
I Have A Love-Hate Relationship With The Bay Fair Target
Today, I went to the Target in Bay Fair for the first time. Much like the Target off the Stadium Spur in Milwaukee (for those of you who are familiar with my homeland), this Target is bi-lingual due to the high percentage of the population demographic that is Hispanic. I had a blast laughing to myself at the sub-par English-Spanish translations. There’s something about seeing a vernacular phrase you see every day in another language that makes it seem utterly ridiculous. However, this fact also means that many of the employees are not familiar with my mother tongue. Which also happens to be the official language of this country.
In any event, I decided to start an herb garden on my fire escape (oregano and basil, not the California herb), so seeing as how this Target had a garden center, I was firmly in business. I first picked up some groceries, and a few things for my apartment (did you know ice cube trays are considered home storage? I didn’t.) and then headed to the garden center. Here’s the funny thing about me: while I’m shopping, I have a tendency to forget that I don’t have a car, a fact that is only remembered once I have passed the checkout. This means that I either have to get home on my bike, or on the train, both of which are almost equally daunting propositions when you are carrying enough groceries and/or housewares to outfit a small Mexican village. This lapse in memory and judgment has lead me to ride my bike home to South Berkeley from the Safeway in Oakland with six full bags of groceries on the handlebars. But I digress.
I walked around the store, picked up my plants, then realized that I needed pots for all of them. Then I realized that I needed dirt to fill the pots. Then I realized that I needed a cart because all this stuff sure as shit wasn’t going to fit in the tiny basket I was carrying. But at no point during all of these realizations did I think about having to carry several hundred pounds of garden supplies to the Bay Fair train station, then onto the train, then home from the Ashby station. I did realize this after I left the Target Store and saw the yawning expanse of parking lot that separated me from my train. So, being the resourceful person I am, I figured I could carry all my stuff across the parking lot in my cart, and then ditch the cart once I got to the edge of the lot. What I did not take into account was that the sneaky target bastards had a trap set for people like me. Turns out at this Target, if you take your cart beyond a certain point, the wheels lock up. Irreversibly. And that point happens to be the middle of the main road connecting all the stores in the shopping center. Which is where my cart still is. I figure if they want to put the electric fence there, they can fetch my cart back from the middle of the intersection with no working wheels. I sure as fuck wasn’t going to do them the courtesy. So I loaded all my bags into my arms, hiked to the Bart station, and waited for my train.
In any event, I decided to start an herb garden on my fire escape (oregano and basil, not the California herb), so seeing as how this Target had a garden center, I was firmly in business. I first picked up some groceries, and a few things for my apartment (did you know ice cube trays are considered home storage? I didn’t.) and then headed to the garden center. Here’s the funny thing about me: while I’m shopping, I have a tendency to forget that I don’t have a car, a fact that is only remembered once I have passed the checkout. This means that I either have to get home on my bike, or on the train, both of which are almost equally daunting propositions when you are carrying enough groceries and/or housewares to outfit a small Mexican village. This lapse in memory and judgment has lead me to ride my bike home to South Berkeley from the Safeway in Oakland with six full bags of groceries on the handlebars. But I digress.
I walked around the store, picked up my plants, then realized that I needed pots for all of them. Then I realized that I needed dirt to fill the pots. Then I realized that I needed a cart because all this stuff sure as shit wasn’t going to fit in the tiny basket I was carrying. But at no point during all of these realizations did I think about having to carry several hundred pounds of garden supplies to the Bay Fair train station, then onto the train, then home from the Ashby station. I did realize this after I left the Target Store and saw the yawning expanse of parking lot that separated me from my train. So, being the resourceful person I am, I figured I could carry all my stuff across the parking lot in my cart, and then ditch the cart once I got to the edge of the lot. What I did not take into account was that the sneaky target bastards had a trap set for people like me. Turns out at this Target, if you take your cart beyond a certain point, the wheels lock up. Irreversibly. And that point happens to be the middle of the main road connecting all the stores in the shopping center. Which is where my cart still is. I figure if they want to put the electric fence there, they can fetch my cart back from the middle of the intersection with no working wheels. I sure as fuck wasn’t going to do them the courtesy. So I loaded all my bags into my arms, hiked to the Bart station, and waited for my train.
***
My central concern about this whole endeavor is the seemingly frivolous use of technology. Doesn’t it seem as though all the research that went into developing shopping carts whose wheels lock up could have been used for a better purpose? Like seriously is there a huge black market for stolen shopping carts? Because the last I checked, most people want shopping carts in the store, not outside of it. I would be really fucking pissed off about all this, except for the fact that my grand total for like eight bags worth of stuff was $44. Damn you, Target, and your incredibly inexpensive merchandise, making me forget that I was mad at you in the first place…
Saturday, August 15, 2009
I Saw It On The Bart
So the other day when I was waiting (a fucking eternity) at the Ashby bart (Bay Area Rapid Transit) station for the Richmond train, I had an awesome idea. I said to myself, “self, you should make a segment on your blog dedicated to stupid shit that people do on the bart. You could call it ‘I saw it on the bart’ and it would be really funny and people would like you because of it. You could even have other people submit stories and then you could write a book based on stories other people have submitted to your blog just like ‘texts from last night’ and ‘fuck my life.’ Then you could get illegitimately wealthy by taking the work of others and claiming it as your own.” And then I looked at the scrolling marquee, which besides telling me that I still had 13 minutes until my train arrived said “Seen and heard on bart! www.bart.gov.” (People in the bay area have a really annoying habit to which I refuse to succumb, which is dropping the article in front of bart. So instead of saying, “I took the bart,” they just say, “I took bart.” Which, because bart sounds like a proper name, makes it seem like they are discussing an actual person in train form. Which is weird. But I digress.) So anyway, I got really fucking pissed that the bart website had taken my idea and I resolved to put plan “I saw it on the bart” into action anyway. So without further ado, here is the first installment.
I saw it on the bart Vol. 1 Ed. 1
Guy at the Ashby station full on sprinting down the up escalator with his bike to make the Freemont train. And then getting yelled at by the train driver for trying to take his bike in the front car. Saw that shit on the bart.
Guy getting real confused by the fact that you have to scan your ticket on the way out of the station as well as on the way in. OK, that was me. That’s not how trains work on the east coast…
Ok, I didn’t really see this on the bart, but outside the downtown Berkeley station some dude was smoking a joint. At 8:30 on a Sunday morning. In public. What was even funnier was the black woman who walked by and said, aloud: “damn somebody be smokin’ them grapes.” Awesome.
Two homeless dudes fighting over a boom box at the top of the escalator of the 16th Street Mission station. This was at once hilarious, and terribly sad.
Two teenage girls getting stuck between two train cars of a moving train because they let the door close behind them before they opened the one in front of them. It made me chuckle.
Hippie man who clearly got dressed in 1969 (sporting flowered shirt, headband, full beard, etc) sitting on a woven blanket playing a sitar. Dude. It’s the year of our lord jesus christ two thousand and nine. This means three things: 1) Playing a sitar hasn’t been cool in approx. 30 years. 2) Lighting a candle and sitting on a blanket outside the Powell bart station has never been cool. 3) You should go to the barber and tell him you’re sick of looking like an asshole. I wanted to hit him upside the head with a fashion magazine. Although it was a pretty interesting dichotomy: him sitting there sporting his 1960s gear with Barney's, Bergdorf Goodman, and Louis Vuitton not half a block away. Funny.
So here’s the funny thing about “I saw it on the bart”: it looks as though it’s going to end even before it really gets on it’s feet, due to the bart worker’s strike that will be going into effect on Monday. I was mad enough about this strike when it just prevented me from getting to San Francisco in under five hours, now I can also be mad about the fact that it is ruining my ability to find wonderful unintended humor at the expense of others. Hell.
I saw it on the bart Vol. 1 Ed. 1
Guy at the Ashby station full on sprinting down the up escalator with his bike to make the Freemont train. And then getting yelled at by the train driver for trying to take his bike in the front car. Saw that shit on the bart.
Guy getting real confused by the fact that you have to scan your ticket on the way out of the station as well as on the way in. OK, that was me. That’s not how trains work on the east coast…
Ok, I didn’t really see this on the bart, but outside the downtown Berkeley station some dude was smoking a joint. At 8:30 on a Sunday morning. In public. What was even funnier was the black woman who walked by and said, aloud: “damn somebody be smokin’ them grapes.” Awesome.
Two homeless dudes fighting over a boom box at the top of the escalator of the 16th Street Mission station. This was at once hilarious, and terribly sad.
Two teenage girls getting stuck between two train cars of a moving train because they let the door close behind them before they opened the one in front of them. It made me chuckle.
Hippie man who clearly got dressed in 1969 (sporting flowered shirt, headband, full beard, etc) sitting on a woven blanket playing a sitar. Dude. It’s the year of our lord jesus christ two thousand and nine. This means three things: 1) Playing a sitar hasn’t been cool in approx. 30 years. 2) Lighting a candle and sitting on a blanket outside the Powell bart station has never been cool. 3) You should go to the barber and tell him you’re sick of looking like an asshole. I wanted to hit him upside the head with a fashion magazine. Although it was a pretty interesting dichotomy: him sitting there sporting his 1960s gear with Barney's, Bergdorf Goodman, and Louis Vuitton not half a block away. Funny.
***
So here’s the funny thing about “I saw it on the bart”: it looks as though it’s going to end even before it really gets on it’s feet, due to the bart worker’s strike that will be going into effect on Monday. I was mad enough about this strike when it just prevented me from getting to San Francisco in under five hours, now I can also be mad about the fact that it is ruining my ability to find wonderful unintended humor at the expense of others. Hell.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Observations
Since I’ve now spent a almost five hours in Berkeley, CA, and since that pretty much makes me an expert, I’d like to share some observations that I’ve made during that time.
1. Almost everyone in Berkeley is a hippie, with two exceptions: surfers and the homeless. Not that any of these are mutually exclusive, however.
2. Shit is fucking expensive here. My six-pack of Newcastle was $8.65, and that was before bottle deposit and the staggering 8.75% sales tax. I’m pretty sure I paid like $4 for a fucking box of mac and cheese.
3. People carry marijuana in the open.
4. The trains run more frequently, and smell less like pee than those on the east coast.
5. The weather is nigh on perfect all the time.
6. Cars actually yield right of way to pedestrians.
7. People smoke marijuana in the open.
8. Fucking everyone rides a bike.
1. Almost everyone in Berkeley is a hippie, with two exceptions: surfers and the homeless. Not that any of these are mutually exclusive, however.
2. Shit is fucking expensive here. My six-pack of Newcastle was $8.65, and that was before bottle deposit and the staggering 8.75% sales tax. I’m pretty sure I paid like $4 for a fucking box of mac and cheese.
3. People carry marijuana in the open.
4. The trains run more frequently, and smell less like pee than those on the east coast.
5. The weather is nigh on perfect all the time.
6. Cars actually yield right of way to pedestrians.
7. People smoke marijuana in the open.
8. Fucking everyone rides a bike.
Addendum
ok i thought i was done making fun of people in the airport, but clearly not. a whole fucking squadron from the army just got off a plane, all wearing fatigues, and one of them actually had a camo-print travel pillow? why the fuck do you need that? so you can fucking hide out while you catch some z's on the plane? i think not...
Fuck Twitter
Ok, since Twitter's being a douche, here are some points of note from the Salt Lake City Airport. This is what I would have Twittered if that stupid ass website would let me post shit.
1. SLC smells strongly of fart.
2. holy shit just saw a kid get landed on his ass because he tried to outrun his kiddie leash on the moving walkway. fucking priceless.
3. the guy sitting next to me just rolled up with a full ass bag of groceries. where the fuck did he get that? did he bring it with him? is there a grocery store in the airport?
4. shout out to the guy who just walked past sporting a x-large Hawaiian shirt, blue scrubs, and a straw hat with buttons on it.
5. old people shouldn't be allowed in airports or on planes.
at least my flights are on time so far.
1. SLC smells strongly of fart.
2. holy shit just saw a kid get landed on his ass because he tried to outrun his kiddie leash on the moving walkway. fucking priceless.
3. the guy sitting next to me just rolled up with a full ass bag of groceries. where the fuck did he get that? did he bring it with him? is there a grocery store in the airport?
4. shout out to the guy who just walked past sporting a x-large Hawaiian shirt, blue scrubs, and a straw hat with buttons on it.
5. old people shouldn't be allowed in airports or on planes.
at least my flights are on time so far.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Travel Update
Just a quick update: I fly to California tomorrow. Keep your fingers crossed that this isn’t like any of my recent trips (if you are confused, please scroll down) and I can go back to normal, uneventful travel that happens in only one day. If Twitter starts working again, I will post updates throughout the day, most likely starting at 4am sharp when I wake up for my 6am flight. Yeah. It’s gonna be crappy. But crappy for me generally means funny for you. Remember the formula: tragedy+time=comedy. Especially if the tragedy didn’t happen to you.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
My First Car
I bought my first car when I was a freshman in college. Although I had always had access to a car during high school, this was my first shot at actually owning a car in my name, and I was excited. I purchased it from a friend and neighbor for five hundred dollars cash, and predictably, it was an absolute piece of garbage. It was a run down hatchback 1988 Chevy Nova whose poop-colored paint job could in most places still be discerned despite the gaping rust holes in the body work. The previous owner, who was a bit of a do-it-yourselfer, had welded together a huge roof rack made out of what I can only assume were construction grade steel girders, and had bolted it to the top of the car by drilling several six-inch bolts through the interior ceiling. While this rack would probably have been great for transporting military equipment or jumbo jets on the top of the car, it was not terribly conducive to good gas mileage, or any kind of aesthetic sensibility. Regardless, it came with a sound bill of health from said previous owner, and additionally, he promised to help me do whatever repair or maintenance was needed on the vehicle.
I bought the car when I was home on spring break, and took it back to college with me. It made the trip without a hitch and I was immensely happy with my purchase. I thought nothing more of it, until one rainy Sunday afternoon when I decided to make a trip to the public library to do some research for a paper I was writing - ironically enough - on clean fuel options. I walked out to my car, got in, turned the key, and nothing happened. Literally nothing. No sound whatsoever emitted from under the hood. I panicked and called my the guy who sold it to me.
“Eric, my car won't start.”
“Is it raining?”
“Well, yes, but what difference does that make?”
“Well, sometimes it has a little trouble starting in the rain. Give it a little gas when you turn the key.”
“Eric, a little gas is not going to do the trick. There is no hint that the car is even thinking about possibly trying to start. The engine isn't even making the sick car sound.”
He told me to give it twenty minutes and try it again. It still didn't start, regardless of how much I cursed at it and called it names and talked about its mother being a dump truck. An hour and a half later, and I was disgruntled, disheartened, and still behind on my research. I halfheartedly called the car a couple more dirty names and went inside.
A few days later, on a whim, I decided to see if I could get the car going. It started immediately, with no trace of it's prior angst. I was disgusted but also relieved. Perhaps it was just a fluke – one spot of bad luck for an otherwise good car. But of course that was not true. Over the course of the next few months, without fail, every time it rained, the car would flatly refuse to turn on. It got to the point where if it was raining when I woke up, I would call my work and let them know I was going to be late. And god forbid I were driving the car when it started raining, because it would turn off on the spot. On more than one occasion, the car actually stalled in the middle of an intersection, resulting in me pushing it, by myself, through the rest of the intersection and out of traffic. I'm not exactly sure how many of you have pushed a car by yourself, but it requires pushing from the driver's side with the door open while you simultaneously steer the car. Verdict: it fucking sucks.
During the life of the car, I took numerous trips to the auto body store in an effort to remedy this problem. I took the alternator out and had it tested. It worked perfectly. Starter? Check. Fuses? Check. New plugs, cap, and wires? Check on those too. I eventually got tired of wasting money and stopped buying new parts, but after only a few months, there was no fix under $100 that I hadn't tried.
This alone would have been bad enough, but the really messed up part was that while all this was happening, other stuff was breaking or going wrong with the car as well. The rear struts were old and crappy, and if I went around a sharp turn, especially during colder weather, they had a habit of getting stuck in the compressed position. They would stay stuck that way for anywhere from a few seconds to about twenty minutes, then hammer back into place with a terrifying suddenness that would almost cause the car to swerve off the road. The felt interior ceiling was falling apart, so I ripped it out and replaced it with a bolt of fabric from a craft store, which I stuck on with an exorbitant amount of carpet glue. Fuses blew regularly; with such a frequency in fact that I kept a stock of spares in my glove box in case one happened to go while I was on the road. For a while, the fuel mix (yes, it had a carburetor) was set too lean, so the idle speed would sometimes drop too low and the car would stall. I took it to a mechanic to have the mix tuned, and it drove the gas mileage through the floor. There was no middle ground; either no acceleration or terrible mileage. One day as I was leaving work, my car started with a horrifying roar, of the sort that might actually wake the dead. This continued all the way home, where – upon further inspection – I found a baseball sized hole in the muffler. Shortly thereafter, my brakes started making a hideous screeching noise (imagine: velociraptor crossed with terrible freight train accident) and when I took it to the mechanic he told me that I had inadvertently worn down my brake rotors to the point where it would be almost impossible to fix them. This shit kept happening and happening, and the expenses kept adding up. Over the course of three months, I put more money into parts and repair for that car than I have put into my current car in three years.
As you can probably imagine, I got fed up with this, and pretty quickly decided to sell the car. And by that I mean I got laughed at (literally) when I asked my mechanic how and where he thought I should sell it. His answer: “If you can, drive it to a tow-away zone and leave it there. That way you won't have to pay someone to take it away for you.” I ended up donating it to the “Boys Ranch” so they could scrap it for parts. They towed it away for free, and I got tax credit, and the removal of what had amounted to a huge pain in my ass. I consider that a success.
I bought the car when I was home on spring break, and took it back to college with me. It made the trip without a hitch and I was immensely happy with my purchase. I thought nothing more of it, until one rainy Sunday afternoon when I decided to make a trip to the public library to do some research for a paper I was writing - ironically enough - on clean fuel options. I walked out to my car, got in, turned the key, and nothing happened. Literally nothing. No sound whatsoever emitted from under the hood. I panicked and called my the guy who sold it to me.
“Eric, my car won't start.”
“Is it raining?”
“Well, yes, but what difference does that make?”
“Well, sometimes it has a little trouble starting in the rain. Give it a little gas when you turn the key.”
“Eric, a little gas is not going to do the trick. There is no hint that the car is even thinking about possibly trying to start. The engine isn't even making the sick car sound.”
He told me to give it twenty minutes and try it again. It still didn't start, regardless of how much I cursed at it and called it names and talked about its mother being a dump truck. An hour and a half later, and I was disgruntled, disheartened, and still behind on my research. I halfheartedly called the car a couple more dirty names and went inside.
A few days later, on a whim, I decided to see if I could get the car going. It started immediately, with no trace of it's prior angst. I was disgusted but also relieved. Perhaps it was just a fluke – one spot of bad luck for an otherwise good car. But of course that was not true. Over the course of the next few months, without fail, every time it rained, the car would flatly refuse to turn on. It got to the point where if it was raining when I woke up, I would call my work and let them know I was going to be late. And god forbid I were driving the car when it started raining, because it would turn off on the spot. On more than one occasion, the car actually stalled in the middle of an intersection, resulting in me pushing it, by myself, through the rest of the intersection and out of traffic. I'm not exactly sure how many of you have pushed a car by yourself, but it requires pushing from the driver's side with the door open while you simultaneously steer the car. Verdict: it fucking sucks.
During the life of the car, I took numerous trips to the auto body store in an effort to remedy this problem. I took the alternator out and had it tested. It worked perfectly. Starter? Check. Fuses? Check. New plugs, cap, and wires? Check on those too. I eventually got tired of wasting money and stopped buying new parts, but after only a few months, there was no fix under $100 that I hadn't tried.
This alone would have been bad enough, but the really messed up part was that while all this was happening, other stuff was breaking or going wrong with the car as well. The rear struts were old and crappy, and if I went around a sharp turn, especially during colder weather, they had a habit of getting stuck in the compressed position. They would stay stuck that way for anywhere from a few seconds to about twenty minutes, then hammer back into place with a terrifying suddenness that would almost cause the car to swerve off the road. The felt interior ceiling was falling apart, so I ripped it out and replaced it with a bolt of fabric from a craft store, which I stuck on with an exorbitant amount of carpet glue. Fuses blew regularly; with such a frequency in fact that I kept a stock of spares in my glove box in case one happened to go while I was on the road. For a while, the fuel mix (yes, it had a carburetor) was set too lean, so the idle speed would sometimes drop too low and the car would stall. I took it to a mechanic to have the mix tuned, and it drove the gas mileage through the floor. There was no middle ground; either no acceleration or terrible mileage. One day as I was leaving work, my car started with a horrifying roar, of the sort that might actually wake the dead. This continued all the way home, where – upon further inspection – I found a baseball sized hole in the muffler. Shortly thereafter, my brakes started making a hideous screeching noise (imagine: velociraptor crossed with terrible freight train accident) and when I took it to the mechanic he told me that I had inadvertently worn down my brake rotors to the point where it would be almost impossible to fix them. This shit kept happening and happening, and the expenses kept adding up. Over the course of three months, I put more money into parts and repair for that car than I have put into my current car in three years.
As you can probably imagine, I got fed up with this, and pretty quickly decided to sell the car. And by that I mean I got laughed at (literally) when I asked my mechanic how and where he thought I should sell it. His answer: “If you can, drive it to a tow-away zone and leave it there. That way you won't have to pay someone to take it away for you.” I ended up donating it to the “Boys Ranch” so they could scrap it for parts. They towed it away for free, and I got tax credit, and the removal of what had amounted to a huge pain in my ass. I consider that a success.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
The Burning Fury of a Thousand Million Suns (aka Odyssey #2)
In coming from upstate New York to Des Moines, Iowa, I had literally one of the worst drives of my life. Over the course of about thirty hours, each event compounded upon the one previous to create the worst travel experience since the Florida Odyssey. Here is the course of events:
Thursday, July 16, 2009
7:15pm: I finally get back to Albany NY, from PRG in New Jersey. I had expected to get there about 5:30. No matter.
7:16pm: I get into my car and start driving from Crossgates Mall in Albany. The roads around Crossgates are labyrinthian.
7:16:30pm: Immediately upon entering the freeway, I get blocked by a semi, and get shunted onto the northway, instead of the thruway west like I wanted.
7:17-7:25pm: Numerous actions taken to remedy situation.
7:25pm: Get back on Northway, then thruway, going the right direction.
8:30pm: Get on STE, to the sun setting into the Alleghenies. Beautiful.
10:00pm: I decide that I will drive 100 more miles, or until midnight, whichever comes first. I am on the interstate, and there seems to be numerous places to stop for the night.
10:15pm: All traces of life vanish. There are no more exits, and the road is pitch dark. I find this to be kind of sketchy.
10:35pm: Still nothing. No lights, few other cars.
11:05pm: My gas needle is on E. I start looking for gas stations. There aren't any.
11:26pm: There is a sign for a gas station off exit 29. I follow the signs into one of the most depressing small towns I have ever encountered. The gas station is closed. New York has a law that gas pumps must be shut off after the store closes. I curse everything that is good and holy.
11:28pm: I get back on the expressway. My gas needle is now below E. I proceed to get nervous.
11:46pm: After two fruitless exits, I find a gas station that is open. I fill my 11 gallon gas tank with 10.6 gallons of gas. Close call.
11:47pm: I get back on the interstate and begin searching for a hotel in earnest. Predictably, there are none.
Friday, July 17, 2009
12:13am: I see a sign for a Hampton Inn. There is a god.
12:15am: Hampton Inn is full. There is a god and he hates me. The desk clerk at the Hampton tells me that there is one room available at the Country Inn across town. He tells me to go fast because it is the last room available in at least 50 miles.
12:16am: I drive to the Country Inn like I'm black and the LAPD is chasing me.
12:24am: I get to the Country Inn. The room is still available. I get charged a small mortgage. Like literally, I paid less for a hotel room in Midtown Manhattan than for this Country Inn in bumblefuck NY. Predictably, I am not pleased.
12:16am: I shower off a day's worth of New Jersey grime, and then pass out.
7:45am: I wake up and raid the continental breakfast. By god I am going to get my money's worth out of this hotel.
8:03am: two bagles, a muffin, an apple, a bowl of cereal, and three cups of coffee later, I am ready to hit the road.
9:15am: I am already in Pennsylvania. I see a billboard advertising “Fireworks, Karate Supplies, Swords and Knives.” Perhaps my fates have turned.
10:23am: I cross the border into Ohio. I am all that is man. I stop at a rest stop for a celebratory Coca Cola and a tank of gas.
11:42am: I realize that I don't have my cell phone. I proceed to tear my car apart, almost driving off the road in the process.
11:44am: No cell phone. I realize that I left it on top of my car at the rest stop. It is now somewhere in the middle of I-90. About 100 miles behind me. In the pouring rain. God hates me, there is now no doubt.
12:10pm: I spend a dollar per minute to call my dad on a pay phone and let him know that my phone is toast. The only people who use payphones are homeless. I feel homeless.
12:16pm: I get back on the interstate. Only 500 miles to go.
3:24pm: Traffic backs up on the 80/90 in Indiana.
3:26pm: This is by far the worst traffic jam I have ever been in. Please note that I cut my teeth driving in Chicago and Orange County, CA.
3:28pm: I turn off my car and get out. On the side of the freeway.
3:44pm: Traffic starts to move again. I leisurely get back in my car and start driving. For 20 feet. And then stop and turn off my car again.
3:46pm: Two state police cars drive past me on the shoulder of the road. I am excited because I think they are going to divert traffic.
3:47pm: I notice that the police are not diverting traffic at all, but are instead giving tickets to people who are using the turnarounds to avoid the traffic jam. This is why people hate the police.
4:18pm: Traffic finally subsides. I have spent an hour going 2 ¾ miles. The reason for the traffic: one lane closed for 150 feet so construction workers could pick up road cones.
4:18:05: I contemplate what I might have done to piss off karma.
4:18:07: after some contemplation, I realize that I am probably pretty lucky that karma let me off this easily.
4:45pm: Because of the hour spent going nowhere in Indiana, I have hit full on Friday afternoon Chicago rush hour traffic (note the time change from EDT to CDT – I didn't actually make it from eastern Indiana to Chicago in under half an hour).
5:35pm: After spending almost an hour fighting assholes on the East-West Tollway, I am out of traffic and almost to Joliet. And I feel strangely at home.
6:10pm: Easy sailing through Illinois. Midwest expressways are ugly. I miss the Alleghenies.
6:53pm: Almost to Iowa. Score.
6:54pm: Construction on I-80. The interstate is down to one lane for 10 miles. So close, and yet, so far.
7:13pm: I finally make it into Iowa. 197 miles to Des Moines.
9:44pm: Arrive Des Moines. It is dark, cloudy, and cold.
10:15pm: I eat Jimmy Johns, and fall into a deep, comatose sleep.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
7:15pm: I finally get back to Albany NY, from PRG in New Jersey. I had expected to get there about 5:30. No matter.
7:16pm: I get into my car and start driving from Crossgates Mall in Albany. The roads around Crossgates are labyrinthian.
7:16:30pm: Immediately upon entering the freeway, I get blocked by a semi, and get shunted onto the northway, instead of the thruway west like I wanted.
7:17-7:25pm: Numerous actions taken to remedy situation.
7:25pm: Get back on Northway, then thruway, going the right direction.
8:30pm: Get on STE, to the sun setting into the Alleghenies. Beautiful.
10:00pm: I decide that I will drive 100 more miles, or until midnight, whichever comes first. I am on the interstate, and there seems to be numerous places to stop for the night.
10:15pm: All traces of life vanish. There are no more exits, and the road is pitch dark. I find this to be kind of sketchy.
10:35pm: Still nothing. No lights, few other cars.
11:05pm: My gas needle is on E. I start looking for gas stations. There aren't any.
11:26pm: There is a sign for a gas station off exit 29. I follow the signs into one of the most depressing small towns I have ever encountered. The gas station is closed. New York has a law that gas pumps must be shut off after the store closes. I curse everything that is good and holy.
11:28pm: I get back on the expressway. My gas needle is now below E. I proceed to get nervous.
11:46pm: After two fruitless exits, I find a gas station that is open. I fill my 11 gallon gas tank with 10.6 gallons of gas. Close call.
11:47pm: I get back on the interstate and begin searching for a hotel in earnest. Predictably, there are none.
Friday, July 17, 2009
12:13am: I see a sign for a Hampton Inn. There is a god.
12:15am: Hampton Inn is full. There is a god and he hates me. The desk clerk at the Hampton tells me that there is one room available at the Country Inn across town. He tells me to go fast because it is the last room available in at least 50 miles.
12:16am: I drive to the Country Inn like I'm black and the LAPD is chasing me.
12:24am: I get to the Country Inn. The room is still available. I get charged a small mortgage. Like literally, I paid less for a hotel room in Midtown Manhattan than for this Country Inn in bumblefuck NY. Predictably, I am not pleased.
12:16am: I shower off a day's worth of New Jersey grime, and then pass out.
7:45am: I wake up and raid the continental breakfast. By god I am going to get my money's worth out of this hotel.
8:03am: two bagles, a muffin, an apple, a bowl of cereal, and three cups of coffee later, I am ready to hit the road.
9:15am: I am already in Pennsylvania. I see a billboard advertising “Fireworks, Karate Supplies, Swords and Knives.” Perhaps my fates have turned.
10:23am: I cross the border into Ohio. I am all that is man. I stop at a rest stop for a celebratory Coca Cola and a tank of gas.
11:42am: I realize that I don't have my cell phone. I proceed to tear my car apart, almost driving off the road in the process.
11:44am: No cell phone. I realize that I left it on top of my car at the rest stop. It is now somewhere in the middle of I-90. About 100 miles behind me. In the pouring rain. God hates me, there is now no doubt.
12:10pm: I spend a dollar per minute to call my dad on a pay phone and let him know that my phone is toast. The only people who use payphones are homeless. I feel homeless.
12:16pm: I get back on the interstate. Only 500 miles to go.
3:24pm: Traffic backs up on the 80/90 in Indiana.
3:26pm: This is by far the worst traffic jam I have ever been in. Please note that I cut my teeth driving in Chicago and Orange County, CA.
3:28pm: I turn off my car and get out. On the side of the freeway.
3:44pm: Traffic starts to move again. I leisurely get back in my car and start driving. For 20 feet. And then stop and turn off my car again.
3:46pm: Two state police cars drive past me on the shoulder of the road. I am excited because I think they are going to divert traffic.
3:47pm: I notice that the police are not diverting traffic at all, but are instead giving tickets to people who are using the turnarounds to avoid the traffic jam. This is why people hate the police.
4:18pm: Traffic finally subsides. I have spent an hour going 2 ¾ miles. The reason for the traffic: one lane closed for 150 feet so construction workers could pick up road cones.
4:18:05: I contemplate what I might have done to piss off karma.
4:18:07: after some contemplation, I realize that I am probably pretty lucky that karma let me off this easily.
4:45pm: Because of the hour spent going nowhere in Indiana, I have hit full on Friday afternoon Chicago rush hour traffic (note the time change from EDT to CDT – I didn't actually make it from eastern Indiana to Chicago in under half an hour).
5:35pm: After spending almost an hour fighting assholes on the East-West Tollway, I am out of traffic and almost to Joliet. And I feel strangely at home.
6:10pm: Easy sailing through Illinois. Midwest expressways are ugly. I miss the Alleghenies.
6:53pm: Almost to Iowa. Score.
6:54pm: Construction on I-80. The interstate is down to one lane for 10 miles. So close, and yet, so far.
7:13pm: I finally make it into Iowa. 197 miles to Des Moines.
9:44pm: Arrive Des Moines. It is dark, cloudy, and cold.
10:15pm: I eat Jimmy Johns, and fall into a deep, comatose sleep.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
This Is What I Went To College For
Due to a few conversations I've had recently, I think that many people may be under the (false) impression that that backstage elements of a theatrical production are rehearsed to almost an exacting science. I wanted to take the time to correct that terrible misinformation here. As a general rule, we (theatrical technicians) don't really expend any more time or energy at our jobs than most people do, we just happen to be really good at what we do, which makes it easier to slack off, but still look like we're doing a good job. A perfect example: right now, as I'm writing this piece, I'm in the middle of running lights for a dress rehearsal of an opera. I'm listening to my stage manager over the headset in one ear, listening to Amos Lee on headphones in my other ear, and listening to the opera not at all.
When I'm running lights, I literally sit in a dark booth and push one button (GO) to make the lights change for three hours. That's it. Predictably, this is boring as fuck, so I generally use shows as my time to get some work done. They could make a Windows Mobile commercial about all the shit I do on my phone during a show; I have literally negotiated a contract with another theatre company via email while running a show for my current company. I check Facebook and Twitter, read the Times or the New Yorker, do the crossword; basically anything that a person with a normal job does in their cubicle when they're not supposed to, I do at the light board. Except here nobody cares.
Many people also think there is some sort of protocol for the communication that goes on during a show, which, to an extent is true. There are definitely things you can and cannot say on headset (“go” being a thing not to say, unless you are the stage manager calling a cue), certain times not to talk, and so forth. However, the further you get into the run of a show, the more comfortable everyone gets, and the more relaxed the headset etiquette gets. We have conversations, make plans for where to go drinking after the show, play games, take bets on who will be late to an entrance, &c. During today's matinee of Madama Butterfly, one of the ASMs (that's assistant stage manager, for you laymen) decided that the third act overture was a lot funner if you meowed along with the melody. Which she proceeded to do, as Puccini rolled in his grave. But it was a lot funnier, to her credit.
Basically, the upshot of all this is simply, the next time you go to a show, just be aware that it's being run by people who are screwing around at work just as much as you do. We're just better at it than you are.
When I'm running lights, I literally sit in a dark booth and push one button (GO) to make the lights change for three hours. That's it. Predictably, this is boring as fuck, so I generally use shows as my time to get some work done. They could make a Windows Mobile commercial about all the shit I do on my phone during a show; I have literally negotiated a contract with another theatre company via email while running a show for my current company. I check Facebook and Twitter, read the Times or the New Yorker, do the crossword; basically anything that a person with a normal job does in their cubicle when they're not supposed to, I do at the light board. Except here nobody cares.
Many people also think there is some sort of protocol for the communication that goes on during a show, which, to an extent is true. There are definitely things you can and cannot say on headset (“go” being a thing not to say, unless you are the stage manager calling a cue), certain times not to talk, and so forth. However, the further you get into the run of a show, the more comfortable everyone gets, and the more relaxed the headset etiquette gets. We have conversations, make plans for where to go drinking after the show, play games, take bets on who will be late to an entrance, &c. During today's matinee of Madama Butterfly, one of the ASMs (that's assistant stage manager, for you laymen) decided that the third act overture was a lot funner if you meowed along with the melody. Which she proceeded to do, as Puccini rolled in his grave. But it was a lot funnier, to her credit.
Basically, the upshot of all this is simply, the next time you go to a show, just be aware that it's being run by people who are screwing around at work just as much as you do. We're just better at it than you are.
Ed. Note
Um, so apparently this Berkeley Rep Fellowship thing is a somewhat bigger deal than I previously knew. The program has been written up on both the Stage Directions website and on Broadway World.com. I, as well as the other fellowship recipients get a little write up. I actually had no idea about either of these articles until they were pointed out to me by (in order) my girlfriend, my former TD, and an audio engineer I worked with several years ago. Check it out!
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
New Job
So, dear readers, it's time to break the news on my blog: I finally have a job for next year. I have just signed a 10-month contract with the Berkeley Repertory Theatre (I mailed it out yesterday), so it looks as though I'm about to become a resident of the California Republic. At this stage, I don't know much about the gig, other than I will be working at an internationally renowned LORT theatre, under one of the best master electricians in the business. Oh, and I'll be teching the world premier of Green Day's musical. Yeah that too...
It's really quite gratifying to find that, after four years of what sometimes seemed like fruitless labor as an undergraduate, I'm actually employable, and might just become a productive member of society after all. I'm also relieved that, at least until next June, I won't have to put my bar tending and coffee making skills to professional use. For that, I have a lot of people to thank, not the least of whom are my professors and co-workers at school, and from whom I learned a lot of lessons, both inside and outside of that theoretical realm we like to call academia. To be fair, quite a few of those lessons dealt with what not to do in the professional world, but still, those are good things to know as well. I also have to thank my parents for putting my broke ass through private school with a minimum of student loans – for someone who is trying to become a professional artist, that is incredibly important. Once again, I'm able to count myself among the successful – although lucky is probably more accurate – few theatre professionals who are able to go on doing what they love for the length of yet another contract. So raise your glass, pour one out for the homies, and keep them fingers crossed. Here's to new beginnings.
It's really quite gratifying to find that, after four years of what sometimes seemed like fruitless labor as an undergraduate, I'm actually employable, and might just become a productive member of society after all. I'm also relieved that, at least until next June, I won't have to put my bar tending and coffee making skills to professional use. For that, I have a lot of people to thank, not the least of whom are my professors and co-workers at school, and from whom I learned a lot of lessons, both inside and outside of that theoretical realm we like to call academia. To be fair, quite a few of those lessons dealt with what not to do in the professional world, but still, those are good things to know as well. I also have to thank my parents for putting my broke ass through private school with a minimum of student loans – for someone who is trying to become a professional artist, that is incredibly important. Once again, I'm able to count myself among the successful – although lucky is probably more accurate – few theatre professionals who are able to go on doing what they love for the length of yet another contract. So raise your glass, pour one out for the homies, and keep them fingers crossed. Here's to new beginnings.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
The Day I Almost Died
Few people actually know how close I have come to death. And my close encounter with my own mortality came in pretty much the most hilarious way possible. Here’s how it went down:
When I was about 16, my then girlfriend and I went to Noah’s Ark in Wisconsin Dells. I grew up in Wisconsin where this is actually a legitimate vacation destination – leave me alone. At 16 year old, this was my Elysium: I not only got to spend the entire day away from my parents, I got to spend it hanging out at a water park with my super hot girlfriend who was wearing a bikini. And afterward we were going back to her house where her parents weren’t going to be. Awesomeness? Check.
We rode a few water slides, did the water park thing for a few hours, and then we headed to the wave pool. Little did I know the effect this was going to have, not only on my day, but on the rest of my life. We were hanging out in the wave pool for a while, and everything was going fine. At that time, there were no waves so, after a few minutes, the girlfriend and I started to head back to the edge of the pool, because a wave pool without waves is like a sandwich with no meat: pretty damn boring. It was at this point that two things happened almost simultaneously: The waves started with gusto, and I got the worst cramp in my leg that I have ever experienced. Now, before you write me off as a wimp, I’m in pretty good physical shape (even more so then than now). I’ve played sports, and more importantly, I’m a fairly strong swimmer. I have injured myself pretty badly on several occasions (sprains, pulled muscles, tendonitis, &c.) and played through all of them. This was by far the worst pain I had experienced in my young life. I could not move my right leg. Which meant that consequently, I could not tread water. The waves had worked up to pretty good size now (about 40 foot seas, if I had to hazard a guess) and I could not keep my head above water. The water was too deep for me to touch the floor of the pool with my good leg, and I couldn’t tread well enough with one leg to keep pace with the waves. Every time I got my nose above the surface to gasp a breath, I got pummeled by another tsunami-sized breaker that pushed my head back under the water. I was drowning. In the fucking wave pool at Noah’s Ark.
As I’m being battered by the man-made surf, a few things are running through my mind:
A) What a way to die.
B) This is going to be terrible for my relationship. Even if I survive, I may not have a girlfriend anymore.
C) I sure do feel sorry for the ten-year-old and his mommy who find my dead body washed up on the astro-turf beach next to the plastic chaise-lounges.
D) Who came up with the idea for a wave pool anyway, and then designed it with no fucking safety device? Wave pools aren’t even that much fun when you’re not drowning.
It was then that I decided that there was abso-fucking-lutely no way I was going to die anywhere at Noah’s Ark – it would be far to ignominious. I kicked the survival instinct up a notch, grabbed a breath of air between waves, and started to body surf. Yep, I body surfed my way back to the shore of the wave pool. I finally got close to the edge, and as a final insult, one last wave broke over my head, and slammed me, chest first, onto the astro-turf beach, giving me a mean case of rug burn on my chin, chest, and stomach. It felt great on my sunburn.
I spent the rest of the day riding a huge inner tube on the “Lazy River” because I was too afraid to go on any of the other rides; almost dying in the fucking wave pool doesn’t really make you want to ride the “Point of No Return.” One brush with death in a day was enough for me. To be fair, the girlfriend was relatively gracious about it, and she still hung out with me instead of reacting with shame and disgust as I had imagined she would. But, adding still more insult to my injury, I got a funny sunburn from sitting in an inner tube in the sun all afternoon. I can’t make this shit up.
When I was about 16, my then girlfriend and I went to Noah’s Ark in Wisconsin Dells. I grew up in Wisconsin where this is actually a legitimate vacation destination – leave me alone. At 16 year old, this was my Elysium: I not only got to spend the entire day away from my parents, I got to spend it hanging out at a water park with my super hot girlfriend who was wearing a bikini. And afterward we were going back to her house where her parents weren’t going to be. Awesomeness? Check.
We rode a few water slides, did the water park thing for a few hours, and then we headed to the wave pool. Little did I know the effect this was going to have, not only on my day, but on the rest of my life. We were hanging out in the wave pool for a while, and everything was going fine. At that time, there were no waves so, after a few minutes, the girlfriend and I started to head back to the edge of the pool, because a wave pool without waves is like a sandwich with no meat: pretty damn boring. It was at this point that two things happened almost simultaneously: The waves started with gusto, and I got the worst cramp in my leg that I have ever experienced. Now, before you write me off as a wimp, I’m in pretty good physical shape (even more so then than now). I’ve played sports, and more importantly, I’m a fairly strong swimmer. I have injured myself pretty badly on several occasions (sprains, pulled muscles, tendonitis, &c.) and played through all of them. This was by far the worst pain I had experienced in my young life. I could not move my right leg. Which meant that consequently, I could not tread water. The waves had worked up to pretty good size now (about 40 foot seas, if I had to hazard a guess) and I could not keep my head above water. The water was too deep for me to touch the floor of the pool with my good leg, and I couldn’t tread well enough with one leg to keep pace with the waves. Every time I got my nose above the surface to gasp a breath, I got pummeled by another tsunami-sized breaker that pushed my head back under the water. I was drowning. In the fucking wave pool at Noah’s Ark.
As I’m being battered by the man-made surf, a few things are running through my mind:
A) What a way to die.
B) This is going to be terrible for my relationship. Even if I survive, I may not have a girlfriend anymore.
C) I sure do feel sorry for the ten-year-old and his mommy who find my dead body washed up on the astro-turf beach next to the plastic chaise-lounges.
D) Who came up with the idea for a wave pool anyway, and then designed it with no fucking safety device? Wave pools aren’t even that much fun when you’re not drowning.
It was then that I decided that there was abso-fucking-lutely no way I was going to die anywhere at Noah’s Ark – it would be far to ignominious. I kicked the survival instinct up a notch, grabbed a breath of air between waves, and started to body surf. Yep, I body surfed my way back to the shore of the wave pool. I finally got close to the edge, and as a final insult, one last wave broke over my head, and slammed me, chest first, onto the astro-turf beach, giving me a mean case of rug burn on my chin, chest, and stomach. It felt great on my sunburn.
I spent the rest of the day riding a huge inner tube on the “Lazy River” because I was too afraid to go on any of the other rides; almost dying in the fucking wave pool doesn’t really make you want to ride the “Point of No Return.” One brush with death in a day was enough for me. To be fair, the girlfriend was relatively gracious about it, and she still hung out with me instead of reacting with shame and disgust as I had imagined she would. But, adding still more insult to my injury, I got a funny sunburn from sitting in an inner tube in the sun all afternoon. I can’t make this shit up.
Vodka Short List
I've been doing a lot of traveling lately, and a lot of drinking always, so in an effort to help this blog live up to the more cultural and informative parts of it's billing, I've created a list of what I consider to be the ten best types of vodka. Since I can read your mind, I can tell that you're thinking: what can be that great about a liquor that is distilled to be tasteless and colorless? If you're asking this question, don't feel bad, it just means one of two things: either you're not that smart, or you don't drink that much, both of which are problems that this blog, and more specifically this blog post in particular, can remedy. You're also thinking: why the hell should I listen to your drinking advice, Avery? To which I respond: I've probably had a lot more vodka than you have, and in this case, experience equals knowledge. You may also be thinking that you can cut corners and get cheap vodka from the liquor section of the grocery store, which is not really true. Most vodka under $15 or $20 is pure fucking fire water and should not be consumed by anyone, ever. I've even included some parings to get you started on your way to being a two-fisting alcoholic. So without further ado:
10 Best Vodkas served in America
1.Ultimat: don't even bother mixing it, it's too good. Up, extra dry, with a few bleu cheese olives is one of the best martinis you will ever have. You may think that you don't like straight dry martinis, but you are wrong. You just haven't had a good one yet.
2.Snow Queen: good on its own merits, or in a mixed cocktail. Excellent compliment to delicate flavors like peach or orchid. The downside is that it's really hard to find anywhere besides the northeast.
3.Grey Goose: This is a smooth, good tasting vodka, that is overall very solid.
4.Reyka: Pretty smooth, with a great, tart flavor. Great compliment to flavors like pomegranate and cranberry.
5.Belvedere: a real solid, middle of the road vodka. It's number 5 for a reason, as it never fails as a reliable go-to.
6.Ketel One: Try it with club soda and a slice of lemon.
7.Stolichnaya: Cheaper than most, but still really good. Goes well with sweeter flavors like pineapple or orange.
8.Ciroc: Pretty good vodka – excellent flavors, but not the smoothest you can buy.
9.Finlandia: makes great mixed drinks. Try it in a pomegranate and blueberry martini.
10.Chopin: ehh. Somebody had to be number ten.
Disclaimers:
These brands listed represent their straight, unflavored versions only. Almost unanimously, the flavored versions of these vodkas are not as good: if you want a flavored vodka, your best bet is to infuse it yourself (more on this to come).
Although I fancy myself somewhat of an amateur vodka connoisseur, and I have consumed a good deal of vodka in my day, the vodkas listed represent only those I have tasted so far. There are plenty of good varieties (Cape North for example) that have such limited distribution that even I haven't gotten around to trying them yet.
There are also several vodkas that are very good, just not good enough to be top ten. Some examples:
Rain: very flavorful but a little harsh. Supposedly distilled using rain water or some shit like that. Pros: comes in a fun raindrop shaped bottle, can be bought for about $20. Cons: not that great. Makes a really good vodka lemonade though.
Pearl: a solid, middle of the road vodka. Pros: cheap ($18) and smooth. Cons: No flavor at all. Good for cocktails like bloody marys, where the flavor of the vodka is mostly overpowered by the mixer anyway.
Quadro: Pros: comes in a neat square bottle. Cons: mediocre, limited availability.
Svedka: Pros: great for when you're having a party, because it's pretty decent, and you can get a magnum bottle for like $35. Cons: doesn't taste that great. It would be stupid to make a martini with it.
Three Olives: Pros: if you must buy a flavored vodka, they have some of the best and most diverse flavors available, from pomegranate to root beer to vanilla. Cons: the way it is batched is weird, so in any given bottle there is probably vodka from a mix of batches, which means it doesn't ever have a very reliable flavor. It's also underproof, generally 35% ABV (70 proof) rather than 40% ABV (80 proof) of most other vodkas.
If you have any suggestions for additions, or other drinks I should try, feel free to let me know – i'll try just about anything once.
**Ed. Note: on the subject of drinking, my buddy and I discovered an excellent shot at a bar called Shade in the East Village. It's equal parts Walker Black and Baileys, and it's fucking special olympics (if the president can say it, so can I) in a double shot. You think they are pretty tasty and harmless, and all of a sudden you are shitfaced with a $60 bar tab on your hands. Beware.
10 Best Vodkas served in America
1.Ultimat: don't even bother mixing it, it's too good. Up, extra dry, with a few bleu cheese olives is one of the best martinis you will ever have. You may think that you don't like straight dry martinis, but you are wrong. You just haven't had a good one yet.
2.Snow Queen: good on its own merits, or in a mixed cocktail. Excellent compliment to delicate flavors like peach or orchid. The downside is that it's really hard to find anywhere besides the northeast.
3.Grey Goose: This is a smooth, good tasting vodka, that is overall very solid.
4.Reyka: Pretty smooth, with a great, tart flavor. Great compliment to flavors like pomegranate and cranberry.
5.Belvedere: a real solid, middle of the road vodka. It's number 5 for a reason, as it never fails as a reliable go-to.
6.Ketel One: Try it with club soda and a slice of lemon.
7.Stolichnaya: Cheaper than most, but still really good. Goes well with sweeter flavors like pineapple or orange.
8.Ciroc: Pretty good vodka – excellent flavors, but not the smoothest you can buy.
9.Finlandia: makes great mixed drinks. Try it in a pomegranate and blueberry martini.
10.Chopin: ehh. Somebody had to be number ten.
Disclaimers:
These brands listed represent their straight, unflavored versions only. Almost unanimously, the flavored versions of these vodkas are not as good: if you want a flavored vodka, your best bet is to infuse it yourself (more on this to come).
Although I fancy myself somewhat of an amateur vodka connoisseur, and I have consumed a good deal of vodka in my day, the vodkas listed represent only those I have tasted so far. There are plenty of good varieties (Cape North for example) that have such limited distribution that even I haven't gotten around to trying them yet.
There are also several vodkas that are very good, just not good enough to be top ten. Some examples:
Rain: very flavorful but a little harsh. Supposedly distilled using rain water or some shit like that. Pros: comes in a fun raindrop shaped bottle, can be bought for about $20. Cons: not that great. Makes a really good vodka lemonade though.
Pearl: a solid, middle of the road vodka. Pros: cheap ($18) and smooth. Cons: No flavor at all. Good for cocktails like bloody marys, where the flavor of the vodka is mostly overpowered by the mixer anyway.
Quadro: Pros: comes in a neat square bottle. Cons: mediocre, limited availability.
Svedka: Pros: great for when you're having a party, because it's pretty decent, and you can get a magnum bottle for like $35. Cons: doesn't taste that great. It would be stupid to make a martini with it.
Three Olives: Pros: if you must buy a flavored vodka, they have some of the best and most diverse flavors available, from pomegranate to root beer to vanilla. Cons: the way it is batched is weird, so in any given bottle there is probably vodka from a mix of batches, which means it doesn't ever have a very reliable flavor. It's also underproof, generally 35% ABV (70 proof) rather than 40% ABV (80 proof) of most other vodkas.
If you have any suggestions for additions, or other drinks I should try, feel free to let me know – i'll try just about anything once.
**Ed. Note: on the subject of drinking, my buddy and I discovered an excellent shot at a bar called Shade in the East Village. It's equal parts Walker Black and Baileys, and it's fucking special olympics (if the president can say it, so can I) in a double shot. You think they are pretty tasty and harmless, and all of a sudden you are shitfaced with a $60 bar tab on your hands. Beware.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
I Fucking Hate Tourists
So I went downtown this morning to get coffee and a bagel, forgetting that Dave Matthews played SPAC this weekend, so the town is overrun with bro-y douche bags who drink lots of light beer and leave their trash everywhere. Also, this weekend is Saratoga ArtsFest, so the town is also overrun with old douche bags, who think that their wealth obligates them to patronize the arts. As I was sitting at the far back table of the coffee shop (because all the other ones were taken up by twenty-somethings wearing tie-dye) I think I figured out why people hate tourists. And as I got honked at by the old asshole in his Mercedes-Benz (who parked me in, I might add) for getting too close to his car, I also figured out why road rage exists. And why some people don't like old people. I let out a flurry of unintelligible curse words - some directed at myself for not actually putting his engine block in his front seat - and peeled out. I hope he enjoys his fifty thousand dollar car that he can't even parallel park. Oh, and on the way home, I had to wait for about ten jockeys and their horses to cross the street. What a weird place to live.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
A day in the life...
Let me give you a representative sample of my day as an electrician, so you can get a feel for it.
Our call is generally a full hour to two hours later than that of the carpenters. And even then we're usually late, generally due to stopping for bagels and coffee on the way to work, and then eating them outside the stage door when we're supposed to be working. The other day, our call was 9am, and we were for sure there, but we ate breakfast until 9:20. From about 9:20 until 9:45, we sat and talked about what we were going to do. Then I put on a climbing harness, and made a ridiculous climb to hang and circuit four lights. It involved me putting a 12' step ladder on top of a (supported?) platform, propping it against a wall, and climbing to the top step so I could clip in my harness and hang from a pipe. Sounds safe to me.
After that, I cut a hole in one of the platforms the carpenters had built so I could run a cable through it. But I had to unscrew and move a stair unit to get under the platform. So I stole a screw gun from the carpenters to take out the screws, leaving a four foot drop with no escape stairs. Then I stole a jigsaw to cut the platform. And broke their jigsaw in the process. And made one of their interns fix it. And then cut apart some more of their platform. I don't know who put those stairs back, but it sure wasn't me.
A little later, we had an impromptu meeting with the set designer, to discuss a practical unit that had to be rigged from the grid. Then we went on break. When we came back from break, we sat around the light console doing a dimmer check, and pretending to look busy until it was time for lunch. Sometimes its fun to roll color scrollers back and forth, and pretend to be “troubleshooting.” It really throws off the people who are working onstage, because their light keeps changing color.
I even hear that electricians sometimes pretend to take lunch break and then just don't come back to work. Yeah, I bet that happens.
Our call is generally a full hour to two hours later than that of the carpenters. And even then we're usually late, generally due to stopping for bagels and coffee on the way to work, and then eating them outside the stage door when we're supposed to be working. The other day, our call was 9am, and we were for sure there, but we ate breakfast until 9:20. From about 9:20 until 9:45, we sat and talked about what we were going to do. Then I put on a climbing harness, and made a ridiculous climb to hang and circuit four lights. It involved me putting a 12' step ladder on top of a (supported?) platform, propping it against a wall, and climbing to the top step so I could clip in my harness and hang from a pipe. Sounds safe to me.
After that, I cut a hole in one of the platforms the carpenters had built so I could run a cable through it. But I had to unscrew and move a stair unit to get under the platform. So I stole a screw gun from the carpenters to take out the screws, leaving a four foot drop with no escape stairs. Then I stole a jigsaw to cut the platform. And broke their jigsaw in the process. And made one of their interns fix it. And then cut apart some more of their platform. I don't know who put those stairs back, but it sure wasn't me.
A little later, we had an impromptu meeting with the set designer, to discuss a practical unit that had to be rigged from the grid. Then we went on break. When we came back from break, we sat around the light console doing a dimmer check, and pretending to look busy until it was time for lunch. Sometimes its fun to roll color scrollers back and forth, and pretend to be “troubleshooting.” It really throws off the people who are working onstage, because their light keeps changing color.
I even hear that electricians sometimes pretend to take lunch break and then just don't come back to work. Yeah, I bet that happens.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Travel Manual
Since I'm now pretty much the expert on travel in New York and most of Massachusetts, I figured I'd write a sort of compilation of the dos and don'ts of said travel. Enjoy.
The expressways of Iowa, Illinois, Indiana, and most of Ohio provide some of the most boring driving in this great nation.
No matter what you hear, don't pass a state police car on the expressway. You will get pulled over.
Unless you're experienced with the roadways of the great city of Boston (i.e. you can navigate yourself from Cambridge to the Masspike without going to Watertown), and you're trying to get on I-93 north from Dorchester, don't even bother. The on-ramp might as well be in fucking Narnia – it's not marked (at all) and even if you happen to find it, you can't get to it from Columbia Road unless you go way past it and then make a U-turn. Your best bet is probably to just take Morrisy Boulevard south and get on there.
If you have a great deal of concern for your own life, don't drive anywhere in NYC, especially on the FDR. Conversely, if you're not the anxious type, driving in the city is very liberating, in that the regular rules of the road don't really apply.
If you need to be someplace in a hurry, rule out the Bruckner Expressway and the GW Bridge, both of which will cause you to hate your life (or be really late to wherever you're going) if you're in a rush. I spent twenty minutes going precisely one half mile on the Bruckner a few weeks back. No good.
The metro north railroad is where hope goes to die.
If you aren't ready to step up to bat, don't even bother drinking in NYC. You're looking at a $50 bar tab, minimum.
Unless you're seeing a show, avoid Times Square at all costs. It is the pit of existence and the bane of New York City. However, if you do need to go there, you can literally take almost any subway, and it will stop at 42nd street.
Grand Central station is a labyrinth, in both the best and worst senses of the word. I was pretty sure I was going to walk through middle earth on the way to my train.
New York really doesn't ever sleep.
The best places to eat and drink on the east coast (as in many places) are the ones the tourists don't know about. I could tell you what they are but then I'd have to kill you. If you're really interested in specifics, send me an email.
This is by no means an exhaustive list. Further bulletins as events warrant.
The expressways of Iowa, Illinois, Indiana, and most of Ohio provide some of the most boring driving in this great nation.
No matter what you hear, don't pass a state police car on the expressway. You will get pulled over.
Unless you're experienced with the roadways of the great city of Boston (i.e. you can navigate yourself from Cambridge to the Masspike without going to Watertown), and you're trying to get on I-93 north from Dorchester, don't even bother. The on-ramp might as well be in fucking Narnia – it's not marked (at all) and even if you happen to find it, you can't get to it from Columbia Road unless you go way past it and then make a U-turn. Your best bet is probably to just take Morrisy Boulevard south and get on there.
If you have a great deal of concern for your own life, don't drive anywhere in NYC, especially on the FDR. Conversely, if you're not the anxious type, driving in the city is very liberating, in that the regular rules of the road don't really apply.
If you need to be someplace in a hurry, rule out the Bruckner Expressway and the GW Bridge, both of which will cause you to hate your life (or be really late to wherever you're going) if you're in a rush. I spent twenty minutes going precisely one half mile on the Bruckner a few weeks back. No good.
The metro north railroad is where hope goes to die.
If you aren't ready to step up to bat, don't even bother drinking in NYC. You're looking at a $50 bar tab, minimum.
Unless you're seeing a show, avoid Times Square at all costs. It is the pit of existence and the bane of New York City. However, if you do need to go there, you can literally take almost any subway, and it will stop at 42nd street.
Grand Central station is a labyrinth, in both the best and worst senses of the word. I was pretty sure I was going to walk through middle earth on the way to my train.
New York really doesn't ever sleep.
The best places to eat and drink on the east coast (as in many places) are the ones the tourists don't know about. I could tell you what they are but then I'd have to kill you. If you're really interested in specifics, send me an email.
This is by no means an exhaustive list. Further bulletins as events warrant.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
My bad...
I apologize for not having posted to my blog in about two weeks: my excuse this time is that the trip mileage on my car, reset on May 21, now reads 2358.4. Yeah. I feel like a fucking truck driver. Once I have a few days to get my thoughts in order, I'll write some more (got a few really good/funny stories that need telling) and start trying to get back into the normal writing/posting routine. As always, you can follow me on Twitter for up to the minute updates and anecdotes. Keep checking back...
Friday, May 22, 2009
Things I Have Learned
Things I have learned thus far on my trip out east:
Driving 14 hours in a day is not too bad.
Getting up at 6am and driving another 5 hours the next day is terrible.
Driving 14 hours in a day is not too bad.
Getting up at 6am and driving another 5 hours the next day is terrible.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Travel Plans
So, dear reader(s), tomorrow, I start out on my epic jaunt to and then around the eastern seaboard, which won’t really end until I settle down in Saratoga Springs, NY on the 5th of June. Until then, I’ll be bouncing around from Des Moines to upstate New York, to NYC, to Boston, back upstate, back to the city, and finally back upstate again. All this should provide ample blog fodder – however, posts may be few and far between. I’m going to make every attempt to update my twitter (you can follow me by going to twitter.com/matthewavery) as often as possible, and I’ll post any pictures that I happen to take either to my blog, or to my Picassa album. So sit back, relax, and let the magic happen. In the words of Max Plenke, shit is about to get super real.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Musings...
Today, I graduated from college. I’ve been sitting in front of a blank document for the past half hour thinking about what I want to say about this occasion in my life. On one hand, it’s exciting, in a way, to finally have achieved the payoff of all my hard work: magna cum laude, university honors, two degrees…blah.blah.blah. On the other hand, what do all those titles really mean? That I’m more educated, sure. More employable? Maybe. Smarter? Not necessarily.
A lot of people have asked my why I didn’t attend any of the graduation ceremonies, and I haven’t really had a good answer. I think it has something to do with the fact that the culmination of my education isn’t going to be found sitting in an arena with nine hundred other assholes waiting to hear my name. It’s not about those two pieces of paper. I don’t need a “moment” of recognition; if I haven’t been recognized during the past four years, then I don’t deserve to be recognized at graduation either. Plus I really don’t want anybody else’s recognition. I know what I’ve done. I’ve worked really fucking hard in college, at times to the detriment of my fun level and my social life – that’s it.
The funny part is that despite all of this (or possibly because of it), I’m still unemployed at the end of July. But that isn’t what matters. What matters it that right now, I’m doing what I love, I have friends I love, and at least for the next two months, I get to live rent free on the east coast. After that is the real test of my education, the real graduation: if I can still make something cohesive out of my life, then maybe it was all worth while.
A lot of people have asked my why I didn’t attend any of the graduation ceremonies, and I haven’t really had a good answer. I think it has something to do with the fact that the culmination of my education isn’t going to be found sitting in an arena with nine hundred other assholes waiting to hear my name. It’s not about those two pieces of paper. I don’t need a “moment” of recognition; if I haven’t been recognized during the past four years, then I don’t deserve to be recognized at graduation either. Plus I really don’t want anybody else’s recognition. I know what I’ve done. I’ve worked really fucking hard in college, at times to the detriment of my fun level and my social life – that’s it.
The funny part is that despite all of this (or possibly because of it), I’m still unemployed at the end of July. But that isn’t what matters. What matters it that right now, I’m doing what I love, I have friends I love, and at least for the next two months, I get to live rent free on the east coast. After that is the real test of my education, the real graduation: if I can still make something cohesive out of my life, then maybe it was all worth while.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
In a moment of weakness, I finally gave in and got a Twitter account. As of right now, having had it for less than 24 hours, I’m still not exactly sure what purpose it serves, and/or in what way(s) it’s supposed to further the quality of my life. All I can figure out thus far is that it seems to work by making you believe that other people not only have the capacity to be entertained by, but are genuinely interested in something you might be able to say in 140 characters or less – basically it makes you think your own voice and opinions matter to others. Which by and large is not true.
Be that as it may, you can become a follower (by far and away my favorite relationship format of all the social network sites) by searching Matthew Avery. My guess is that one of two things will happen to my Twitter – either I will stop updating it after about next Tuesday, or it will become something akin to an extension of my blog – vulgar, offensive, and borderline retarded. I’m really excited to see where this goes…
Be that as it may, you can become a follower (by far and away my favorite relationship format of all the social network sites) by searching Matthew Avery. My guess is that one of two things will happen to my Twitter – either I will stop updating it after about next Tuesday, or it will become something akin to an extension of my blog – vulgar, offensive, and borderline retarded. I’m really excited to see where this goes…
Friday, May 8, 2009
A Show I Designed Got Reviewed!
Holy shit, a show I designed actually got a review in the paper, and a pretty good one at that. To be fair, the review didn't really focus (at all) on the lighting, but still, it's nice to hear good things. You can read the full text of the article here.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Complex Narrative
Today, I used the phrase “complex narrative” as a descriptor of a piece of literature I was analyzing for an English paper. In seriousness. I hate myself.
“Complex narrative” is one of those phrases like “postmodern” that doesn’t actually mean anything – people just toss it around to make their speech or writing sound more intelligent and high handed. It’s like when people use the word vocabulary to refer to something other than one’s command of the words of one’s native language. Or refer to a play or a book as “organic.” It’s just dickery and everyone knows it, but for some reason they choose to ignore it. No longer. I’m calling myself and everyone else out. Don’t be a tool. Use words that mean something in a context outside of an upper division English/philosophy/lit theory class in private school.
“Complex narrative” is one of those phrases like “postmodern” that doesn’t actually mean anything – people just toss it around to make their speech or writing sound more intelligent and high handed. It’s like when people use the word vocabulary to refer to something other than one’s command of the words of one’s native language. Or refer to a play or a book as “organic.” It’s just dickery and everyone knows it, but for some reason they choose to ignore it. No longer. I’m calling myself and everyone else out. Don’t be a tool. Use words that mean something in a context outside of an upper division English/philosophy/lit theory class in private school.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
$100 Haircut
In a stunning conspiracy designed to rid me of my money, I received a $76 dollar speeding ticket on the way to get my hair cut on Friday. This happened for two reasons. First, Google maps lied to me about where the salon was, saying that I needed to drive about 3 miles past where I actually needed to go. When the street I was driving on abruptly ended, I figured that I had been scammed, but I decided to push on anyway. I made the executive decision to turn right at a T intersection, which led me directly past a police officer who was apparently lying in wait like an alligator in a swamp (and behind a line of trees, I might add) for unsuspecting wayfarers to happen by. Cowardice. Secondly – and I actually went back to check this – there was no posted speed limit sign until about a quarter mile AFTER where I got pulled over.
So after Officer Squarenuts had the audacity to write me a ticket when I was clearly lost, (both my license and my tags are from Wisconsin) where there was no posted speed limit sign, he also had the nerve to give me a written warning for not having proof of insurance in my car. Fuck the police.
On the other hand, considering how flagrantly I disobey the speed limit every time I get behind the wheel, I should probably be happy that it’s taken me this long to get a ticket. This is my first citiation, despite having been pulled over two other times (for 14mph and 15mph over the limit, respectively). Also, at 10 over, this was the slowest I’ve ever been picked up for speeding. I have to feel like it almost wasn’t worth the officer’s time. Cops in suburban Iowa really must not have anything better to do. But really, if I can get away with paying a $76 debt to society every 5 or 6 years, I can’t really be that mad…
Lessons you can learn from my mistakes:
-Apparently it’s a law in Iowa that you must have current proof of insurance in your vehicle.
-Apparently, it’s also a law in Iowa that you have to intuit the speed limit, based only upon instinct, excellent theorizing, and guesswork.
-Never trust Google maps.
-The police are mean, sneaky bastards.
So after Officer Squarenuts had the audacity to write me a ticket when I was clearly lost, (both my license and my tags are from Wisconsin) where there was no posted speed limit sign, he also had the nerve to give me a written warning for not having proof of insurance in my car. Fuck the police.
On the other hand, considering how flagrantly I disobey the speed limit every time I get behind the wheel, I should probably be happy that it’s taken me this long to get a ticket. This is my first citiation, despite having been pulled over two other times (for 14mph and 15mph over the limit, respectively). Also, at 10 over, this was the slowest I’ve ever been picked up for speeding. I have to feel like it almost wasn’t worth the officer’s time. Cops in suburban Iowa really must not have anything better to do. But really, if I can get away with paying a $76 debt to society every 5 or 6 years, I can’t really be that mad…
Lessons you can learn from my mistakes:
-Apparently it’s a law in Iowa that you must have current proof of insurance in your vehicle.
-Apparently, it’s also a law in Iowa that you have to intuit the speed limit, based only upon instinct, excellent theorizing, and guesswork.
-Never trust Google maps.
-The police are mean, sneaky bastards.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Swine Flu
I saw an article on CNN this morning entitled: “Swine Flu: Your Questions Answered.” I figure, if CNN can do it, I can too. So here it is…I’m going to answer all the pressing questions about swine flu that need answering.
What is swine flu?
Pretty much just like regular flu actually.
How is it transmitted?
Again, pretty much like regular flu. If somebody who has swine flu coughs on you, you’re probably going to get it. However, you often need prolonged contact with a contagious person to contract the virus yourself.
So, if it’s just like regular flu, why is everybody freaking out about it?
Probably because nobody wants to catch something that started in Mexico.
Should I be worried about a pandemic?
The CDC has confirmed 91 cases of swine flu in the US so far*. You do the math. What percentage of the US population currently has swine flu? Hint: the US population is 304, 059, 724. I’ll wait.
Ok. 0.000029928330790696892% of people have been confirmed with swine flu. Clearly, I am no flu expert, but those don’t look like pandemic numbers to me. But if this is a pandemic, think of all the other things that could now qualify as a pandemic as well: people getting their hands stuck in a blender, people slicing their wrists while trying to cut a bagel, people winning the lottery. I can see the headlines now: “95 people have won the lottery so far today – CDC declares lottery winning pandemic.”
How about the Spanish flu – isn’t this kind of like that?
Yes, except for now we have hospitals.
What should I do if I think I have swine flu?
Stay home and don’t breathe on anybody. If it gets really bad call your doctor. Don’t go out because even if it isn’t swine flu, nobody wants to catch it.
If you have further questions about the swine flu that need answers, I email me and I will post answers. I can’t wait to see where this goes…
*http://www.nytimes.com/2009/04/30/health/30flu.html?_r=1&hp
What is swine flu?
Pretty much just like regular flu actually.
How is it transmitted?
Again, pretty much like regular flu. If somebody who has swine flu coughs on you, you’re probably going to get it. However, you often need prolonged contact with a contagious person to contract the virus yourself.
So, if it’s just like regular flu, why is everybody freaking out about it?
Probably because nobody wants to catch something that started in Mexico.
Should I be worried about a pandemic?
The CDC has confirmed 91 cases of swine flu in the US so far*. You do the math. What percentage of the US population currently has swine flu? Hint: the US population is 304, 059, 724. I’ll wait.
Ok. 0.000029928330790696892% of people have been confirmed with swine flu. Clearly, I am no flu expert, but those don’t look like pandemic numbers to me. But if this is a pandemic, think of all the other things that could now qualify as a pandemic as well: people getting their hands stuck in a blender, people slicing their wrists while trying to cut a bagel, people winning the lottery. I can see the headlines now: “95 people have won the lottery so far today – CDC declares lottery winning pandemic.”
How about the Spanish flu – isn’t this kind of like that?
Yes, except for now we have hospitals.
What should I do if I think I have swine flu?
Stay home and don’t breathe on anybody. If it gets really bad call your doctor. Don’t go out because even if it isn’t swine flu, nobody wants to catch it.
If you have further questions about the swine flu that need answers, I email me and I will post answers. I can’t wait to see where this goes…
*http://www.nytimes.com/2009/04/30/health/30flu.html?_r=1&hp
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Oops...
So. I’m falling victim to one of my great fears about this blog – I have lapsed in my regular updates. As a follower of several blogs, I find it infuriating when those authors don’t entertain me on a regular basis, and for the one or two of you who read this, I’m trying not to do the same to you. I could make excuses – two shows in tech right now…15-hour work days…might have swine flu…relays last weekend – but it doesn’t change the fact. I won’t let it happen again.
As a sort of apology, I’m posting this story I wrote a few weeks ago, wherein I get made to look like a tool in front of one of my professors. Enjoy…
My friends make me look like a loser in front of my professor:
So the other night I was supposed to meet my friends at a restaurant and bar at 8pm. I got there about quarter after eight, because showing up on time is for squares. But much to my chagrin, my friends weren’t at the bar yet. Fine. I snag a table, order a beer and hang out. By myself. And then, what should happen, but one of my English professors walks in, notices me sitting alone, and comes over to chat. Not only did I have the misfortune to run into a current professor at a bar, he also felt bad enough for me that he came to my table to say hi out of pity. Just in case you were wondering, this was not the type of establishment where it’s acceptable to drown your sorrows alone on a Friday night. It’s the type of establishment where the microbrew I was drinking cost about twelve dollars.
This is the text message conversation that quickly ensued between me and one of the members of my party:
To: **** *********
Sent: Friday, April 03, 2009 8:27 PM
Matthew Avery
One of my professors is here. don’t leave me hanging.
To: 1414*******
Sent: Friday, April 03, 2009 8:27 PM
**** *********
We wont. We’re waiting on brit man
To: **** *********
Sent: Friday, April 03, 2009 8:28 PM
Matthew Avery
Good god i’ll have my first beer done by the time you get here. Tell her to hurry the fuck up.
To: **** *********
Sent: Friday, April 03, 2009 8:40 PM
Matthew Avery
Man fuck this. If you guys aren’t here in 10 i’m calling backup.
To: 1414*******
Sent: Friday, April 03, 2009 8:42 PM
**** *********
We’re pickin up brit. Be there quick.
To: **** *********
Sent: Friday, April 03, 2009 8:42 PM
Matthew Avery
Hell.
To: 1414*******
Sent: Friday, April 03, 2009 8:43 PM
**** *********
Seriosly [sic] less than two mins
To their credit, they did show up about two minutes later. But I think my professor had already left, presumably with the assumption that I was as much of a loser as I looked.
As a sort of apology, I’m posting this story I wrote a few weeks ago, wherein I get made to look like a tool in front of one of my professors. Enjoy…
My friends make me look like a loser in front of my professor:
So the other night I was supposed to meet my friends at a restaurant and bar at 8pm. I got there about quarter after eight, because showing up on time is for squares. But much to my chagrin, my friends weren’t at the bar yet. Fine. I snag a table, order a beer and hang out. By myself. And then, what should happen, but one of my English professors walks in, notices me sitting alone, and comes over to chat. Not only did I have the misfortune to run into a current professor at a bar, he also felt bad enough for me that he came to my table to say hi out of pity. Just in case you were wondering, this was not the type of establishment where it’s acceptable to drown your sorrows alone on a Friday night. It’s the type of establishment where the microbrew I was drinking cost about twelve dollars.
This is the text message conversation that quickly ensued between me and one of the members of my party:
To: **** *********
Sent: Friday, April 03, 2009 8:27 PM
Matthew Avery
One of my professors is here. don’t leave me hanging.
To: 1414*******
Sent: Friday, April 03, 2009 8:27 PM
**** *********
We wont. We’re waiting on brit man
To: **** *********
Sent: Friday, April 03, 2009 8:28 PM
Matthew Avery
Good god i’ll have my first beer done by the time you get here. Tell her to hurry the fuck up.
To: **** *********
Sent: Friday, April 03, 2009 8:40 PM
Matthew Avery
Man fuck this. If you guys aren’t here in 10 i’m calling backup.
To: 1414*******
Sent: Friday, April 03, 2009 8:42 PM
**** *********
We’re pickin up brit. Be there quick.
To: **** *********
Sent: Friday, April 03, 2009 8:42 PM
Matthew Avery
Hell.
To: 1414*******
Sent: Friday, April 03, 2009 8:43 PM
**** *********
Seriosly [sic] less than two mins
To their credit, they did show up about two minutes later. But I think my professor had already left, presumably with the assumption that I was as much of a loser as I looked.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
College
Sometimes college can be awesome. Yeah I just said that. Even for a cynic like me who is sick of taking out enough student loans to purchase a small airplane, college shit can be cool. You just have to be in the right place at the right time. In this case, the right place is clearly the porch (or near vicinity) of someone’s house where beer pong and frisbee are being played, and the right time is any sunny afternoon, preferably one during which the weather is about 70 degrees. That’s Fahrenheit because we’re in America – 70 degrees Celsius would be positively unbearable. I’d rather not play beer sports in the Gobi desert.
And really, what says college better than drinking a good quantity of Natural Light, and then painting a street (and by painting a street I mean painting the people who are trying to paint a street)? Nothing. That’s what. They make college movies about shit like this.
For any of you who were curious, my 30-plus pages of writing that are due in the next few weeks remain unwritten.
And really, what says college better than drinking a good quantity of Natural Light, and then painting a street (and by painting a street I mean painting the people who are trying to paint a street)? Nothing. That’s what. They make college movies about shit like this.
For any of you who were curious, my 30-plus pages of writing that are due in the next few weeks remain unwritten.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
My Week in Quotes
You may have noticed that I haven’t updated my blog in a few days. This is for several reasons, not the least of which is that my schedule has been fucked up for the past week, and I have been working stupid hours on several different gigs. The other reason is that I’m working a couple longer, marginally more literary posts to which – once they’re complete – I would welcome your feedback. But in the mean time, here are some of the quotable gems from my week:
“I’m out like a boner in sweatpants.”
--New Kids on the Block Audio Roadie
“Don’t throw shit on top of my lights. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
--Color Purple LX Roadie to Carp Roadie
Mike (with a cart of trash, in front of the freight elevator): “that’s too big. It won’t fit in there.”
Me: “nickel for every time I heard that…”
“See, this is what happens: you read enough Plato and all of a sudden, you’re fucking with Dr. Seuss.”
--My English professor, on reading to his infant son.
“They say this is a musical about love, I say it’s a musical about cable.”
--Color Purple LX Roadie, after we coiled almost a half-mile of FOH cable.
“And they say shit that makes absolutely no sense to reasonable, rational people like, ‘the square root of negative one is an imaginary number.’ Don’t tell me it’s an imagi-fucking-nary number! I know better than that!”
--My English professor, on the hard sciences.
Yeah, sometimes my life is pretty entertaining.
“I’m out like a boner in sweatpants.”
--New Kids on the Block Audio Roadie
“Don’t throw shit on top of my lights. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
--Color Purple LX Roadie to Carp Roadie
Mike (with a cart of trash, in front of the freight elevator): “that’s too big. It won’t fit in there.”
Me: “nickel for every time I heard that…”
“See, this is what happens: you read enough Plato and all of a sudden, you’re fucking with Dr. Seuss.”
--My English professor, on reading to his infant son.
“They say this is a musical about love, I say it’s a musical about cable.”
--Color Purple LX Roadie, after we coiled almost a half-mile of FOH cable.
“And they say shit that makes absolutely no sense to reasonable, rational people like, ‘the square root of negative one is an imaginary number.’ Don’t tell me it’s an imagi-fucking-nary number! I know better than that!”
--My English professor, on the hard sciences.
Yeah, sometimes my life is pretty entertaining.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Who Do I Call to Complain?
This morning, Sunday, April 5, 2009, I awoke to a full on blizzard outside my window. This does not compute. Yesterday I grilled burgers outside because it was about 55 degrees and sunny. Today I can barely see the building across the street from my apartment because of all the snow.
I need to know who authorized this. I pay my taxes; I feel as though I should get to have a say about this sort of thing. There was no vote about whether or not to have a fucking blizzard a week into April, so I’d like to respectfully express my disagreement with what I regard as a thoroughly wretched decision. Who do I call to complain?
I need to know who authorized this. I pay my taxes; I feel as though I should get to have a say about this sort of thing. There was no vote about whether or not to have a fucking blizzard a week into April, so I’d like to respectfully express my disagreement with what I regard as a thoroughly wretched decision. Who do I call to complain?
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
My Life Amuses Me
Sometimes I think that my life has just about reached a crescendo of yawn inducing boredom, and then something like this happens along. I'll tell you right now that this story ends with a pretty stunning anti-climax, but it's a fun ride to get there.
This afternoon, I was hanging out with a couple of friends at their house, barbecuing and enjoying the weather (it was over 40, and it wasn’t snowing – we take what we can get here in Iowa). We were cooking some burgers, drinking some beers, and minding our own business, when a squad car passed by the house. I didn’t really think anything of it until he pulled a u-turn about a half a block up and drove past again. Really slowly. Which was awesome because I figured what I really wanted to do the rest of the afternoon was explain my underage friends out of a M.I.P. ticket, and explain to Officer Squarenuts about how the beer they were drinking was somehow not my fault, even though I was well aware of how old they were.
But the squad car just drove by again, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Until he flipped another u-turn and came driving back toward us again. And this time he stopped the car, rolled down the window, and motioned for my 20 year old buddy to come talk to him. Awesome. So my friend put down his beer and trotted over to the car.
This was the conversation that ensued:
Friend: hello sir.
Officer: how long have you guys been out here.
Friend: about 20 minutes.
Officer: you happen to see a car drive by here really fast?
Friend: no, why?
Officer: well, we got a report of a black Ford Taurus four door driving past here really fast, and the driver of it has a gun and is about to do something stupid.
Friend: no we haven’t seen that but we’ll keep our eyes out.
Officer: thanks.
The good officer then rolled up his window and drove away.
At which point, I said to my friend, “he said he was looking for a black Taurus 4-door right? Because one sure did just pull up right up the block, and a lady just got out of it and walked away,” to which my friend replied, “Oh yeah holy shit do you think we should call that in?” And of couse, being my normal, cavalier self, I just said, “Dude there are probably a thousand of those in Des Moines alone. It’s probably just a coincidence.” Remember that for later.
So we went back to our barbecue, and didn’t think that much more of it. Except every time a black car drove by we scanned it for guns. Then a few minutes later, another car pulled up next to the black one, and the driver got out and checked the license plate. Ok, kind of weird. And then he walked over to us and asked if we had seen where the driver went. So of course we told him, and he drove away. And then we all simultaneously realized what had just happened. “Holy shit guys, I do believe we are now accomplices to a crime.” So we called the police and reported what we had seen.
The police duly responded with two more cars. They pulled up next to the abandoned car. Then they got out and started looking at it. Then they picked one of the locks and started looking inside. Apparently they didn’t find anything, because all they did was write it a parking ticket call a tow truck to take it away. Which was funny, because it wasn’t in a tow zone, or even illegally parked from what I could tell. Apparently if the police have to come check out your vehicle, they make it worth their while.
One of the officers, the same who originally told us about the incident, came over to talk with us, and this was his take on the situation:
Officer: apparently, the lady who was driving this car got pretty drunk and then ran into some stuff. We ran the plates and she lives not too far away, so she probably just ditched the car here and walked home. The people you saw looking for her were her husband and baby son.
Me: man sounds pretty good for 5 o’clock on Sunday afternoon.
Officer: (makes a face and pretends to stumble) yeah don’t drink and drive, kids.
He then got into his car and drove away, and left the other officer to deal with the tow truck.
I imagine that job would get dull quick if you didn’t have a pretty good sense of humor.
After the tow truck left, the other officer came over to take down my friend’s information, because since he was the one who called, that made him the official witness. And just then, my friend’s next-door neighbor, who just so happens to be the director of the honors program at the institution I attend, and who also happens to be my thesis advisor, happened to walk outside with his wife and his dog. I can only imagine his thought process, as he surveyed the porch steps littered with empty beer bottles, and then drifted his gaze over to his not quite 21 year neighbor, who is the primary tenant of the house, speaking to an officer of the law. Hell yes, I’m graduating with university honors.
But the high point of the afternoon was definitively the fact that the officer gave my friend this sticker for calling in
the incident:
Remember what I said about having a sense of humor? Apparently cops can be pretty funny sometimes.
Also, nobody knows whatever happened to the gun, or if there was one in the first place. Apparently that will remain a mystery…
This afternoon, I was hanging out with a couple of friends at their house, barbecuing and enjoying the weather (it was over 40, and it wasn’t snowing – we take what we can get here in Iowa). We were cooking some burgers, drinking some beers, and minding our own business, when a squad car passed by the house. I didn’t really think anything of it until he pulled a u-turn about a half a block up and drove past again. Really slowly. Which was awesome because I figured what I really wanted to do the rest of the afternoon was explain my underage friends out of a M.I.P. ticket, and explain to Officer Squarenuts about how the beer they were drinking was somehow not my fault, even though I was well aware of how old they were.
But the squad car just drove by again, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Until he flipped another u-turn and came driving back toward us again. And this time he stopped the car, rolled down the window, and motioned for my 20 year old buddy to come talk to him. Awesome. So my friend put down his beer and trotted over to the car.
This was the conversation that ensued:
Friend: hello sir.
Officer: how long have you guys been out here.
Friend: about 20 minutes.
Officer: you happen to see a car drive by here really fast?
Friend: no, why?
Officer: well, we got a report of a black Ford Taurus four door driving past here really fast, and the driver of it has a gun and is about to do something stupid.
Friend: no we haven’t seen that but we’ll keep our eyes out.
Officer: thanks.
The good officer then rolled up his window and drove away.
At which point, I said to my friend, “he said he was looking for a black Taurus 4-door right? Because one sure did just pull up right up the block, and a lady just got out of it and walked away,” to which my friend replied, “Oh yeah holy shit do you think we should call that in?” And of couse, being my normal, cavalier self, I just said, “Dude there are probably a thousand of those in Des Moines alone. It’s probably just a coincidence.” Remember that for later.
So we went back to our barbecue, and didn’t think that much more of it. Except every time a black car drove by we scanned it for guns. Then a few minutes later, another car pulled up next to the black one, and the driver got out and checked the license plate. Ok, kind of weird. And then he walked over to us and asked if we had seen where the driver went. So of course we told him, and he drove away. And then we all simultaneously realized what had just happened. “Holy shit guys, I do believe we are now accomplices to a crime.” So we called the police and reported what we had seen.
The police duly responded with two more cars. They pulled up next to the abandoned car. Then they got out and started looking at it. Then they picked one of the locks and started looking inside. Apparently they didn’t find anything, because all they did was write it a parking ticket call a tow truck to take it away. Which was funny, because it wasn’t in a tow zone, or even illegally parked from what I could tell. Apparently if the police have to come check out your vehicle, they make it worth their while.
One of the officers, the same who originally told us about the incident, came over to talk with us, and this was his take on the situation:
Officer: apparently, the lady who was driving this car got pretty drunk and then ran into some stuff. We ran the plates and she lives not too far away, so she probably just ditched the car here and walked home. The people you saw looking for her were her husband and baby son.
Me: man sounds pretty good for 5 o’clock on Sunday afternoon.
Officer: (makes a face and pretends to stumble) yeah don’t drink and drive, kids.
He then got into his car and drove away, and left the other officer to deal with the tow truck.
I imagine that job would get dull quick if you didn’t have a pretty good sense of humor.
After the tow truck left, the other officer came over to take down my friend’s information, because since he was the one who called, that made him the official witness. And just then, my friend’s next-door neighbor, who just so happens to be the director of the honors program at the institution I attend, and who also happens to be my thesis advisor, happened to walk outside with his wife and his dog. I can only imagine his thought process, as he surveyed the porch steps littered with empty beer bottles, and then drifted his gaze over to his not quite 21 year neighbor, who is the primary tenant of the house, speaking to an officer of the law. Hell yes, I’m graduating with university honors.
But the high point of the afternoon was definitively the fact that the officer gave my friend this sticker for calling in
the incident:Remember what I said about having a sense of humor? Apparently cops can be pretty funny sometimes.
Also, nobody knows whatever happened to the gun, or if there was one in the first place. Apparently that will remain a mystery…
Friday, March 27, 2009
Florida Part Dos
So remember that time I went to Florida in search of sun and surf, and instead got shafted out of my last spring break as a college student? I sure do. Here’s what happened after the almost thirty hours of travel it took to get there: it rained. A lot. We were in Florida for three of the four days it rained in the entirety of the year 2009 to date. In fact, before noon on the Wednesday we were there, rain total for the year almost tripled. Whereas it rained .25 inches before March 18, it rained .67 inches on the 18th. To put this in perspective, .25 inches averaged over 76 days comes out to 0.003289 inches per day. There was more moisture than that in the monster yawn I just yawned thinking about how boring spring break is when you have to stay in your hotel the whole time.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
In Explanation
For anyone who might be confused about this blog, please refer to this email I sent to my dad last night:
From: mattpavery@gmail.com
To: ****@****************.org
03/25/09 10:56pm
Re: ask and you shall receive
here is the url for my blog (http://smarter-not-harder.blogspot.com/). read it and weep (you might actually weep). feel free to share it with friends and family, but preferably those who don't get offended. it is definitely not family friendly, and you might think twice before sending it to someone's work email who wants to keep their job. basically, it is crude, callous, irreverent, and says all the things that you want to say in real life, but say on the internet instead, where people can't punch you in the mouth. cheers!
MPA
yeah that about sums it up.
From: mattpavery@gmail.com
To: ****@****************.org
03/25/09 10:56pm
Re: ask and you shall receive
here is the url for my blog (http://smarter-not-harder.blogspot.com/). read it and weep (you might actually weep). feel free to share it with friends and family, but preferably those who don't get offended. it is definitely not family friendly, and you might think twice before sending it to someone's work email who wants to keep their job. basically, it is crude, callous, irreverent, and says all the things that you want to say in real life, but say on the internet instead, where people can't punch you in the mouth. cheers!
MPA
yeah that about sums it up.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Air Travel
What’s up with all the plane crashes lately? I mean seriously – is there really anything inherently difficult about navigating several tons of aluminum and plastic a few miles above the earth? Come on – I’ve played Microsoft Flight Sim, I know what’s up. That shit is easy; all you have to do is push a couple buttons and then use the arrow keys to avoid crashing into a cemetery.
That may have been in poor taste.
I’m beginning to think that although my most recent scrape with air travel might not have been that bad after all. I mean, I had to pay for two hotels in one night (only one of which I stayed in, just in case you were wondering) but at least I didn’t end up in the Hudson.
Even the military is getting in on the action. It takes real skill to crash a state of the art $150 million fighter jet. That shit is intense.
When I die, there is going to be a special circle of hell reserved just for me. Knowing my luck I will die in a plane crash…karma is a fickle mistress.
In all seriousness though, is it that hard to get flights out with a modicum of timeliness (like all my travel happens within one calendar day) and not drive planes into stuff (like the ground)? Delta boasts a stunning 79% of flights on time*, which here in college, amounts to a big, fat C. If I only did my job right 79% of the time, I would not have a job anymore. Why is this shit tolerated?
*source: http://www.flightstats.com/go/FlightRating/flightRatingByCarrier.do;jsessionid=98CA0807218325FF183FDB75D690A19F.ned:8009?airline=(DL)+Delta+Air+Lines&x=34&y=13
That may have been in poor taste.
I’m beginning to think that although my most recent scrape with air travel might not have been that bad after all. I mean, I had to pay for two hotels in one night (only one of which I stayed in, just in case you were wondering) but at least I didn’t end up in the Hudson.
Even the military is getting in on the action. It takes real skill to crash a state of the art $150 million fighter jet. That shit is intense.
When I die, there is going to be a special circle of hell reserved just for me. Knowing my luck I will die in a plane crash…karma is a fickle mistress.
***
In all seriousness though, is it that hard to get flights out with a modicum of timeliness (like all my travel happens within one calendar day) and not drive planes into stuff (like the ground)? Delta boasts a stunning 79% of flights on time*, which here in college, amounts to a big, fat C. If I only did my job right 79% of the time, I would not have a job anymore. Why is this shit tolerated?
*source: http://www.flightstats.com/go/FlightRating/flightRatingByCarrier.do;jsessionid=98CA0807218325FF183FDB75D690A19F.ned:8009?airline=(DL)+Delta+Air+Lines&x=34&y=13
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