Foolery

Laird

We don't go anywhere.

Well, we go to southern California once or twice a year to visit Chas's family, and that's fun, and important, because it's family.  But other than that, it's rare that Chas and the girls and I go anywhere.

This is not a new phenomenon.  When I owned my store I worked six days a week, often seven, and rarely went farther than 20 miles from my store and home.  When that's how life is, you accept it, get used to it, and even prefer it.  (It's a big stinky deal for me to go across town to Target or Costco on my way home from work, so I avoid extraneous shopping at all costs.)

So when, back in about 1996, Chas and I talked about taking a three-day road trip, it was a BIG. DEAL.  We discussed the when and the where with lots of people, gathering suggestions.  And I brought up our trip in a conversation with Laird.

Laird was a retired professor who had purchased a large and unique art piece from my store, a hand-built piece of decor that required lots of measuring and planning before he was sure he wanted to buy it.  Over time I came to know this man, and learned that he had planned to put this lovely art in his beach house on the Northern California coast.  We got along so well, Laird and I, during these intensive art measuring sessions and the subsequent layaway installments, that he invited me to come to the beach house for a weekend.  Nothing improper, mind you; he invited me to bring my then-boyfriend Chas, too.  Chas and I talked it over, and a one-night stay at Laird's beach house fit perfectly with our other plans.

We made the date.

The drive to the coast from the interior of California is deceptively long and difficult; while maybe 100 miles lie between us and the salt water as the crow flies, there is no direct road, and it takes about four hours to get there.  By the time we reached Laird's very remote seaside home we were hot, tired and thirsty.  Laird was very gracious and welcomed us into his home, offering us beers.  (Chas especially was grateful for this.)  Laird started for the kitchen.

As he continued to tell us about his tiny village by the sea, Laird strolled to the pantry, reached in, and pulled out a 5-pack of Coors, the freshness date of which had likely expired during the first Bush administration.  I could sense palpable fear from Chas, whose idea of an old beer involves weeks, not years.  Was Laird really going to give us warm beer from the pantry shelf?

Oh yes, he was.  And he did.

We had dinner at the town's only restaurant, which was a cafe for the local fishermen.  We drove around the town and walked on the beach for a while.  Everything was friendly and peaceful.

Back at the beach house, we watched the sun set over the Pacific, which was literally a stone's throw from the glass.  Laird was excited to show us his movie collection, so we went upstairs to the loft.  There Laird had amassed an impressive collection of movies that could have served him well should he have wanted to open a video store.  Most of them were date movies and chick flicks, which didn't really strike me as odd, but it worried Chas, whose taste runs more toward "Annie Hall" than "She's Having a Baby."  Because TV reception was nonexistent in this part of the coast, and because cheap satellite hookups were still down the road, Laird's movies were the only entertainment choice.

"What would you like to see?" asked Laird.  Chas looked at the lineup, and I felt a smart aleck comment welling up from deep within his quiet exterior.  He didn't fail me.

"Oh, anything's fine, as long as it has Bruce Willis in it," he quipped.  Now, I don't need to tell you that that was a hugely sarcastic comment, but I was absolutely sure that Laird would not read the sarcasm correctly.  I tried to give Laird some clues.

"Ah ha ha -- Chas, you joker," I offered weakly, knowing that Laird would not get it.  Of course, Laird didn't get it, and he proceeded to pull every Bruce Willis movie he owned from the shelves with glee.  Later I would tell Chas what a dork he had been, and how he totally deserved to sit through "Hudson Hawk," or whatever monstrosity Laird brought forth.  Two dreadful movies were selected, and we flopped down to watch the first.  Chas was nearly in physical pain from the movie, but since it was all his fault, I kind of enjoyed his discomfort.

As soon as the first movie was over, Laird seemed predisposed to conversation, which seemed to be a blessing.  Things are not always what they seem.  Laird clearly wished to talk, and so we listened.  We listened, and listened, and listened as Laird rolled out intimate stories from his crumbled marriage, which was not yet completely dissolved, but close.  "We don't have thex," he confided, and yes, that's approximately how it sounded.  I felt Chas flinch on the beanbag next to me, as I realized that my Bartender Face had once again thrust me -- us -- into the uncomfortable position of receiving juicy, intimate details of a relative stranger's thex life.  Both of us were praying that Laird would suggest another Bruce Willis movie, and quick.

All of the talk about marital thex tired us all out, and it was time to call it a night.  We were grateful to get away as the whole affair had become quite creepy.  As Laird showed where we would sleep, Chas and I were overcome with a case of the willies.  I was mildly convinced that Laird had closed-circuit cameras set up to spy on us, which was ridiculous and entirely possible all at the same time.  Chas seemed to be a bit freaked out, too, so after brushing teeth and so forth, we slipped back into the bedroom and got into our jammies in the dark, just in case.

In the morning we headed off on the rest of our road trip.  There was no more discussion of thex -- at least, not any involving Laird.

And no more Coors was imbibed forever.

(All photos stolen from these guys)

Off Like a Prom Dress? Well, No

MommyTime over at Mommy's Martini -- WHAT?!  you haven't been there?  Oh you have to go!  They're lots of fun over there -- had a blog Prom Night last week.  I'm going to call it Promapalooza because I feel like it.

Well, I missed it because I got back from vacation and had actual work to take care of -- I KNOW!  That's what I said, too!  But, late or not, I have a little prom story to share.

No romance, no lust, no alcohol or drugs of any kind.  No expensive limos, no interesting clothing -- nothing much to report at all.  Except one little story.

I was part of a group of kids who made up the nerds, the band geeks, the brainiacs, the actors, artists, writers, scholars, etc.  The interesting kids.  The Kids Most Likely, to be sure, only I wasn't one of them.  While I was definitely one of the group, I had cheated on the entrance exams, I think.

Anyway, a core group of 4-5 guys were the glue that held the group together.  I went to the junior prom with one of them when I was a senior.  There were maybe 10 of us who went out to a nice dinner first.  We all ordered chicken cordon bleu, or something similarly uncreative.

All except for Sam.  Sam swam upstream in most things.  Sam had painted his bedroom neon green, and had plaster garden statuary in his room, just because.  In hindsight Sam reminds me of Jerry Seinfeld: cute, funny, excitable and neurotic.

So instead of chicken cordon bleu, Sam ordered calamari.  (I had had it before, and while dog poop would taste good if you breaded it and dropped it into a fryer, I didn't care if I ever had calamari again, breading or no breading.)

What we DIDN'T know was that Sam was not sure of what he was getting.

All of the chicken dinners arrived, but Sam's did not.  He had to wait a little longer.  We all started without him.

When at last the calamari did arrive, it was parked in front of a disbelieving Sam.  We were eating and weren't paying much attention.  Sam's mouth had unhinged.  On the plate in front of him was a squirmy mass of marinated, not breaded, purple octopus, looking every bit like a purple octopus.  No breading, nothing to disguise the pieces that once were suction cupped arms. A headless, but otherwise whole, baby octopus adorned the plate like the winner of some sick sport.  Sam began to protest, his voice getting more and more high-pitched and desperate, just like Jerry Seinfeld.  He was entering panic mode.

"That's not what I ordered," I remember him saying.  I think technically he was right, because calamari is squid, and this looked like octopus to me, too.  But the other guys near him assured him that, Yes, that's calamari, although none of us had ever before seen calamari in all it's naked purple glory.  Sam was not hearing any of it.

In his best Outside Voice, Sam declared, "THERE'S TESTICLES ON MY PLATE!"

Stunned silence.  We were embarrassed and bewildered.  All except Kevin, my friend and a guy on whom I had a terrible, unreturned crush.  Kevin had the unwavering ability to decode what any of his goofier neurotic friends were thinking.  He leaned over and spoke just loud enough for us to hear.

"Uh, Sam, that's TENTACLES."

I'm not sure how long it may have been before we were again able to eat, but it took the rest of the dinner for the laughter to fully subside.  And that dinner was far and away the best memory of any prom I attended.

(Photo stolen from "M" Pearl on Flickr)

Non Sequitur Alert

Hi, all y'all; I'm back.  But up to my keester in STUFF to do.  Got all the laundry done yesterday, and the suitcases put away, and the watering done (things were a tad crispy but basically okay in the mostly-capable hands of Mr. Foolery while I was gone).

 

I have things to tell you, or bore you with, depending on your pain tolerance, but I also have some work to do -- ZOUNDS! yes, it's true; I do maintain a job -- but I'll put that off for a later post.  For now, this story about a walnut tree over at Life in Mathews reminded me of a little story.  Take a handful of pain meds before you read mine (you won't need them to read Chesapeake Bay Woman's).*

 

A family friend lives in Red Bluff, up here in Northern California.  For years his family had a ranch on the Sacramento River, covered in orchards and scrub oaks.  But there was a walnut tree there that was allowed to grow into a monster.  My parents went to see it on more than one occasion and said it was magnificent.

 

Somehow it was determined that this was the largest living walnut tree in California (or maybe even a larger territory, but I'm not sure).  Someone had offered our friend $75,000 for the tree, but he was sent packing.  I guess the would-be buyer wanted to make gun stocks out of it -- that's a LOT of gun stocks, and it was ridiculous.

 

The property has since been sold, and the tree fell over on its own.

 

I know -- bummer story, huh?  Sorry.  My brain is mushy today.

 

(Photo stolen from mlinksva on Flickr)

 

*Also?  Just kidding about the pain meds.  Foolery is not a doctor, does not play one on TV, and actually avoids pain meds that can't be swirled in a glass.

Mouse, I Guess

Smedley is wrapping up first grade this month.  I remember first grade at her school; I started at that same school the first week of November in 1971.  I was The New Kid; I was also The Fat Kid.  Consequently my normally sparkling childhood personality was somewhat subdued.

It was about to get a lot more subdued.

My new teacher, Mrs. T., was very friendly and warm the week before, when Mom took me in to meet her after school, but she was still frightening to a first grader (and, frankly, to a lot of men).  She was quite tall -- probably 5' 11", with a commanding presence.  Her RIT-dyed auburn hair was neatly restrained by a hair net, and her hot pink lipstick was one of the few feminine touches, and, really, one of the few frivolities, that she allowed herself. I'm going to call her Mrs. Warhorse from this point forward.*

A woman as tall and as top-heavy as Mrs. Warhorse might be expected to lumber, but her gait was imperial, regal, graceful.  She fairly floated across her classroom.  Though she was in her 60s she had ramrod straight posture.  She was old school; she defined old school.  I noticed, once my new school experience had begun, that she called us "children," as in, "Now, children, please stand for the flag salute," which of course we did every day. Stand, salute, pledge.

Mrs. Warhorse stuck to her plan like a general.  There were no deviations from The Plan.  No one misbehaved, because there was a very palpable sense of fear in the room.  (I'm not sure when the other kids picked up The Fear, but I had it from my first week, being The Fat New Kid and all.)  So one morning when Mrs. Warhorse lined us up in rows according to height, tallest kids in back, and The Plan was in motion to do the daily flag salute and then to sing a couple of patriotic songs ("America the Beautiful" is one I remember), Laurie The New Fat Kid was in a crisis.  A deep, personal crisis.

". . . for amber waves of grain . . ."

I knew that The Plan could not be changed, but on the morning in question I needed to change it.  I didn't know what to do.  Standing in the back row with the other tall kids, my crisis grew and grew, and The Fear had me in its grip.

". . . above the fruited plain . . ."

I broke out in sweat.

". . . God shed His grace on thee . . ."

Mrs. Warhorse, her broad back turned to us, played the old upright piano with passion and belted out the words for the children to follow.  I was nearly in tears as I sang.

". . . from sea to shining sea!"



And then it was over.  Single file, row by row we retreated to our little wooden desks.  I sank into my chair in despair, my heart pounding and my face, I'm sure of it, florid.  Waiting.  Waiting for what I knew would come, but what I was hoping against all hope would not.

It came.  The discovery of a puddle, on the polished wood floor, where seconds before a small choir of restrained children had stood cringing before the American flag.  It was Michelle who discovered the new little Shining Sea on the hardwood.  Of course, it would be Michelle.  She of the perfect long dark ringlets -- a beautiful child with the personality of Nellie Olson and the intellect of a soft ball.


(Photo stolen from smalltownholly on Flickr)

Mrs. Warhorse did what any compassionate teacher of six- and seven-year-olds would do -- and I'm certain this was Page One of her handbook -- she went from tiny desk to tiny desk, inspecting the pants.

And then she found the pants she was looking for.  Coincidentally, they housed Laurie the New Fat Kid, who was as miserable and frightened as a New Fat Kid could be.

I don't remember anything after that moment, but it was one of those defining moments in life.  Maybe you're familiar with those moments?  The ones you look back on as The Adult You've Become, for whatever that's worth, and you look at The Miserable Child You Were, and you yell ,"Hey!  You!  Fat Kid!  Yeah, I'm talkin' to you.  This is IT, Girlie.  This is the moment you get to decide.  Are you a man or a mouse?  Figuratively, of course.  Are you pro-Establishment or anti-?  ARE YOU GONNA JUST SIT THERE AND TAKE IT FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE?  CAN YOU HEAR ME, GIRLIE?"

No.

(Photo stolen from Zaccari on Flickr)

*My friend calls her Mrs. Battleaxe.

The Honeymoon Party

My parents retired quite young, due to completely unforeseen circumstances.  They live pretty simply and travel when they feel like it, going to interesting places around the world and close to home.

But their favorite place for several years has been a little Caribbean island in the Lesser Antilles, the ownership of which is divided between France (Saint-Martin) and the Netherlands (Sint Maarten).


(Map stolen from these guys)

When Chas and I got married in 1998, Mom and Dad gave us money for a honeymoon.  They encouraged us to go somewhere memorable, because we were not likely to be able to travel again for many years (so true).  As we talked it over, St. Martin kept coming up, and they were eager to tell us all about it.  The conversations went something like this:

Dad:  "Oh, you'll love it there, especially the French side.  Orient Beach is consistently rated one of the top five beaches in the world."

Mom:  "Kontiki and Boo Boo Jam's are a lot of fun.  And the restaurants in Grand Case are wonderful --"

Dad:  "You know, the far end of Orient Beach is a nude beach, so you'll want to take your binoculars.  Well, Chas will."

Mom:  "And you'll have to go to the farmer's market over in Marigot --"

Dad:  "The Dutch side has all the nightlife.  You don't want nightlife, do you?  That'd be pretty boring, just the two of you.  Too bad you're not going with another couple; it'd be more fun."

Mom:  "If you rent Chip's villa, you'd be just up the hill from Dawn Beach and Captain Oliver's, which we really like --"

Dad:  "Do you know anybody who could go with you?  Because it really would be a lot more fun with more people."

Later that night . . .

Um.  Chas?

Yes?

Now, hear me out.  Say no and I'll never bring it up again, but . . . what would you think about asking my parents to go with us on our honeymoon?

Yeah, okay.

Are you sure?  Because, you know, HONEYMOON . . .

No, it's fine.

So.  We were married in February and honeymooned in St. Martin in the summer, which is low season because of the chance of having a hurricane ruin your dream vacation.  We weren't joined by any hurricanes, but we WERE joined by my parents, my brother Mantel Man, and my brother Bocci and his wife.  My sister couldn't make it, so we were only seven in our honeymoon villa.


(Photo stolen from the source)

Coincidentally, the place slept seven just fine.

So, yeah, I'm a bit of a freak because I took my family on my honeymoon.  But no one EVER had a better time on their honeymoon (thatwecan
talkaboutinpolitecompanythankyouverymuch).


(Photo stolen from RogerTheriault on Flickr)

Those Who Can't, AVOID

Some people do great things.  Or terrible things.  Maybe I meant CONSEQUENTIAL things.


(Sketch stolen from these guys)

Some other people -- usually women, and freakishly beautiful women, I might add -- inspire great things.


(Graphic lifted shamelessly from this lady)

And then there's me.  I don't DO great things; I don't INSPIRE great things.  I avoid great things.  I generally have a hard time raising my own pulse, much less anyone else's.  And if you doubt me, get a load of THIS:



This is the face that launched a thousand unimportant basketball games on a TV near me (complete with laundry in the background and toothpaste specks on the mirror, thank you very much).

But this is not a pity party.  I know what I am and I like what I am, mostly, but it's those pesky people who insist upon going against the laws of Nature as I understand them who really mess with my head.  I'll give you some examples.


Example #1:  How Things ARE, U.S.

When I was about 20 I went to visit my old college roommate over the summer at her home in Berkeley, California.  We walked around and absorbed the weirdness that is Berkeley.  People's Park, future world leaders, Rastafarians and would-be Rastafarians, brainiacs, drug-addled zombies, musicians, homeless people, that religious sect who wear only red clothing -- we saw the full spectrum.  So I'm walking along the sidewalk on an unusually sunny day, drably dressed in an oatmeal-colored sweater and no makeup; I thought I was blending in so that the world could just parade by and I would be an unassuming fly on the wall.  I guess that's not how Homeless Joe saw it.

Homeless Joe had maybe six good teeth in his mouth, and I know this because I got the wide angle view at close range.  He came toward us on the sidewalk, grooving along looking like a Sly and the Family Stone Tribute Band reject, but grooving just the same.  Just as he passed me he stuck his face in my oncoming path -- I thought we would collide -- and stuck out his tongue the way Mick Jagger only wishes he could, and pronounced me "Bleeeaaahhhh."

Reeeeeee-jected, by Homeless Joe.


Example #2:  How Things ARE, International

While traveling in Japan in the mid '90s, visiting my brother Mantel Man with my family and touring Tokyo, we went to the Kannon Temple.  It was extremely crowded there (big surprise), and we seemed to be going against the flow of the crowd.  We surged single-file through the throng, my big milk-fed white bread family and me.

An oncoming Japanese man who appeared to be drunk stuck his face close to mine (which was somewhat of a stretch for him since I am about 5'9") and yelled, "BAY!  BAY!" in a way that didn't suggest hands-across-the-water friendliness.

Now, as it so happened, I studied Japanese in college for two years, and the closest thing I could guess was that "BAY" was actually "BEI," as in beikoku, a word for Americans.  Terrific.  "Bei" was sounding an awful lot like Homeless Joe's "Bleeeaaahhhh."


Example #3:  How Things Are NOT Supposed To Be

On another family trip, this time to Paris, we ate dinner in this lovely little cafe, La Petite Oignon, which wasn't at all busy.  We managed to visit with the owner and his wife, to get to know their dog who was lying on the floor, and to generally have a marvelous time.  We were mostly through our dinner when a large party of Japanese businessmen came in.  There were maybe 12-15 men and one harried woman, who seemed to be their tour coordinator.  They were half in the bag when they got there, and therefore very jovial, and every twelve seconds one of them would get up to take a group photo.

"You should offer to take their picture for them, Laurie," Dad said, since I was the closest to their table.  I think he thought I was more fluent in Japanese than I was.  Silly Dad.  I was pretty shy about such things then, but I offered to take their picture, and I even tossed in a few Japanese words as I handed the camera back.

Stunned silence and shocked faces.

"Hontō desu ka?!" they asked in disbelief.  Is it true?

"Sukoshi dake dekimasu," I answered, which (hopefully) means I can only a little.  I'm forgetting the verb for "to speak," but forgive me; it's been over 20 years.  Hanasu?

Well, everything changed at that minute.  I was now to be a guest of honor at their table.  Yes, I got up and moved to their table.  They wanted to know how I knew some Japanese, and very little actual communication took place, but none of us cared.  I felt like Cinderella, being treated like a princess in my scruffy clothes.  They either bought me a very expensive steak dinner, or one of them gave me his own when it arrived, I forget.  I had already finished my dinner, back at my family's table, but it would have been a faux pas to refuse such a gift, so I took a few bites.  My family -- remember them?  They ate this right up.  We all sort of joined forces with the Japanese businessmen, and the drinks and desserts flowed.  The poor little lady who was their tour director looked defeated.

Okay, just so you know how this goes against the will of the universe, I was treated like a celebrity that night.  Two of the men fawned all over me, and one of them seemed to be suggesting that we get married, although I must have that wrong.  He was absolutely smitten, however.  Somewhere I still have his calling card; I ran across it a few months ago.  But this just doesn't fit my life experiences: I was dressed in my blahsville J. Crew travel clothes, I was wearing no makeup at all, my hair was cut in a boring wash-and-go for easy travel (and terrible pictures, so I have none of me on that trip), and I towered over them and outweighed any of them by 20 pounds, easy.  Why me?  It was never supposed to be me!

It was quite a party, and the restaurant owners and their dog didn't mind at all.  I had to break one guy's heart, I guess, but by that time he was so snockered that he probably didn't understand.  I know I didn't understand.

It's lots of fun when the universe messes with your mind, but it's easier wearing oatmeal and being a fly on the wall.

Sore kara . . . c'est la vie.

You Can't Handle the Truth

This is not my brother Mantel Man.

Neither is this.



But this was, a few years ago.



And so was this.



But not this, shudder.



Or this.



Do you see where I'm going with this?  Although it's only occasionally visible, my brother Mantel Man looked an awful lot like Tom Cruise: the Military Years.  Part of that is because Mantel Man was in the Navy, and part of that is because God has a sense of humor and has given me THREE things to tease Mantel Man about -- this being one of them.  Ahem -- maybe when I know you better.

You should know that Mantel Man wasn't always Mantel Man -- oh, no.  (I'll skip the childhood nicknames.)  When he first got his Navy commission after college, and had achieved the Navy's starting officer rank, we called him Ensign Butthead.  You'll be happy to know that he didn't stay Ensign Butthead for long, however.  After a respectable interval he moved up to 2nd Lieutenant Butthead, and then to Lieutenant Butthead.  I could be wrong about that last one, but frankly, I don't care.*  Here's a picture from his commissioning.



Yeah, the fugly paparazzo stalking him was his big sister, queen of the Big Hair Don't.  I've grown.

To continue.  On a train hurtling deep into the Hong Kong province about 15 years ago, my weird family and my uncle were not only the only Caucasians on the train, we were the only Caucasians within memory of the locals.  My dad struck up a conversation with the young Chinese girl sitting alone, across from us, reading a book as she traveled.  This is my dad's idea of a conversation with a disinterested non-English-speaking teenager in a country in which we are interlopers:

"See this guy?" [here he indicates Mantel Man, who's in street clothes but who is rocking his Navy flier hair cut]

Blank stare.

"Navy officer.  You know American Nay-vee?  Airplane.  Jet."  [Yes, you guessed it, Dad stuck his arms straight out and did his best kindergarten airplane imitation.  I can't remember if he did the motor sound with his mouth -- sorry.]



All this wild waving of arms and gesticulating toward the stoic-yet-annoyed Officer Butthead didn't faze this girl one bit.  Her gaze was like a laser as it shifted from Dad to Butthead, Dad to Butthead.  An internal truth had been reached.  She pointed at Officer Butthead and, without cracking so much as a smile, pronounced, "Tom Cruise."  This was probably the only English this Chinese girl knew, and somehow it sounded like the heaviest Russian accent I had ever heard.

Dad, who'd heard this before, of course, said, "No!  It's Peewee Herman!" to our great delight, to her utter lack of comprehension, and to Butthead's complete and total annoyance.  He'd heard THAT before, too.



So now you know.  My brother Mantel Man looks a little like the craziest man in America since Charles Manson a couch jumper Tom Cruise, but maybe not quite so crazy Dig-Me Dig-Me.

The funny thing is, I prefer Peewee Herman.

Or, Mantle Man himself.  Yeah, that's it.



Love you, man.

~     ~     ~     ~     ~

*EDIT: Just received a message from Mantel Man.  It seems I screwed up the whole Navy rank system:  "You got my rank mixed up, though: after Ensign, I became a Lieutenant Junior Grade - abbreviated, if you like, to Lieutenant J.G. or just LTJG in Navy acronym parlance."  Kinda thought I took care of that with the "I don't care" caveat, Mantel Man, but thanks for the specificity, which is number two on the list of Things I Tease Mantel Man About, wink wink.

Extra! Extra!

My mom grew up in part in Monterey, California, and once when a film crew came to town there was a casting call for children.  My mother and her little sister Patsy were chosen to be extras because they wore their hair in braids, which was correct for the time period of the film, "The Ghost and Mrs. Muir."

The principle actors were Gene Tierney and Rex Harrison, and in the role of Tierney's daughter was a young Natalie Wood.  All Mom remembers of the shoot was that the extras were directed to run around and play on the beach -- nice work if you can get it -- and that Natalie Wood was a snippy child who would have nothing to do with the other children.  I don't think Mom has cared for Natalie Wood ever since.

The first part of this clip shows a beach scene with children playing, and I have no idea which ones are my mother and my aunt.

The White-Hot Glow of Fame Surrounds Me

Living in California I have had, as one would expect, MANY encounters with celebrities.  Well, one.  Two, if you count Allen Funt in Monterey.  For instance, there was this guy


(Photo stolen from these guys)

who was in town to film a movie in the empty Mervyns building next to my store.  He came in to my store with a chick who could have been his daughter a lovely young woman, and I showed him wallets.  I didn't let on that I recognized him from his M*A*S*H days -- why would I?  He never looked at me, and I don't blame him; I never saw the movie, but I would have kept my head down, too, I'm guessing.

Well, that's it for Northern California.  After all, I live in California's Armpit (in a good way), and no famous people other than Ted Nugent and Charles Schwab have ever been here, and they come here to HUNT, so I'm told.

My other celebrity encounters have all happened out of the area.  There was this guy


(Photo stolen from these guys)

only it was years after "The Six Million Dollar Man" had wrapped.  It was on a plane, and my little brother Mantel Man told him "howdy."  Oscar was very cordial, but I think he had us pegged as hicks.

Oh, and this guy


(Photo stolen from these guys)

except that he didn't really make that face while he ate his Kaanapali Breakfast Plate on the patio.  He was a delight.

And this guy


(Photo stolen from these fine folks)

came into that same Maui restaurant where I worked, and had Christmas dinner with his family.  No one bothered them.

I'm pretty sure I sat behind this lady


(Photo stolen from the lady herself)

at a Christmas Eve church service in San Clemente, but I could be wrong.  She kept turning around to look at the door . . . waiting for someone, obviously.

I used to go listen to these guys


(Photo stolen from these guys)

three nights a week at the El Crab Catcher restaurant bar on the beach at Kaanapali, back before they'd "made it."  It was a great way to end a long day of working two jobs serving tourists without air conditioning.

But by far my biggest celebrity encounter involved this poor man


(Photo stolen from these guys)

who just wanted a quiet dinner with his family, outside, please, and we'll take that table, it'll be fine.  "Oh but you don't want to sit there, really," said I, and I wasn't joking.  "It has no air circulation and you'll be too hot."  But they really wanted to sit outside . . . so when it was time to move them inside because Good Golly Miss Molly the silly Foolery hostess was right and it's insufferably hot at that table, the only table available in the whole restaurant was next to the salad bar and You really don't want to sit next to the salad bar, do you?  Well, the silly Foolery hostess was right again, but by this time there was no going back, and there sat the greatest Olympic swimmer in U.S. history, next to the salad bar, and of course Mrs. Clinkscales from Omaha recognized him and really just HAD to say Hello and I really admire you and Would you sign this cocktail napkin for me? and I'll be right back and HONEY!  Look who it is, it's that nice Jewish swimmer from the Olympics and --

-- and my manager wanted to know how this all happened and it was so much easier to say "Mark who?" but of course I couldn't do that so I told him the truth.  Yeah, I gave mark Spitz the two crappiest tables in the restaurant, back to back.

In my next life as a hostess I'm going to say, "No, you can't sit at that table because birds shat all over it and the Department of Homeland Security will be here ANY MINUTE to take samples so we can't disturb the evidence."  Lying is something that comes naturally to me, now that I'm a mother.  And a blogger.

What were we talking about?

Oh yeah -- movie stars.  Well, none of those people qualify as movie stars, do they?  Hmmm, shoulda remembered that when I made the stupid logo.  Oh well, CELEBRITIES in general.  Tell me ALL about your encounters.  Tell me here, in the comments, or do it on your own blog and link to it.

Think About Baseball

(Photo stolen from mixam on Flickr)

I was not an art major; I was a graphic design major.  The best way I can describe the difference between art and design is that art asks the viewer to interpret it however he will, with no right answer and with infinite possible interpretations.  Design's goal is ONE interpretation, ONE right answer.  If you do your job as a designer correctly, you guide the viewer's eye where you want it to go, and there is no room for ambiguity.  That's because design is usually trying to impart information, or to persuade, or even to sell something.

 

That said, there is an obvious overlap between the two disciplines, and so I had to take a few art classes.  Color theory was one, basic figure drawing was another.  And today's story takes place in a second floor classroom in Ayers Hall, the funky old building on the Chico State campus that housed most of the art classes.

 

This class was the first and only figure drawing class I have ever taken (though some day I hope to take another one).  If you've ever seen such a class depicted on a lame TV show, the show usually gets it right: all the students are arranged in an oval facing the center of the room.  There is some sort of platform in the center of this oval on which motionless models stand as the students sketch their image with charcoal or pencil.  Several of the students themselves took short turns striking poses for quick studies (we had maybe a minute to get the essence of the pose down on paper before the pose was changed).  This was good exercise for our hand dexterity and for our ability to see the important elements of a subject.

 

After several sessions drawing each other, it was time to draw the professionals.  Again, calling on your experience watching decades of cheesy sitcoms, I'm sure you remember the moment: college guy sits smirking behind his easel as beautiful model drops her robe and gives him a full-frontal naked pose which he is supposed to draw without comment (or giggling, or wolf whistles, or inappropriate propositions, or embarrassing physical reactions).  And that's about how it was, except that the students were mostly college girls, and our first model was a tiny woman with long hair reaching past her tushie, and no one felt moved to any of the aforementioned inappropriate reactions.  She reclined, we sketched.  After our first model we felt pretty comfortable with the whole scene.

 

A knot of girls who sat near me were supremely confident young women who, before class got started, discussed their boyfriends and dates and parties and so forth, at a volume level which almost made me feel I was welcome to comment (I didn't).  These were upper case College Women, whereas I was a lower case college freshman (read: dork).  Day after day they'd chatter away until the model du jour dropped her robe and it was time to sketch.  Until one day, when there was no lady lounging around in a robe.  Class was a bit late getting started, so the girl talk among the College Women was loud and lively.

 

Then the door opened, and in walked a scruffy guy in his mid-40s.  He mumbled an apology to the instructor, then headed for the dressing room.  I looked at the College Women to gauge their reactions.  Wide eyes.  Darting glances.  Sitcom smirks.  Oh, goody.  We'll be drawing a MAN today.  This is new.  I may need more charcoal.

 

Out of the dressing room walked the model, naked as a jay bird; he was walking away from me and I could see that his hiney completely lacked tan lines.  A nudist, probably.  He was completely comfortable; I was not.  So I looked again at the College Women, and their mouths were agape, eyebrows frozen somewhere up near their hairlines.  I looked back at the model, who had turned toward me, and

 

HOLY

FREAKING

MY GOODNESS GRACIOUS PATOOTIE

WOW

 

no wonder he's so comfortable!  I'm going to need a LOT more charcoal for this one, I decided.

 

For the first time all semester the College Women were speechless.

(Photo stolen from these guys)

The World's Most Expensive Pound Cake

(Photo stolen from this site)

I have mentioned, obliquely, that my brother is a chef.  I try to keep my identifiable family members as anonymous as possible, for their own safety.  Who needs bricks being hurled through one's window because of one's idiot sister?  Still, Bocci deserves a few bricks.  So.

My brother Bocci is a chef.  How he got where he is today is a long, painful story of temper tantrums and petulant behavior, but let's leave me out of this.  He's smart and talented, and I adore him, even if he is a big doofus.

When Bocci was in chef school in San Francisco, in the early 90s, he used to come home on free weekends, making the nearly three-hour drive from the city during hours that most 20-year-olds were out partying.  He'd arrive at our parents' house in the wee hours, and I'd wait up for him.  We'd crack a couple of beers, and he'd casually open a cookbook while we chatted.  Sometimes he'd say, "Let's make this."  Sometimes we did.  Well, HE did.  I just watched, sipped my beer, sparred with his sharp wit and washed his dishes.

Let me tell you about the dishes a chef -- even a budding chef -- can plow through.  You know your mixing bowls?  They'll all be used and washed six times apiece, and that's even if you have two or more sets.  Every sauce pan in the house, every saute pan -- used twice or more.  Savory dishes will require at least one stock pot, two if you've got 'em.  Cookie sheets, jelly roll pans -- all dirty.  Don't even start me on the utensils and mixing tools.  Don't allow anyone to lick the beaters on your Kitchenaid or hand mixer, because those beaters will be pressed into service again before the mixer cools down.  I have permanent dishpan hands thanks to Bocci.

So on the occasion of note, Bocci was making a pound cake.  He had a traditional recipe he wanted to try, and if I remember right, it had something to do with our parents, who were coming back to town the next day -- maybe it was their anniversary, or a dinner party, or something?  Bocci was hell-bent on getting this thing perfect.  A pound of butter, a pound of sugar, a pound of flour, a pound of eggs?  Is that it?  There's one pound the recipe left out, and that was my desire to POUND Bocci.  Out of the oven came this beautiful cake, baked in our mother's angel food cake pan.  After it cooled, Bocci tested its consistency.  Something had failed, though I haven't the faintest idea what.  The consistency was off, I guess, and the cake tore a bit on the top.  Bocci was rather crabby about it.  "Oh, well, no biggie," I said.  "It's a molded cake -- you flip it over, Bocci.  No one will ever know."

BIG mistake.  Big, big big.  I know what I would have said to Bocci had this happened last week:  "AARRGGH!  You dumb*ss!  You ruined it!  Now we'll NEVER pass GO and collect $200!  Now they'll know what colossal failures we are and always will be!  I can't believe you'd make a cake that TORE on the top!  Jeez, now I have to call the TV news crew.  BUTTHEAD!"  Instead, I gave it the old pshaw treatment, and Bocci was out to prove me wrong.  He took the upper hand.  Literally.  He sunk that upper hand deep into the cake and tore a huge hunk out of it.  I stared in amazement at him as he stuffed a wad of the buttery golden pound cake into his face. 

"Tastes fine," he said.  "Now go to town and get me some more butter."

And, being the older-not-wiser Sister of Chef Butthead Dumb*ss, I went to town and got him more butter.

The second cake was just as beautiful as the first, but this cake was also a huge failure in Bocci's perfectionist eyes.  "You are NOT manhandling another cake!" I warned Bocci.  "It's just fine!  See, it's delicious!  I can hardly button my jeans from all the cake hunks I've been eating.  This is FINE!  Don't you DARE put your fist through it!  Besides, you can't because we're out of butter again, and it's almost midnight.  So there!"

Big mistake.  Big, big, BIG mistake.  This second cake was not treated with as much respect as its predecessor.  It was straight-armed, LAUNCHED, out the door onto the patio, where half a dozen expectant cats sniffed and picked at it, licking the butter from the still-warm surface.

"You [UNCHARITABLE DEFINITELY PG-13 WORD WHICH MY GRANDMOTHERS NEVER KNEW I KNEW]!!  How could you do that!  This is Orland, where they roll up the sidewalks at dark, remember?  HELLOOOOO, the grocery store is closed, and we're out of butter.  What the heck were you thinking, JERKWATER?"  You know I'm serious when I pull Mom's favorite swear out of my arsenal.

Very calmly, without ever looking up from his recipes, Bocci said, "Yeah, and we're out of eggs, too, so you'd better get moving."

I can't believe I'm driving to a gas station after midnight to buy eggs and butter.  This is humiliating.  If it weren't for the fact that this cake is for Mom and Dad I'd be watching "Fridays" right now, flying the bird any time Bocci walked into the living room to ask for anything.

The third cake turned out fine, even by Chef Butthead Dum*ss's impossible standards.  The patio cake was cleaned up the next day, and the world's most expensive pound cake (especially if you figure in 22 miles worth of gas to buy more butter and eggs) was a success.  To us.  And to our mother.  And probably to other guests who ate it, because they all think Bocci is The Miracle Worker of Food.  HA!  None of them ever had to scrub The Miracle Worker's egg pans, I'll bet.  But to our dad, a connoisseur of pound cake, Bocci's third-try pound cake was "okay, but not as good as Betty Crocker's."

Are you geting it now -- the roots of my familial rage?

The Dinner Party

We had a dinner party.

 

We were feeling so grown up, my roommates and me.  Table linens, matching plates, and red wine.  One of the boyfriends grilled some inexpensive meat.  I made apple crisp for dessert, probably (one of my two dessert success stories).  David Sanborn squawked softly in the background.  Good food, good friends, a notch above a typical evening for would-be sophisticates at Chico State in 1986.

 

We retired to the living room, about four feet from the dinner table, to lounge around and drink more wine and coffee.  The music switched to something a bit more upbeat -- probably Prince or Madness or Cyndi Lauper.  The conversation was lively, our guests were having a good time, and we roommates were happy and smugly self-satisfied.

 

And then, the cat walked in.

 

Gerry was a stray female cat that we took in, and I can honestly say, as a cat lover, I hated that cat.  She had two modes: EAT and BITCH, and she did both quite a bit.  As soon as she moved in she flopped out a load of kittens, which had to be given away.  We tried to like Gerry, but the chips were stacked against us.  But Gerry had one redeeming quality, and that was that she drove rabbits WILD.

 

(Photo stolen from these guys)

 

Our roommate Jules had a French Lop rabbit named Scooter, who we loved.  After Scooter ate, Scooter pooped, and after Scooter pooped, Scooter was allowed to run around the apartment for a while.  When Gerry moved in, Scooter thought we'd brought him a girlfriend.  After all, with all of Gerry's kitty hormones raging, she must have smelled like a French brothel to Scooter.  We discovered, to our great amusement, that Gerry would let Scooter chase her a little, but not catch her.  The cat would flop down like Manet's Olympia, stretch out luxuriously, look back over her shoulder at the rabbit, and twitch her tail in a come-hither manner.  Scooter would wait until he couldn't stand it anymore, and then make a headlong rush toward the big tease, who always bolted at the last possible second.  This went on for as long as we let it.

 

So into our oh-so-adult dinner party afterglow strode Gerry.  "Oh, I didn't know you had a cat," said one guest.  "What happened to the rabbit?"  At which point, of course, the promise of a new Stupid Pet Trick was too much to resist, and Scooter was brought forth from his cage in his closet, where he had been happily gnawing the wall board in solitude.

 

Scooter looked around the room.  People.  All looking at him.  Expecting something.  Why are they bringing me out at night?  Hmmmm -- Gerry!  Ohhhhhhh, she looks hot tonight.  Little minx.  I'm gonna get me some --

And the rabbit rushed the cat, who, very likely full from dinner party leftovers, mistimed her escape.

 

Pounce.

 

Have you ever heard a cat scream?  It's a lot like Cyndi Lauper's singing, only a LOT louder.  Audible gasps from the assembled hipsters.  They looked at Scooter, who was no longer a virgin.  They looked at us, gaping mouths, every one.  They looked at Gerry, who was never a virgin, but had now crossed into species-bending territory.  They looked back at us in horror.

 

"THAT'S NEVER HAPPENED BEFORE!" we sputtered all at once.  "WE SWEAR!  The rabbit has NEVER won!"

 

Scooter, a new-found look of satisfaction on his little French face, was quickly deposited back in his cage sans ceremony.  A pall had been cast over our party, as our friends were each considering whether to report us to the SPCA or to PETA.  Gerry looked shell-shocked.  Goodnights were said in short order.

(Drawing stolen from this site)

 

Gerry never played tag with Scooter again, though Scooter tried whenever he could.  I think that was our last dinner party, too.