As many of you know, I moved to my own place this weekend. This is my first time living on my own without a roommate or boyfriend. It's just me and Dugi now.
I'd been pretty diligent with my moving plans, making sure my electricity would be turned on, doing a lot of research into what moving company I should use, and having Cox turn on my internet.
I decided to hire movers because I had to move over Labor Day weekend, and no one would be around to help me. Also, I hate driving U-Hauls. Anyway, I looked on Yelp to see who was highest rated, and I found a moving company called Gorilla Rose, which had almost all 5-star reviews on Yelp, a nice website, and tons of great customer testimonies. I called them two weeks ago and was pleasantly surprised by the friendliness and flexibility of the owner.
So on Saturday, moving day, I woke up early to get a relaxing facial and drove home relaxed, sure all my moving needs would be taken care of. Somewhere on the drive home I started to have a premonition that this move wouldn't run as smoothly as I'd thought. I have these often, and usually they're right.
Gorilla Rose was scheduled to show up at 10 a.m. At 10:15, I started to get nervous. I decided to call them to confirm that they were still coming. To my dismay, the number had been disconnected, and the only thing that kept me from totally panicking was the fact that I hadn't paid them anything yet, nor did they have my credit card information. I went immediately to Craigslist and began calling numbers until I found a guy named John who, over the din of Swapmeet, told me he could help me out the next morning. Realizing that Craigslist people really aren't reliable either, I called my friend and coworker Kym in a panic, hoping that she'd be able to help me brainstorm what to do. We decided she'd drive to my house and we'd go rent a U-Haul and pick up some day laborers at Star Nursery.
With Kym on the way, my phone rang and, much to my surprise, it was Gorilla Rose, calling to explain that they'd "forgotten to pay the phone bill," which somehow translated to running 2 hours late. It was almost noon at this point, and Brian, the mover, informed me that they hadn't even picked up the truck yet from U-Haul. He did assure me they were on their way. Next time I don't want to do something, am running late, or forget to do my homework, I'm definitely using the "forgot to pay my phone bill" excuse. But only because it makes so much sense.
Ok, so Kym comes to my house, and soon I get a phone call from Brian explaining that he didn't have the money to put down for the truck, so I'd have to call U-Haul and give them my credit card number so he could get it. So I gave my credit card number to them, and realized that the U-Haul Brian had gone to was in deep Henderson, which is in the exact opposite direction of where I needed to move from and to. Why they wouldn't rent a U-Haul near me, I have no idea.
Anyway, two hours later, they show up with the truck. Kym and I look out the window and see what seems to be three Vietnam vets who definitely collect social security stumbling up the sidewalk. "This should be interesting," I said. "I think they're hung over," said Kym.
They did reek of the particular scent of sweat, drugs, and alcohol. The guy with Meth teeth was still tweeking. Whatever. I just wanted to move.
Since I only really had one room to move, the entire operation only lasted an hour. Then I remembered that my couch was supposed to be delivered that day. I called the furniture company and the manager assured me that the delivery truck was on its way. A few hours later, no truck in sight, I called them again, and the manager told me they were about half an hour away. I really didn't understand how one day of deliveries could take so long.
But half an hour later, when two men drove up in a pickup truck, I realized that the furniture store didn't even have a real truck, and they'd been lugging furniture, one piece at a time, all over the Valley.
I live on the bottom floor. There's a stairway that residents on the second floor take up to their units, which is about ten feet from my door. Coming around the corner, the guy walking forwards moved too fast for the guy walking backwards, and he managed to squish Backwards-Walking Guy's hand into the side of the stair railing, also causing a huge tear in the back of my couch. After the day I'd had, I took one look at the tear, told them to position it with that side facing the wall, and called it a day.
And after all that, Kym figured out that the name "Gorilla Rose" is actually the title of a psychedelic rock track, just the kind of track one would use for background music while getting high in the back of a van.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Monday, August 15, 2011
Deep-fried Oreos: Worth it?
I have an apology to make.
You see, whenever friends come to Vegas and ask me what they should do, I give them a list that includes adventures to activate all the senses. Since I'm a foodie, this list does tend to rely heavily on taste. Naturally, I refer people to Mermaid's Casino for the fried Oreos. They're fried. They're three for a dollar. How can one go wrong?
Here's my confession/apology: I'd never tried this gluttonous dessert. Until last night. After digesting our meal at Serendipity 3, Rob and Dugi and I ventured to Fremont Street to taste these Oreos. I held Dugi next to the dining area while Rob stood in line.
The first warning should have been the fact that no one flinched when I brought a dog within five feet of the fryers. I mean, Fremont Street is gross and Dugi is clean, but that's got to be violating at least 10 health codes. And then, well...
Let me begin by saying that the fried Oreos themselves were delicious. They were salty and sweet and instantly raised my cholesterol. But Mermaid's has got to be the most disgusting place I've ever eaten, let alone one of the most disgusting places I've ever been in my life.
I had more of an appetite looking at a street dog's bottom in Santo Domingo.
My shoes stuck to the floor.
Three people behind Rob was a bearded woman.
Multiple career hookers (illegal) told me how cute Dugi was. They actually pet him.
I was afraid to sit at the slot machine for fear of contracting scurvy. Is that even contagious?
We ate our Oreos outside the casino. We drove home. I lived to tell the tale. But I've got to apologize to anyone I've put through this frightful experience.
You see, whenever friends come to Vegas and ask me what they should do, I give them a list that includes adventures to activate all the senses. Since I'm a foodie, this list does tend to rely heavily on taste. Naturally, I refer people to Mermaid's Casino for the fried Oreos. They're fried. They're three for a dollar. How can one go wrong?
Here's my confession/apology: I'd never tried this gluttonous dessert. Until last night. After digesting our meal at Serendipity 3, Rob and Dugi and I ventured to Fremont Street to taste these Oreos. I held Dugi next to the dining area while Rob stood in line.
The first warning should have been the fact that no one flinched when I brought a dog within five feet of the fryers. I mean, Fremont Street is gross and Dugi is clean, but that's got to be violating at least 10 health codes. And then, well...
Let me begin by saying that the fried Oreos themselves were delicious. They were salty and sweet and instantly raised my cholesterol. But Mermaid's has got to be the most disgusting place I've ever eaten, let alone one of the most disgusting places I've ever been in my life.
I had more of an appetite looking at a street dog's bottom in Santo Domingo.
My shoes stuck to the floor.
Three people behind Rob was a bearded woman.
Multiple career hookers (illegal) told me how cute Dugi was. They actually pet him.
I was afraid to sit at the slot machine for fear of contracting scurvy. Is that even contagious?
We ate our Oreos outside the casino. We drove home. I lived to tell the tale. But I've got to apologize to anyone I've put through this frightful experience.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Goo goo gah gah fries with that?
I'm rather disappointed by the media outlets in this town. It's blatantly obvious, to me at least, that Las Vegas has some serious child labor issues. Why, I ask, is a 10 year old allowed to serve me my smoothie?
Ok readers, I have to be honest, Vegas has many problems, but employing underage kids isn't one of them. The real problem is that I'm getting old. Sixteen year olds suddenly look like babies to me. Several times now, I've almost blurted out, "What are you, like five?" to teenage boys working around town. Luckily I've been able to resist the urge, lest I become one of those old bags who humiliates the children.
Ok readers, I have to be honest, Vegas has many problems, but employing underage kids isn't one of them. The real problem is that I'm getting old. Sixteen year olds suddenly look like babies to me. Several times now, I've almost blurted out, "What are you, like five?" to teenage boys working around town. Luckily I've been able to resist the urge, lest I become one of those old bags who humiliates the children.
Monday, August 8, 2011
All my favorite artists: Van Gogh, Matisse, Charles Manson
Next month, Sin City Gallery will feature a collection created entirely by convicted serial killer John Wayne Gacy. No, this isn't just a Vegas thing; for those who don't know, so-called "Murderabilia" (art created by serial killers) is highly collectable. In fact, as featured in the 2000 documentary "Collectors," some enthusiasts devote their lives to collecting artwork created by murderers.
In Vegas and elsewhere, this trend has sparked controversy. On one side of the argument are victims' rights advocates who insist that this hobby glorifies killers and stomps on the memory of their victims. On the other side are collectors who argue that displaying this art is free speech and fascinating. Furthermore, profits from the sale of this artwork often, at least in part, go to charities that benefit victims and their families.
As a response to the Las Vegas opening, advocates are providing a competing show, which will instead display photographs of murder victims and act as a kind of memorial.
As a life-long advocate of free speech in all forms and someone who finds true crime television interesting, I support the gallery's right to display this collection. While I understand how victims' family members could be disturbed by this, I don't understand how they equate these art displays with desecration of the memory of the serial killer's victims. This mindset is the same one that leads to capital punishment: Though we as a society would like to forget it, serial killers are human and should be afforded the same basic dignity as the rest of us.
In Vegas and elsewhere, this trend has sparked controversy. On one side of the argument are victims' rights advocates who insist that this hobby glorifies killers and stomps on the memory of their victims. On the other side are collectors who argue that displaying this art is free speech and fascinating. Furthermore, profits from the sale of this artwork often, at least in part, go to charities that benefit victims and their families.
As a response to the Las Vegas opening, advocates are providing a competing show, which will instead display photographs of murder victims and act as a kind of memorial.
As a life-long advocate of free speech in all forms and someone who finds true crime television interesting, I support the gallery's right to display this collection. While I understand how victims' family members could be disturbed by this, I don't understand how they equate these art displays with desecration of the memory of the serial killer's victims. This mindset is the same one that leads to capital punishment: Though we as a society would like to forget it, serial killers are human and should be afforded the same basic dignity as the rest of us.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Buy the fountain of youth for one low payment!
Apparently, the ACLU is suing because of gerrymandering in Las Vegas, but I'm going to talk about skincare products.
You see, today I went to the dermatologist for my occassional botox. My doctor had barely shoved the needle into my third eye when he began telling me about a new product.
"That over there isn't even available to the public yet," he said, gesturing at a large orange pill bottle. "That's the fountain of youth."
"Yeah," I chuckled, unsure if he was serious. He has a tendency to ramble about skin science while working on me.
"It's called Telomerase. It'll make you live to be 150." Apparently, Telomerase is an enzyme that was discovered by some Nobel Prize-winning scientist that mimics the resilience of cancer cells. My doctor started taking the stuff a week ago, and he had already noticed "subtle differences." I didn't ask him what these differences were because he seems like the type to blurt out "bedroom stamina!" but I was a little intruigued. "Google it," he said.
After further research, I found that the activation of Telomerase makes some cells "immortal." Yikes, that's one scary word.
You see, today I went to the dermatologist for my occassional botox. My doctor had barely shoved the needle into my third eye when he began telling me about a new product.
"That over there isn't even available to the public yet," he said, gesturing at a large orange pill bottle. "That's the fountain of youth."
"Yeah," I chuckled, unsure if he was serious. He has a tendency to ramble about skin science while working on me.
"It's called Telomerase. It'll make you live to be 150." Apparently, Telomerase is an enzyme that was discovered by some Nobel Prize-winning scientist that mimics the resilience of cancer cells. My doctor started taking the stuff a week ago, and he had already noticed "subtle differences." I didn't ask him what these differences were because he seems like the type to blurt out "bedroom stamina!" but I was a little intruigued. "Google it," he said.
After further research, I found that the activation of Telomerase makes some cells "immortal." Yikes, that's one scary word.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
The death of books
I had a very disappointing weekend. First, I attempted to sell some books to a used bookstore. Then, I went to Borders.
That's a pretty explanatory sentence right there, but let me go on.
There are several used bookstores in Las Vegas. Perhaps the most well-known is Dead Poets Books, but I would never go there because the owner is an asshat. Just look at him.
They used to have a website, but I can't find it anymore. One part of the site featured guidelines explaining the types of books they'd buy, which is fine; I understand it's a business. The problem was that the owner had basically used the page as a forum to condescend to the little people who couldn't possibly understand the difference between Ann Rand and Tolstoy.
Anyway, I traveled to this other used bookstore on North Rainbow that manages to survive down the street from both Borders and Barnes and Noble. I took a bag of my old books including anything from paperbacks that are now movies to out-of-print craft books. Alas, they wouldn't buy any of them because, as the sweet old lady who owns the place explained, "They won't sell anymore." Sure enough, I noted that they shelves held multiple copies of several of the books I'd brought in. What does sell, judging by the shelves, is romance novels. The "literature" is condemned to a miniscule section at the back of the store. There I saw a paperback copy of East of Eden and about two dozen fancy first editions that are out of my price range.
I lugged the sad sack of books back out to my car and drove down the street to Borders to peruse the now defunct store's inventory. It was kind of a madhouse there, since Vegas loves a sale. As I entered the store, I passed a family exiting. The teenage boy of the group exclaimed, "There's nothing to buy here. All they have is books!"
If you know me at all, you know I hate Borders and have mixed feelings about their going out of business. Clearly, this means the decline of reading, but, like I said, I hate Borders because 1)it's a chain and 2)they mostly sold toys and movies anyway. Still, I love discounted reading material. I picked up several copies of Best American Short Stories, a few lit mags, and a travel magazine for the BF. I'll be visiting again as the prices drop further.
Anyway, what I really had to deal with walking past the shelves of pawed through books was the fact that no writer deserves to have his or her life's work stamped with a huge 20% off sticker. It's depressing to see the likes of Alice Munro defamed like that. There's nothing worse than seeing surplus inventory from a writer you know and then having to face that writer later, pretending nothing is wrong. The maternal side of me wanted to buy all five copies of Fear and Loathing and hightail it out of there.
That's a pretty explanatory sentence right there, but let me go on.
There are several used bookstores in Las Vegas. Perhaps the most well-known is Dead Poets Books, but I would never go there because the owner is an asshat. Just look at him.
They used to have a website, but I can't find it anymore. One part of the site featured guidelines explaining the types of books they'd buy, which is fine; I understand it's a business. The problem was that the owner had basically used the page as a forum to condescend to the little people who couldn't possibly understand the difference between Ann Rand and Tolstoy.
Anyway, I traveled to this other used bookstore on North Rainbow that manages to survive down the street from both Borders and Barnes and Noble. I took a bag of my old books including anything from paperbacks that are now movies to out-of-print craft books. Alas, they wouldn't buy any of them because, as the sweet old lady who owns the place explained, "They won't sell anymore." Sure enough, I noted that they shelves held multiple copies of several of the books I'd brought in. What does sell, judging by the shelves, is romance novels. The "literature" is condemned to a miniscule section at the back of the store. There I saw a paperback copy of East of Eden and about two dozen fancy first editions that are out of my price range.
I lugged the sad sack of books back out to my car and drove down the street to Borders to peruse the now defunct store's inventory. It was kind of a madhouse there, since Vegas loves a sale. As I entered the store, I passed a family exiting. The teenage boy of the group exclaimed, "There's nothing to buy here. All they have is books!"
If you know me at all, you know I hate Borders and have mixed feelings about their going out of business. Clearly, this means the decline of reading, but, like I said, I hate Borders because 1)it's a chain and 2)they mostly sold toys and movies anyway. Still, I love discounted reading material. I picked up several copies of Best American Short Stories, a few lit mags, and a travel magazine for the BF. I'll be visiting again as the prices drop further.
Anyway, what I really had to deal with walking past the shelves of pawed through books was the fact that no writer deserves to have his or her life's work stamped with a huge 20% off sticker. It's depressing to see the likes of Alice Munro defamed like that. There's nothing worse than seeing surplus inventory from a writer you know and then having to face that writer later, pretending nothing is wrong. The maternal side of me wanted to buy all five copies of Fear and Loathing and hightail it out of there.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
My two favorite things: fish and human flesh
For those of you who still haven't bought into the idea that Vegas is a classy city-those of you who think all we have to offer are street brawls (see the video in the post below) you're in for a big surprise. In fact, Vegas can add its name to a long list of cosmopolitan locales where you can eat raw fish off a naked lady. That's right, one visit to Geisha House Steak & Sushi on Decatur, and you can eat sushi off leaves strategically placed on an otherwise naked woman.
See, that's totally not weird or awkward. I immediately begin picturing Larry David inspired scenarios in which I find a migrant pube stuck to a spicy tuna roll. Gross. Would you try it?
See, that's totally not weird or awkward. I immediately begin picturing Larry David inspired scenarios in which I find a migrant pube stuck to a spicy tuna roll. Gross. Would you try it?
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Confessions of an MFA grad
Hi everyone. I'm back from Nebraska, and I officially have my MFA in fiction. Some of you might think the pressure is off since I no longer have homework, but actually, graduating is a little like having a permanent homework assignment.
You see, I now have to uphold the expectation of my program, my friends and family who have watched me earn this degree, and my graduating class-some of the most talented individuals I've had the pleasure to encounter. Now I have to publish, which is the best advertisement for the program. I have to not sit in front of my computer with a cork-less bottle of wine that I must drink because it will go bad soon.
Then, Amy Winehouse died the day of graduation, which is like some kind of cosmic warning; create or perish! It doesn't help that we're the same age. I tried to find a nice Amy Winehouse quote to read at graduation, but most of the quotes were short drink recipes. "What's your recipe for success?" asked the Rolling Stone reporter. "Uh, that's a dash 'ah scotch an' lots of ice," Amy probably answered very seriously and drunkenly. That didn't actually happen, but it could have.
You see, I now have to uphold the expectation of my program, my friends and family who have watched me earn this degree, and my graduating class-some of the most talented individuals I've had the pleasure to encounter. Now I have to publish, which is the best advertisement for the program. I have to not sit in front of my computer with a cork-less bottle of wine that I must drink because it will go bad soon.
Then, Amy Winehouse died the day of graduation, which is like some kind of cosmic warning; create or perish! It doesn't help that we're the same age. I tried to find a nice Amy Winehouse quote to read at graduation, but most of the quotes were short drink recipes. "What's your recipe for success?" asked the Rolling Stone reporter. "Uh, that's a dash 'ah scotch an' lots of ice," Amy probably answered very seriously and drunkenly. That didn't actually happen, but it could have.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Apparently we need some clarification
I'll admit I've done plenty of weird Vegas-typical things in the five years I've lived here. For example, just last week, I walked from a club, through a casino and all the way out to my car without shoes on. I'd been dancing for hours and my heels hurt, ok? I washed my feet with hot water and soap when I got home, and I haven't died yet. Would I walk through puddles of sewage? No. But I don't think the casino floor is any dirtier than walking barefoot outside, which everyone does or at least did as a child.
However, I've never walked into a restaurant without pants. And yesterday, I witnessed someone who did. I was eating a late dinner at the Palms cafe, and in comes this group of drunk kids, one of whom was wearing a very long shirt. Hmm, I thought, perhaps she's wearing a swimsuit underneath or just has on some really short shorts.
My question was answered five minutes later when one of the guys at the table pulled her shirt up to her waist while she was standing and talking too loudly as drunk kids often do. And no, she wasn't wearing anything underneath her shirt. The carpet matches the drapes people. So I'm thinking, maybe "No shirts, no shoes, no service" needs to be ammended to include pants.
However, I've never walked into a restaurant without pants. And yesterday, I witnessed someone who did. I was eating a late dinner at the Palms cafe, and in comes this group of drunk kids, one of whom was wearing a very long shirt. Hmm, I thought, perhaps she's wearing a swimsuit underneath or just has on some really short shorts.
My question was answered five minutes later when one of the guys at the table pulled her shirt up to her waist while she was standing and talking too loudly as drunk kids often do. And no, she wasn't wearing anything underneath her shirt. The carpet matches the drapes people. So I'm thinking, maybe "No shirts, no shoes, no service" needs to be ammended to include pants.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Naughty and Nice: Two more options to diversify the Vegas economy
I'm constantly trying to think of ways to pull Vegas out of this downward spiral. As the one metropolitan area that has yet to see any economic growth indicators since the recession, we're still in need of help. I wrote a blog a few months in which I brainstormed non-entertainment ideas for Vegas economic expansion. Here are two ideas within the existing hospitality industry.
The Nice: Legalize Gay Marriage
This idea has been discussed quite a bit. If Vegas wedding chapels were able to perform gay marriages, then wedding sales would go up. This would create a trickle-down advantage for photographers, caterers, hotels, casinos, resorts, etc, that Vegas could cash in on. The only problem (which is a big one) is that our state constitution already has an amendment banning same-sex unions. Any movement in gay marriage legislation would take at least 5 years to finalize via the voting process. Not to mention, Nevada has plenty of rednecks and militias that would not easily stomach gay marriage rights.
The Naughty: Legalize Prostitution
This one has also been discussed in length, though not recently, and not as a way to mitigate our financial crisis. For those of you who don't know, prostitution is only legal outside the Las Vegas city limits. I used to think prostitution was kind of gross, but I recently watched the 80s documentary "Chicken Ranch" (Watch it free here:http://www.hulu.com/watch/155136/chicken-ranch ), which filmed the everyday lives of the young women at the brothel of the movie's namesake. After some research, I actually decided it wasn't too bad, and hey, I'm always a fan of regulation. Vegas hardly has a pure reputation as it is, and the sex industry would definitely bring more tourism.
I'd like to see either of these scenarios happen. While the legal same-sex marriage process is long, it doesn't look like the economy is going to bounce back anytime soon anyway. And then there's prostitution, which is happening right now, like it or not, so we might as well go with it and make it legal and safe.
The Nice: Legalize Gay Marriage
This idea has been discussed quite a bit. If Vegas wedding chapels were able to perform gay marriages, then wedding sales would go up. This would create a trickle-down advantage for photographers, caterers, hotels, casinos, resorts, etc, that Vegas could cash in on. The only problem (which is a big one) is that our state constitution already has an amendment banning same-sex unions. Any movement in gay marriage legislation would take at least 5 years to finalize via the voting process. Not to mention, Nevada has plenty of rednecks and militias that would not easily stomach gay marriage rights.
The Naughty: Legalize Prostitution
This one has also been discussed in length, though not recently, and not as a way to mitigate our financial crisis. For those of you who don't know, prostitution is only legal outside the Las Vegas city limits. I used to think prostitution was kind of gross, but I recently watched the 80s documentary "Chicken Ranch" (Watch it free here:http://www.hulu.com/watch/155136/chicken-ranch ), which filmed the everyday lives of the young women at the brothel of the movie's namesake. After some research, I actually decided it wasn't too bad, and hey, I'm always a fan of regulation. Vegas hardly has a pure reputation as it is, and the sex industry would definitely bring more tourism.
I'd like to see either of these scenarios happen. While the legal same-sex marriage process is long, it doesn't look like the economy is going to bounce back anytime soon anyway. And then there's prostitution, which is happening right now, like it or not, so we might as well go with it and make it legal and safe.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Still wondering...
Driving home from the dog park with Dugi on my lap tonight, I was listening to the KNPR special about anthems-not just national anthems, but rock anthems and other songs that have become cultural anthems for one reason or another. At that point, "All You Need is Love" was playing.
I turned into our neighborhood and was almost immediately flagged down by a young teenage girl-probably fourteen or fifteen-in front of an SUV stopped with all its interior lights on and the doors open. I pulled over and rolled down my window. "What's wrong?" I asked, before she could say anything. The hairs on the back of my arms were standing on end. Something wasn't right.
"Can you help us?" she said, "My mom"-at this point her voice broke and she started crying-"hurt her arm and she can't drive the car."
"Ok, of course. Let me pull my car closer to the curb," I said. I parked, grabbed Dugi and my purse, and got out.
When I approached the SUV, I immediately saw the girl's mother, who was also crying, and what I assume was the girl's little sister in the back seat.
"Do you need me to call someone?" I asked the woman.
"She already said she doesn't want to call anyone," answered the girl's daughter quickly.
"Well, what can I do? I can drive your car back to your house. I can give you a ride," I offered.
"No, no," the woman said and shook her head. "Never mind." At this point, the girl started to argue with her mother in Spanish, telling her that as long as I was offering help, she should take it.
"No, no. We only live a few streets down," the woman insisted.
"I can call someone else-a friend or family member," I offered. I thought it was strange that they had stopped in our neighborhood since it's gated. If they didn't live in our neighborhood, they must have been coming from a house within it.
"There is no one else," said the woman.
"Ok, well let me do something," I insisted.
"No, no, we'll just go," said the woman, shifting her car into drive with her good arm and beckoning her daughter to get in the car. I began to walk away, and, out of earshot of her mother, told the girl where my house was if she changed her mind. I watched the woman struggle to make the one-armed u-turn she would need to exit our neighborhood. She drove very slowly and made a very wide turn that almost took her up onto the curb. At this point, I got back into my car and drove down the block to my place. I'm still wondering how she hurt her arm and if they got home safely.
I turned into our neighborhood and was almost immediately flagged down by a young teenage girl-probably fourteen or fifteen-in front of an SUV stopped with all its interior lights on and the doors open. I pulled over and rolled down my window. "What's wrong?" I asked, before she could say anything. The hairs on the back of my arms were standing on end. Something wasn't right.
"Can you help us?" she said, "My mom"-at this point her voice broke and she started crying-"hurt her arm and she can't drive the car."
"Ok, of course. Let me pull my car closer to the curb," I said. I parked, grabbed Dugi and my purse, and got out.
When I approached the SUV, I immediately saw the girl's mother, who was also crying, and what I assume was the girl's little sister in the back seat.
"Do you need me to call someone?" I asked the woman.
"She already said she doesn't want to call anyone," answered the girl's daughter quickly.
"Well, what can I do? I can drive your car back to your house. I can give you a ride," I offered.
"No, no," the woman said and shook her head. "Never mind." At this point, the girl started to argue with her mother in Spanish, telling her that as long as I was offering help, she should take it.
"No, no. We only live a few streets down," the woman insisted.
"I can call someone else-a friend or family member," I offered. I thought it was strange that they had stopped in our neighborhood since it's gated. If they didn't live in our neighborhood, they must have been coming from a house within it.
"There is no one else," said the woman.
"Ok, well let me do something," I insisted.
"No, no, we'll just go," said the woman, shifting her car into drive with her good arm and beckoning her daughter to get in the car. I began to walk away, and, out of earshot of her mother, told the girl where my house was if she changed her mind. I watched the woman struggle to make the one-armed u-turn she would need to exit our neighborhood. She drove very slowly and made a very wide turn that almost took her up onto the curb. At this point, I got back into my car and drove down the block to my place. I'm still wondering how she hurt her arm and if they got home safely.
Friday, July 1, 2011
You mean all great journalists have a black Amex?
My favorite late-night activity is (No, not going to the strip club.) watching obscure documentaries on Hulu. Last night, I happened upon a doc from 2003, which was filmed, produced and directed by Jamie Johnson of the Johnson & Johnson fortune. It's called "Born Rich," and the point of the project was to interview all his other heir and heiress friends about being wealthy.
I highly recommend the film to anyone (You can watch it for free here: http://www.hulu.com/watch/174635/born-rich ). The best part of the movie is not what Jamie intended of it, but the subtext that only a non-billionaire like me would pick up. I don't even want to describe it, lest I spoil the surprise.
Anyway, when I finished watching, I went to the blogs to see what other people thought. I happened upon this blog: http://www.halfsigma.com/2008/02/born-rich.html
Reading through the post, I realized the blogger pretty much agreed with all my thoughts, until I got to this paragraph:
"This gets to a key point I make all the time on this blog, that the “cool” professions, such as journalism, are heavily populated by children of the rich, but they don’t wear t-shirts that say “my parents are decamillionaires,” so unfortunately many middle-class children try to get into these professions without realizing how the odds are so stacked against them."
What?!?! Shut the front door! I was a journalism major. At one point I wanted to be a journalist! Why haven't I heard this before? I thought I understood everything there was to know about class, status and power. After all, I minored in sociology. I thought my complete failure to get any cool internships was because I sucked. Does this blogger mean to tell me that I'm not freelancing for Vogue because I'm not an heiress?
I immediately became very annoyed at all my ancestors for not being WASPs who came over on the Mayflower and instead went through dirty Ellis Island circa the recent past. I'm still peeved about it, right now, so if you'll excuse me, I'm going to find a silver spoon to shove in my mouth and meditate for the best.
I highly recommend the film to anyone (You can watch it for free here: http://www.hulu.com/watch/174635/born-rich ). The best part of the movie is not what Jamie intended of it, but the subtext that only a non-billionaire like me would pick up. I don't even want to describe it, lest I spoil the surprise.
Anyway, when I finished watching, I went to the blogs to see what other people thought. I happened upon this blog: http://www.halfsigma.com/2008/02/born-rich.html
Reading through the post, I realized the blogger pretty much agreed with all my thoughts, until I got to this paragraph:
"This gets to a key point I make all the time on this blog, that the “cool” professions, such as journalism, are heavily populated by children of the rich, but they don’t wear t-shirts that say “my parents are decamillionaires,” so unfortunately many middle-class children try to get into these professions without realizing how the odds are so stacked against them."
What?!?! Shut the front door! I was a journalism major. At one point I wanted to be a journalist! Why haven't I heard this before? I thought I understood everything there was to know about class, status and power. After all, I minored in sociology. I thought my complete failure to get any cool internships was because I sucked. Does this blogger mean to tell me that I'm not freelancing for Vogue because I'm not an heiress?
I immediately became very annoyed at all my ancestors for not being WASPs who came over on the Mayflower and instead went through dirty Ellis Island circa the recent past. I'm still peeved about it, right now, so if you'll excuse me, I'm going to find a silver spoon to shove in my mouth and meditate for the best.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Vegas weather is sucking the creativity out of me: My current thoughts about the writing process
I can't seem to write anything lately, and as you can tell from the title of this blog, I'm just going to blame the weather. Other people blame the weather for stuff all the time, so I've decided I'm just going to make a habit of doing that too. Instead of, "Oh, I have to stop my exercise plan because it's sooooo hot," or "Sorry I forgot to pay for my gas and drove away. The heat must be getting to me, " I'm just going to say that I get heat stroke every time I open the document that contains my novel manuscript.
When it gets cold, I'll say my computer keys gave me frostbite.
Anyway, my writing malaise might actually have started because I'm going to be graduating with my MFA at the end of this month. I'm basically done at this point. I've sent off my thesis, made the powerpoint for my lecture, and purchased my plane ticket to Nebraska for my last residency. But I can't seem to think past graduation. To be honest, I don't have any plans. I can't really imagine what it will be like not to have the guarenteed 10 days with my writing pals every six months. I love every one of them, and for a long time, my writing has depended on not letting them down.
When it gets cold, I'll say my computer keys gave me frostbite.
Anyway, my writing malaise might actually have started because I'm going to be graduating with my MFA at the end of this month. I'm basically done at this point. I've sent off my thesis, made the powerpoint for my lecture, and purchased my plane ticket to Nebraska for my last residency. But I can't seem to think past graduation. To be honest, I don't have any plans. I can't really imagine what it will be like not to have the guarenteed 10 days with my writing pals every six months. I love every one of them, and for a long time, my writing has depended on not letting them down.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Book Review: The Long Journey Home by Margaret Robison AKA The Worst Book Ever
My first reading project for the summer was to finish the memoirs of the Robison family back to back to back.
For those of you who don't know. Chris Robison (AKA Augusten Burroughs) wrote a bestseller called Running With Scissors, which details his chaotic childhood living at his mother's crazed therapist's house after his parents became too unstable to raise Chris themselves.
The second book is the memoir of John Elder Robison (Augusten Burroughs' brother), which details his childhood as a misfit and his eventual diagnosis with Asperger's Syndrome at age 50. This book also became a bestseller.
These two books deserve all the accolade they've been given: Burroughs' book is a delightful, comical survivor's story, and Robison's book is a truly unique account of growing up with Asperger's.
It's the third book, John Elder and Christopher's mother's memoir The Long Journey Home, that really threw me into a fit of rage, and I don't mean the kind inspired by really good, dark literature.
First of all, no one would even bother to pick up the memoir of Margaret Robison, a mediocre, manic-depressive poet, were her sons not so infamous. I decided to read the book hoping to gain some insight into Margaret's horrific parenting, or at least to feel some sympathy for a woman who has been so demonized in literature and the press. Neither of my expectations were fulfilled.
For one thing, the writing in this memoir is atrocious. I understand this woman had a stroke, but I would expect Random House to at least maintain the editorial standard that readers have grown to expect. If I had to read one more scene in which Margaret hangs her head and cries pitifully, I would have thrown the book across the room. It reads like a stream of consciousness with no discernible structure or purpose. I read the book in two weeks because it was so boring. Usually, I finish books within 48 hours.
Second, Margaret doesn't even attempt to apologize for the way she neglected her sons. I understand she was mentally ill and in an abusive marriage, but she seems to use these facts as excuses and a simple ploy to elicit pity from the reader. In fact, she accuses both sons of lying in their memoirs, stating she knows that her side of their stories is the truth, while in the same breath admitting that she has major holes in her memory due to a stroke and bouts of psychosis.
Third, since the only reason anyone picked up the book was to read more about John Elder and Chris' childhoods, it would have made sense for her to actually write about them. The fact that a mother can write nearly 400 pages of memoir while only rarely mentioning her sons, and only then to slander them, is something I find both troubling and narcissistic.
Fourth, Margaret should have been able gain my sympathy easily because she is a)lonely b)elderly c) mentally ill d) partially paralyzed, and e) estranged from her youngest son. On the contrary, I felt nothing but disgust for this woman who seemed to use her sons' fame only to get this lousy book in the hands of an agent. Shame on her. I hope she gets back into therapy and fixes herself while she still has time left.
For those of you who don't know. Chris Robison (AKA Augusten Burroughs) wrote a bestseller called Running With Scissors, which details his chaotic childhood living at his mother's crazed therapist's house after his parents became too unstable to raise Chris themselves.
The second book is the memoir of John Elder Robison (Augusten Burroughs' brother), which details his childhood as a misfit and his eventual diagnosis with Asperger's Syndrome at age 50. This book also became a bestseller.
These two books deserve all the accolade they've been given: Burroughs' book is a delightful, comical survivor's story, and Robison's book is a truly unique account of growing up with Asperger's.
It's the third book, John Elder and Christopher's mother's memoir The Long Journey Home, that really threw me into a fit of rage, and I don't mean the kind inspired by really good, dark literature.
First of all, no one would even bother to pick up the memoir of Margaret Robison, a mediocre, manic-depressive poet, were her sons not so infamous. I decided to read the book hoping to gain some insight into Margaret's horrific parenting, or at least to feel some sympathy for a woman who has been so demonized in literature and the press. Neither of my expectations were fulfilled.
For one thing, the writing in this memoir is atrocious. I understand this woman had a stroke, but I would expect Random House to at least maintain the editorial standard that readers have grown to expect. If I had to read one more scene in which Margaret hangs her head and cries pitifully, I would have thrown the book across the room. It reads like a stream of consciousness with no discernible structure or purpose. I read the book in two weeks because it was so boring. Usually, I finish books within 48 hours.
Second, Margaret doesn't even attempt to apologize for the way she neglected her sons. I understand she was mentally ill and in an abusive marriage, but she seems to use these facts as excuses and a simple ploy to elicit pity from the reader. In fact, she accuses both sons of lying in their memoirs, stating she knows that her side of their stories is the truth, while in the same breath admitting that she has major holes in her memory due to a stroke and bouts of psychosis.
Third, since the only reason anyone picked up the book was to read more about John Elder and Chris' childhoods, it would have made sense for her to actually write about them. The fact that a mother can write nearly 400 pages of memoir while only rarely mentioning her sons, and only then to slander them, is something I find both troubling and narcissistic.
Fourth, Margaret should have been able gain my sympathy easily because she is a)lonely b)elderly c) mentally ill d) partially paralyzed, and e) estranged from her youngest son. On the contrary, I felt nothing but disgust for this woman who seemed to use her sons' fame only to get this lousy book in the hands of an agent. Shame on her. I hope she gets back into therapy and fixes herself while she still has time left.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
There are definitely parts of Bad Teacher to which I relate.
Let me preface this post by telling you the part of Cameron Diaz' character I can't relate to: the hating teaching part. I love being a teacher, I love kids, and I (think I) am pretty good at it.
But then again, I laughed a lot during this movie, which is because there was a lot of truth to it.
First, like Diaz' character, Elizabeth, I never thought I'd be a teacher in the long term. I too envisioned myself marrying rich and never working again, wracking up large credit card bills at Bloomingdale's buying clothes and Manolos.
Second, like the perennially annoying supporting characters in this film, the public school system is filled with well-meaning but irritating educators that often made me want to put my sweatshirt over my head and nap.
Third, an extremely high percentage of public school teachers I once worked with used their hard-earned salaries to buy implants. Unfortunately they didn't perform the courtesy of scheduling surgery during the summer.
That's about where the similarities end. I highly recommend this movie for anyone who has spent time in the classroom.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Lake Mead does not have a real beach.
Sorry everyone in the tri-state area, but going to Lake Mead does not count as going to the beach. If you want a real beach, go to California. What do I mean by a "real" beach? Well, first of all, it shouldn't look like Nevada's version of the tar pits.
Does this look like a good place to sun bathe and feed seagulls to you? Yet, me neither.
But many Las Vegans insist that Lake Mead is beachy, mostly, I think, to make themselves feel more secure about living in the middle of the desert.
But many Las Vegans insist that Lake Mead is beachy, mostly, I think, to make themselves feel more secure about living in the middle of the desert.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Between Fact and Fantasy
I know, I'm blogging again. Shocking, right? One day I got stuck, and then another day passed and then another. Soon, I had piles of things to write about that accumulated like dirty laundry. Each pile spread into each other pile, and soon, I was buried.
And there are always better things to do and excuses. I had to get rid of a lot of shoes I hadn't worn in a long time. And then I became a mother to my beautiful adopted Morkie, Badugi. In the important things, I am a perfectionist, and Dugi is important enough to deserve all my time.
So here's a stream of consciousness of all the things you've missed, and then in my next post, I'll be normal again, and it will be like we never stopped communicating at all...
...Carolyn Goodman is mayor of Vegas tourists who think swimsuits are clothes that scream for me to buy them from the rack when I'm trying to save money to buy a car dealer who works at Hyundai and doesn't know the names of the models who I find out now are only 16 or 17 and make me feel old photographs that I find when cleaning and that I want to through away but can't sleep because Badugi is licking my face serum that costs $200 for several ounces of happiness I feel when I think of how good summer vacation was as a kid ourselves that the economy here will ever be the same as it used to be careful when going to the grocery store when hungry for change...
Talk to you soon.
And there are always better things to do and excuses. I had to get rid of a lot of shoes I hadn't worn in a long time. And then I became a mother to my beautiful adopted Morkie, Badugi. In the important things, I am a perfectionist, and Dugi is important enough to deserve all my time.
So here's a stream of consciousness of all the things you've missed, and then in my next post, I'll be normal again, and it will be like we never stopped communicating at all...
...Carolyn Goodman is mayor of Vegas tourists who think swimsuits are clothes that scream for me to buy them from the rack when I'm trying to save money to buy a car dealer who works at Hyundai and doesn't know the names of the models who I find out now are only 16 or 17 and make me feel old photographs that I find when cleaning and that I want to through away but can't sleep because Badugi is licking my face serum that costs $200 for several ounces of happiness I feel when I think of how good summer vacation was as a kid ourselves that the economy here will ever be the same as it used to be careful when going to the grocery store when hungry for change...
Talk to you soon.
Monday, March 28, 2011
If You're Going to Read Poetry, Read This
Ship of Fool
Poems by William Trowbridge
Red Hen Press
$18.95
Maybe you've noticed this is my first book review. That's because it's not often I find a book I want to plug. Especially not a book written by an esteemed yet modest professor from my own MFA program. Not only is Bill Trowbridge one hell of a faculty member, but he's also one clever writer. Read on.
Ship of Fool, Trowbridge's long-awaited collection, out now from Red Hen Press, is three parts. That is two parts humor and one part poignancy. Parts one and three follow Trowbridge's lovable schlemiel, Fool, a guy who tries so hard but has nothing but trouble coming for him. Part two is a taste of nostalgia served up both like a sundae and a slap in the face. I enjoyed this collection, but I'd bet on the fact that almost anyone could pick it up, poet and layman alike, and take away Trowbridge's message: There's a fool in all of us, but there's good in there too.
I'm not a fan of reviews that give away a work's best lines, but here's a little taste from a poem called "Class of '59':
"We muster smiles as we try/ to read between the lines/ and wattles. This must/ be you. This must be me, we muse,/ surprised we're not unhappy, showing our age,/ showing our class,/ lifting our plastic cups."
So buy it, you Fool.
Poems by William Trowbridge
Red Hen Press
$18.95
Maybe you've noticed this is my first book review. That's because it's not often I find a book I want to plug. Especially not a book written by an esteemed yet modest professor from my own MFA program. Not only is Bill Trowbridge one hell of a faculty member, but he's also one clever writer. Read on.
Ship of Fool, Trowbridge's long-awaited collection, out now from Red Hen Press, is three parts. That is two parts humor and one part poignancy. Parts one and three follow Trowbridge's lovable schlemiel, Fool, a guy who tries so hard but has nothing but trouble coming for him. Part two is a taste of nostalgia served up both like a sundae and a slap in the face. I enjoyed this collection, but I'd bet on the fact that almost anyone could pick it up, poet and layman alike, and take away Trowbridge's message: There's a fool in all of us, but there's good in there too.
I'm not a fan of reviews that give away a work's best lines, but here's a little taste from a poem called "Class of '59':
"We muster smiles as we try/ to read between the lines/ and wattles. This must/ be you. This must be me, we muse,/ surprised we're not unhappy, showing our age,/ showing our class,/ lifting our plastic cups."
So buy it, you Fool.
Monday, February 21, 2011
The Next Big Las Vegas Industry
I recently listened to a radio segment that suggested the only hope for Michigan's economy is giving up its reliance on the auto industry and in favor of something new. That made me start thinking about the potential for Las Vegas to bring itself back by creating a new industry that would be more recession-proof. I know what you're thinking, prostitution IS recession-proof. But everyone knows prostitution is only legal outside the city limits. Here is a list of my predictions for what industry Las Vegas will transition to when the big guys realize Casino's can no longer sustain us.
1) Prostitution: See above. If it were legal, we'd have more jobs, more tourism, and there are already plenty of hotels to bring a John to.
2) Marijuana: Medical marijuana is already legal, which has spawned dozens of new hydroponics shops. It's an ideal crop since it can be grown indoors. The only foreseeable problem here is a lack of water.
3) Eco-tourism: We're surrounded by beautiful mountains and desert, and we're certainly worthy of the schlep. Imagine how good someone would feel after a week of digging up lawns to replace them with socially-responsible, sustainable rock gardens.
4) Fine dining: We already have better dining options than pretty much anywhere in the US outside of NYC. But I think we're still doing a shitty job advertising it. Plus, we could use better and more frequent food festivals.
5) Furniture: What ever happened to Mayor Goodman making us the furniture capital? We don't even have an IKEA yet. I'm not sure how people are going to haul their stuff across the desert, but it's actually a legit industry, so who am I to argue?
1) Prostitution: See above. If it were legal, we'd have more jobs, more tourism, and there are already plenty of hotels to bring a John to.
2) Marijuana: Medical marijuana is already legal, which has spawned dozens of new hydroponics shops. It's an ideal crop since it can be grown indoors. The only foreseeable problem here is a lack of water.
3) Eco-tourism: We're surrounded by beautiful mountains and desert, and we're certainly worthy of the schlep. Imagine how good someone would feel after a week of digging up lawns to replace them with socially-responsible, sustainable rock gardens.
4) Fine dining: We already have better dining options than pretty much anywhere in the US outside of NYC. But I think we're still doing a shitty job advertising it. Plus, we could use better and more frequent food festivals.
5) Furniture: What ever happened to Mayor Goodman making us the furniture capital? We don't even have an IKEA yet. I'm not sure how people are going to haul their stuff across the desert, but it's actually a legit industry, so who am I to argue?
Sunday, February 13, 2011
The Real World Las Vegas: Again
Yep, you read that right. If you haven't already been alerted, MTV's reality pioneer is returning to Vegas...again. The first Vegas season happened sometime while I was in high school. Then that same cast came BACK to Las Vegas, and now there's another season in Vegas with a new cast that premiers in March.
I find this odd for a few reasons. First of all, the obvious: Has any other city been host to three seasons of The Real World? I don't think so. Wouldn't MTV want to go back to London or Paris or maybe try something different like Topeka before giving us a third season of clueless twenty-somethings living in Vegas as so-called "locals" despite never leaving their penthouse?
Second, is this really the best time to tape here? I mean, if they want to see a real (excuse the pun) disaster, why don't they just tape in Egypt? I doubt foreclosed condos and deserted casinos are really going to provide the fun-loving party atmosphere MTV usually looks for. Although, they did just tape in New Orleans, so maybe it's like a big, fat, season-long public service announcement for our fair city. In which case, I guess I should be grateful that the network was willing to double our monthly tourist count from 7 to 14.
Lastly, they still haven't cleaned up the muck they left here after the first season. Any tourist is bound to trip over Trishelle at some D-list Strip event to this day. You think I kid. Well, in a way I do. Trishelle is actually very nice, from what I hear.
I find this odd for a few reasons. First of all, the obvious: Has any other city been host to three seasons of The Real World? I don't think so. Wouldn't MTV want to go back to London or Paris or maybe try something different like Topeka before giving us a third season of clueless twenty-somethings living in Vegas as so-called "locals" despite never leaving their penthouse?
Second, is this really the best time to tape here? I mean, if they want to see a real (excuse the pun) disaster, why don't they just tape in Egypt? I doubt foreclosed condos and deserted casinos are really going to provide the fun-loving party atmosphere MTV usually looks for. Although, they did just tape in New Orleans, so maybe it's like a big, fat, season-long public service announcement for our fair city. In which case, I guess I should be grateful that the network was willing to double our monthly tourist count from 7 to 14.
Lastly, they still haven't cleaned up the muck they left here after the first season. Any tourist is bound to trip over Trishelle at some D-list Strip event to this day. You think I kid. Well, in a way I do. Trishelle is actually very nice, from what I hear.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Vegas: Like a Lint Roller for Weirdos
Every city has its eccentrics. For example, in the town where I grew up, this creepy middle-aged man decided he should dress up as Superman and wave an American flag on the street corner for a post-9/11 morale boost. Now that doesn't make any sense.
But Las Vegas has even more weirdos. In fact, we have at least a dozen people who walk around dressed up like Superman, and not for the sake of some lofty ideal like patriotism. It's because they're broke and have no shame.
What really made me start questioning the sanity of the average Las Vegan was when I began attending education conferences after I moved here five years ago as a new teacher. When most people think of teachers, they think of a bunch of squares who are really only as wacky as their loudest holiday sweater. So, theoretically, a city's teachers should, if anything, be the most normal cross-section of the population, and teacher meetings should be a small representation of the city's most responsible, level-headed citizens, right?
Uh oh, Mrs. Peterson, someone's been eating the paste, and it isn't little Johnny.
The people I meet at these things are CRAZY. Just today, I attended a small conference about sensory integration disorders with several of my colleagues. We were really excited to network with some private occupational therapists in the area to whom we could later refer students. Boy, were we wrong. I'd be more likely to leave my kid alone with the crazy lady on the corner who gets the mail in a shower cap. I couldn't even attempt to break down all the kinds of crazy on this page. But if I were to create a composite, imagine post-plastic surgery Roseanne Barr (physically), wearing Kurt Cobain's clothes with Tom Cruise's personality (circa frenetic Oprah interview).
Then I got to thinking, what if the crazy teachers are just leading to more crazy students who are growing up to be crazy adults? That's something to think about.
But Las Vegas has even more weirdos. In fact, we have at least a dozen people who walk around dressed up like Superman, and not for the sake of some lofty ideal like patriotism. It's because they're broke and have no shame.
What really made me start questioning the sanity of the average Las Vegan was when I began attending education conferences after I moved here five years ago as a new teacher. When most people think of teachers, they think of a bunch of squares who are really only as wacky as their loudest holiday sweater. So, theoretically, a city's teachers should, if anything, be the most normal cross-section of the population, and teacher meetings should be a small representation of the city's most responsible, level-headed citizens, right?
Uh oh, Mrs. Peterson, someone's been eating the paste, and it isn't little Johnny.
The people I meet at these things are CRAZY. Just today, I attended a small conference about sensory integration disorders with several of my colleagues. We were really excited to network with some private occupational therapists in the area to whom we could later refer students. Boy, were we wrong. I'd be more likely to leave my kid alone with the crazy lady on the corner who gets the mail in a shower cap. I couldn't even attempt to break down all the kinds of crazy on this page. But if I were to create a composite, imagine post-plastic surgery Roseanne Barr (physically), wearing Kurt Cobain's clothes with Tom Cruise's personality (circa frenetic Oprah interview).
Then I got to thinking, what if the crazy teachers are just leading to more crazy students who are growing up to be crazy adults? That's something to think about.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Leaving Las Vegas
Have I complained about early morning flights at the Las Vegas airport yet? Because if I haven't, I should.
This morning I left my house at 4:30 to drive to Terrible's Casino to park my car to catch the airport shuttle. When I got there, the shuttle was already parked outside, which is awesome because I didn't even have to pretend like I was staying at the hotel and make them call for one. Unfortunately, I got an incredibly talkative shuttle driver who wanted to carry on a completely one-sided conversation. When I told him I was flying to Minneapolis, he fell into a tailspin of excited chatter. Apparently, his first love lived in St. Paul. Apparently it's his favorite place in the world.
When we arrived at the airport and he handed me my luggage, he gave me his card. Great, I thought, at least I have the number handy for when I need a shuttle back. Then he flipped over the card and pointed to his cell number and told me I should text him so we can go to a movie sometime. Now I have to live in fear for a week that he'll be on duty when I get back in town. Maybe I'll just pay for a cab. But no, I get back Friday night, and the cab line on Friday night is a disaster.
Anyway, I went through security and stood in line at Port-of-Subs, which was the only thing open, to get an orange juice. "I've gotta warn you, this is going to take a while," said the guy in front of me. "The line hasn't moved for like ten minutes." Since nothing else was open and I was early for my flight, I decided to brave the line. The really notable thing about early morning flights out of Vegas is that everyone is drunk still. One guy could barely stand up to order his "baconincheesesanwitchanacoffee." And there's always a girl who thinks it's cool to wear an ass-baring club dress to the airport. I mean, how long does it take to pull on pants and a shirt?
Needless to say, I am rather glad to be getting on a plane soon to fly to a different city altogether. And I'll let you know how it goes with me and the shuttle driver.
This morning I left my house at 4:30 to drive to Terrible's Casino to park my car to catch the airport shuttle. When I got there, the shuttle was already parked outside, which is awesome because I didn't even have to pretend like I was staying at the hotel and make them call for one. Unfortunately, I got an incredibly talkative shuttle driver who wanted to carry on a completely one-sided conversation. When I told him I was flying to Minneapolis, he fell into a tailspin of excited chatter. Apparently, his first love lived in St. Paul. Apparently it's his favorite place in the world.
When we arrived at the airport and he handed me my luggage, he gave me his card. Great, I thought, at least I have the number handy for when I need a shuttle back. Then he flipped over the card and pointed to his cell number and told me I should text him so we can go to a movie sometime. Now I have to live in fear for a week that he'll be on duty when I get back in town. Maybe I'll just pay for a cab. But no, I get back Friday night, and the cab line on Friday night is a disaster.
Anyway, I went through security and stood in line at Port-of-Subs, which was the only thing open, to get an orange juice. "I've gotta warn you, this is going to take a while," said the guy in front of me. "The line hasn't moved for like ten minutes." Since nothing else was open and I was early for my flight, I decided to brave the line. The really notable thing about early morning flights out of Vegas is that everyone is drunk still. One guy could barely stand up to order his "baconincheesesanwitchanacoffee." And there's always a girl who thinks it's cool to wear an ass-baring club dress to the airport. I mean, how long does it take to pull on pants and a shirt?
Needless to say, I am rather glad to be getting on a plane soon to fly to a different city altogether. And I'll let you know how it goes with me and the shuttle driver.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Chivalry is dead, and it was killed by this guy ----->
On the way home from work yesterday, I stopped at the grocery store to pick up some yogurt and granola. You see, I recently arrived home after my MFA residency where I was served yogurt, among other things, for breakfast every day, so I had a hankering for active cultures.
Anyway, I grabbed a big bulk box of yogurt and a bag of granola and headed toward the self-checkout. When I got there, all the lanes were full, and this one guy was waiting in line. As I approached him, he said, "Go right ahead," and made this little sweeping gesture with his hand. I figured, ok, he must be letting me go ahead of him because I only have two things and he's a genteel. So I stood in front of him.
A second later, he made this little clearing-of-the-throat sound and said, "The line's behind me." Really? REALLY? From what I deduce, his "Go right ahead" statement must have actually been meant as a signal to cross in front of him and then take my "rightful" place behind him in line. So I stood there stunned for a minute and moved behind him.
First of all, I don't need some guy's permission to cross his path. (This isn't Iran.), and second, who would go through the bother of specifying that I should move to the back? I mean, there were only a few of us in line and eight lanes! I've been told lately that I should be nicer to strangers, but it took every ounce of self-control not to say, "Oh, I thought you were being A GENTLEMAN!"
Karma allowed me to swipe my two measly items and pay and get the hell out of there before he even finished. So there. Ha.
Anyway, I grabbed a big bulk box of yogurt and a bag of granola and headed toward the self-checkout. When I got there, all the lanes were full, and this one guy was waiting in line. As I approached him, he said, "Go right ahead," and made this little sweeping gesture with his hand. I figured, ok, he must be letting me go ahead of him because I only have two things and he's a genteel. So I stood in front of him.
A second later, he made this little clearing-of-the-throat sound and said, "The line's behind me." Really? REALLY? From what I deduce, his "Go right ahead" statement must have actually been meant as a signal to cross in front of him and then take my "rightful" place behind him in line. So I stood there stunned for a minute and moved behind him.
First of all, I don't need some guy's permission to cross his path. (This isn't Iran.), and second, who would go through the bother of specifying that I should move to the back? I mean, there were only a few of us in line and eight lanes! I've been told lately that I should be nicer to strangers, but it took every ounce of self-control not to say, "Oh, I thought you were being A GENTLEMAN!"
Karma allowed me to swipe my two measly items and pay and get the hell out of there before he even finished. So there. Ha.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
And then the mob said, "Turn your head and cough."
Yesterday I needed to go to the doctor. The only person available was the doctor's assistant, but he can prescribe drugs too, so what the heck.
When he entered the exam room, I thought perhaps I'd accidentally driven to urgent care on the Jersey Shore. He had one sort of droopy eye like he'd been punched in the face during one too many bar fights, and he kept saying shit. "I'll give you some of this shit and you'll feel all better. Shit." It's cool, I guess. Maybe the mob has infiltrated the medical industry.
Then, for dinner, we decided to try this new taco place. It's new but they'd sent out coupons in the mail, so what was there to lose?
We walked in and ordered and the guy's like, "Sure! Fuggidaboutit! I'll make you an offer you can't refuse," and gave us a bunch of free stuff. Then he started speaking Spanish with the grill guy in an Italian accent. At that point, we were pretty sure our burritos were going to suck, but that's beside the point. Has our economic slump trickled down to include organized crime? Will Bugsy Siegle show up to clean my carpet? I won't let him park out front for fear of car bombs.
When he entered the exam room, I thought perhaps I'd accidentally driven to urgent care on the Jersey Shore. He had one sort of droopy eye like he'd been punched in the face during one too many bar fights, and he kept saying shit. "I'll give you some of this shit and you'll feel all better. Shit." It's cool, I guess. Maybe the mob has infiltrated the medical industry.
Then, for dinner, we decided to try this new taco place. It's new but they'd sent out coupons in the mail, so what was there to lose?
We walked in and ordered and the guy's like, "Sure! Fuggidaboutit! I'll make you an offer you can't refuse," and gave us a bunch of free stuff. Then he started speaking Spanish with the grill guy in an Italian accent. At that point, we were pretty sure our burritos were going to suck, but that's beside the point. Has our economic slump trickled down to include organized crime? Will Bugsy Siegle show up to clean my carpet? I won't let him park out front for fear of car bombs.
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